Quarterback Bait (15 page)

Chapter Twenty-Four

Ashleigh

September 26
^th

Like an asshole, I watched Mr. Dempsey slump back to his car
from Carson's porch. I was crouched down in the window seat in the upstairs
turret, so only a slice of my hair could be visible from the street. My face
was hot with shame, watching him turn and look up at the house. And yet, at the
same time, I was a little peeved. Why couldn't he read the signals? It seemed
so clear to me that there was nothing between us, and yet he was coming over to
Carson's every other day, lingering on the porch like some sad sack while she
puttered unawares by the pool.

“Hey,” my mother crowed, surprising me so I fell off the
bench with a clatter. “None of that now. I know you get this 'urge to run-away'
thing from me, but it's not cute. If you don't like a boy, you need to tell
him.” I nodded dully, chastised. Then I paused to consider. This was one of our
exceedingly rare mother/daughter moments, in which Anya was playing the mother.
I smiled. I liked it.

Her face was healing nicely. It had been a relief to
discover last week that the bruises on her skin were light—the Pastor's wounds
had been more psychological than anything else. Yet Mom had been drifting
around Carson's like a ghost for days now, appearing in doorways when you
didn't expect her. She couldn't lie down. She couldn't watch TV. She was eager
and antsy for some peace, some structure—for the walls of her own home.

“Come here, baby,” she called to me. I went, allowing myself
be folded up in her cool, fragile touch. I had to resist the urge to nestle my
fingers into her back, like she was a tree I could climb. My mom. Flawed, but
lovely. Weird, but wise—in her way.

“We haven't gotten a chance to talk about boys in ages,” she
said, leading us back towards Carson's communal kitchen. The infamous roommate,
Gonzo, was propped against the kitchen island with a ukulele strapped across his
chest. He didn't acknowledge us as mom drifted towards the kettle on the stove.

Luckily her back was turned, so she couldn't see me blush
something fierce. Though the word 'boy' didn't seem suitable for Landon, he
still managed to appear in my memory. This was happening all the time lately.
In my worst moments, during the most tedious parts of my day, there he'd be—the
memory of his morning face fluttering awake against the pillows, or the
musculature of his chest, rising and falling as he slept. We'd been talking for
hours and fucking for hours, and well...time was a blur. There were apparently
Mondays and afternoons and events and classes to attend, but lately, for me,
the world was divided into time spent with Landon and waiting to spend time
with Landon.

“I know that face,” Anya smirked, over the rim of a chipped
teacup. I tried to duck my head, but I knew it was too late—the typical big red
blush was probably splattered all over my cheeks.

“Mo-om!” I trilled, enjoying the word. Anya sipped her tea and
raised her eyebrows.

“Well! Tell your poor old nutty ma all about it!”

I wanted to, was the funny
thing. I looked into her hopeful eyes and tried to imagine how the truth would
sound.
You know him, actually. He's tall, dark and handsome, even if his family
is a little...freaky.
I found the beginnings of the words on my tongue, but
when I opened my mouth they seemed to evaporate. I couldn't do it. I couldn't
possibly tell Anya that the man I was falling in love with was the son of the
person who had hurt her the most.

“He's just a boy,” I said instead, brushing past her to the
cabinet with its assorted mismatched crockery. “I dunno. It probably won't go
anywhere. He's a senior, and he's really...well, he's nice.”

“Nice is good!”

“He's an athlete. Kind of a jock type, actually.”

“That doesn't sound like you,” mom said. She set her cup
down on the counter, and the sound of clinking seemed to set off the listless
ukulele man. He drifted away into the living room.

“It's not so bad.”

“Well, here's my spiel. You want to be with someone you know
will be kind to you.”
“I know that, mom.”

“No, honey.” She took a deliberate step towards me. “I'm not
talking about someone who can talk a good game and be sweet. I'm not talking
about constant fireworks, either. Someone who is kind and good and knows how to
treat women. You want to look at his history, too. Don't wanna be surprised a
month in with someone's demons.” These words—the first direct mention my mother
had made of the incident with the Pastor—hung between us in space like a bad
smell. In one swoop, Anya's caution neatly destroyed my image of Landon,
splayed sweetly against sweaty pillows. There were tears hovering on my
mother's eyelids. And I knew, with a pang, that she was right.

“Oh, sweetheart, I'm sorry. Don't mind me. It's just—you
never know about people. Sometimes they seem great, and...” She clapped her
hands together, violently. “I couldn't take it if you fell for a bad man. I
would feel like I'd failed at the only job I've managed to hold on to.”

Outside, the crickets had begun their evening concert.
Carson would be home soon from the guitar store, where she'd taken up a few
extra shifts to help pay for Mom's expenses as she lobbied for paid medical
leave. My phone blurted out a text in my pocket. I knew who it was from before
I checked it.
Hey, baby,
he'd written.
Meet me at our place later?
Wanna talk. XO—L.

For the first time in days, the
thought of Landon's boyish grin suddenly made my heart sink. What could we do?
What could we be? And at what cost, all of this?

Derby's seemed even less crowded than I remembered (what was
it? Two weeks ago? Time was doing its funky thing again....)—but a dark,
lonesome bar suited me just fine. It was uncharacteristically chilly in the
parking lot, as I shifted foot to foot, waiting for lover boy.

I hadn't decided what I would say when Landon finally showed
his shaggy head, but I knew what wasn't going to fly: sad karaoke. Make-outs.
Sweet nothings. Oh, no, no. We needed to have a serious, conscious conversation
about what our little thing was going to look like. Even if I'd been fighting
off images of his perfect mouth all day long, we needed to talk shop. Because
the thing was, I didn't know if I could go on lying to my mom about our
relationship. But I also didn't know if Landon would be willing to wait for
however much time it would take until we became an appropriate, palatable union
in the eyes of everyone we loved.

To avoid temptation, I'd decided to dress the part of the
serious student inquisitor. I wore black jeans and a long-sleeved paisley
button-up, borrowed from one of Carson's mystery house-guests. My hair was
tamed in a floral scarf. I tugged nervously at the ends of my shirt cuffs, hoping
I didn't look so Mom-like he wouldn't recognize me. I hadn't smoked in weeks
(sex was apparently a pretty good replacement for an oral fixation), but the
urge to light up was strong. He made me nervous.

And at last, there he was—scooting around the bend in the
Saab where it all began. I fought the urge to cry out a desperate hello when I
saw him emerge from the driver's side. This turned out to be a good thing,
because as Landon approached I saw that his face was as serious as I hoped mine
was. I watched him slam the door. I watched him begin his athlete's lope toward
me, muscles propelling him forward through space with the grace of a cheetah. I
rehearsed my first words, in my head:
Landon. We need to have a serious talk
about this. I'm not sure we're being properly careful, considering how many
people we could hurt.

When he caught my face under the buzzing fluorescent parking
lot light, his eyes widened, and a smile spread across his face. I couldn't
help it—I started grinning like an idiot, too. He flicked a stray strand of
brown hair out of his face, where it had fallen over an eyebrow—his hair was
getting longer. His muscles bulged out of a t-shirt, a bright blue number,
painted with the Superman logo. Hell, if the shirt fits...

“Hey you,” he said, biting his lip. He took another step
towards me, and I felt my plan start to collapse. I tilted my hips against his,
so when we embraced I felt the whole of his lower body through his jeans. It
was still shocking to me, how ripped he was.

“Hey yourself,” I murmured into his ear. Landon reached
around and slapped me lightly, on the ass. I squeaked; he laughed. It was like
our first meeting. I thought of the slick ice cube, chilling me down my spine.
His impish face.

Fireflies began to glow around us in the lot, and the
humidity had lifted with the setting sun. Landon flicked his head in the
direction of Derby's entrance and raised his eyebrows. I fell into timid step
behind him, and reached for his hand.
I'm not sure this is a good idea,
I
was going to say.
I think we need to take a step back and really...

Oh boy.

As I'd predicted from the lot, Derby's was pretty much
empty. Blaine was bent low over the far end of the bar, playing quarters with
an older dude in a flannel t-shirt. He looked like one of Carson's hippie
friends. I let Landon grab us two Coors and lead me to a small cocktail table
at the lip of the karaoke stage. The machines weren't turned on tonight. A thin
riff of a honky-tonk song came in over the PA, but it wasn't loud enough to
cover the few other conversations rattling around us.

For a second, we both eavesdropped on the motley, weekday UT
crowd. In one far corner, two women bent their heads low in serious
conversation. I saw that their fingers were entwined, and they kept gazing sweetly
at one another.
Love,
I thought, suddenly.
That's what it looks like.
That's what he and I must look like.
I yanked my gaze away before the
couple caught me throwing them a doofy smile. I had the insane urge to stand up
and wave at them, let them know I was in their little club, too.

Meanwhile, Landon was gazing at me. If anyone had been
watching
us
in the darkness, I figured we would have looked like a
perfectly normal couple having a perfectly normal evening. If only.

“Listen,” he began—then started chewing his lip. I realized
then that he was as agitated as I was. “Baby. I've been thinking, these past
few days. Seriously thinking.”

“About what? Is everything okay?”

“Well, not really. That's the thing. I'm just thinking about
my Dad. And your Mom. And the football team, stupidly enough.” His brow was
scrunched, in that half-endearing, half-scary way I recalled from the time he'd
caught me snooping around in his room. I reached under the table and began to
rub his knee.

“I think I know what you're going to say.”

“Really?!”

“I mean, I've been thinking about all that crap, too. Of
course I have.” Oh, God. It was happening so fast. It was so easy, so obvious.
We couldn't be together—there was too much shit in the way. And he agreed. Of
course he agreed. We'd just been living on borrowed time. The silence that fell
between us felt limp, hopeless. I felt my throat begin to close up.
Don't
cry, Ashleigh. Don't cry.
Fuck. It was too late.

“But—I mean, it's just not fair!” I blurted. “I really like
you, Landon. I mean, don't you like me? This is so good.”

He lifted his big hand off the table and gently cradled my
face. His thumb brushed a tear aside.

“It is so good.” He held me there. I waited for the
inevitable “but...”—but Landon's lips stayed closed. Across the room, the girls
had started making out. Landon's eyes were taking on the intense character they
assumed when we made love. I watched his chest begin to rise and fall in rapid
motion. I felt my own pulse speed up, blood in my body seeming to spread and
agitate under the scope of his hand, where his skin touched mine.

“Fuck,” he growled, bending low. “I want you. Oh, Ashleigh,
I want you so fucking much.”