Suddenly, a memory from high school resurfaces, a picture that was in the newspaper of Carter on the football field, a look of lethal determination on his face. I can only imagine what it must’ve looked like when he was mad enough to actually try to hurt someone.
“The coaches came in when they heard the yelling and broke things up. They were going to suspend Trent, Byron, and me, but my sperm donor came in and convinced them it was just a fight between brothers, nothing more than a little family squabble that Byron happened to be in the middle of, so nothing ended up on my permanentrecord.”
Fucking Trent and Byron Linton. I mentally add both names to my list of people to make pay when I finally have the time. Izzy’s always coming up with creative ways to make people’s lives hell, like changing their autocorrect to make mundane words likehometurn intomy mistress’s house. I’m sure she can come up with something good to make them pay for being complete dicks almost twenty years ago.
“How did I never hear about that?” I ask.
“I think everyone there was so ashamed they weren’t the ones to make them stop that no one wanted to talk about it.”
Unlikely. My experience with high school guys is that they rarely have that kind of self-awareness. Plus, that’s the type of news that Wild Bluffs students would’ve spread like wildfire—Carter had a reputation for being an overachiever with a strict moral code and no need for friends. Which begs the question, why? Why would he have stood up for me back then?
“Why?” I ask. “Why would you risk everything you were working toward to stand up for someone who you probably said ten words to that entire year?”
He snorts, taking a bite of his eggs from the plate the waitress just set in front of him. “Honestly, I like to think I would’ve told them to stop if they’d been saying it about anyone. No one deserves to have lies told about them behind their back, especially as demeaning as those were.”
I nod my head in understanding, realizing standing up against bullies aligned with everything I know about Carter.
He rolls his head to the side, considering. “But, if we’re being honest, I doubt I would’ve actually fought them for anyone but you. Itold you about my crush on you. It’s probably why Trent even picked you. He was probably trying to see how far he could push me. It was one of his favorite pastimes—seeing if he could piss me off. Though looking back, I’m guessing it’s because his dad would say shit to him about me being better in sports or school when he was trying to get him to work harder.”
“Well, thank you,” I say. “I can’t believe you risked the future you were working so hard for on me, but I really appreciate having you in my corner, even if I didn’t know it.”
He shrugs. “Of course. Plus, you did the same thing for my mom.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“There was a time, the end of senior year, when a few of the men in town were in the diner, and apparently one of them said something rude to my mom—I never learned exactly what they said, but I’m sure I could guess. Anyway, you stood up for my mom. Made the guy feel like shit. Honestly, I think it was that, seeing how effortlessly badass yet kind you were, that made it so I could never get over what I thought was just an innocent little crush in high school.”
“Oh. I do remember that. It wasn’t a big deal. It was a totally inappropriate thing to say to anyone, let alone your sweet mom,” I reply.
“Well, thanks anyway.”
“And thanks for having my back with this most recent incident,” I say. “I…as much as I hate that we are, at the end of the day, still competing for a contract we both really need…I’m really gladyou’re here.”
The noise of the restaurant fades, and I realize I mean it. Every word of it. I wouldn’t trade this time with Carter for anything, even the final contract with Jaxon—and I’m not sure if that is heartening or absolutely terrifying.
Chapter thirty-two
Carter
“We’rehereinRiofor two days, then three shows in New York, and then we’re home,” I say to my mom as I chat with her before I head to the stadium. Being back on the same side of the globe has made catching up far easier, but I’m so busy these days with the tour about to wrap up that I still haven’t been able to talk to her as much as I’d like.
I’m sitting at the small table in the corner of the hotel room I’m sharing with Kelsey, the steady hum of the air-conditioning working overtime the only noise besides my voice. Kelsey left a few minutes ago, saying her team finally found a lead.
“That’s great, Carter. I’m so glad you’re enjoying your time in the Army. I always knew you’d make a great soldier.”
I consider telling her again where I am and what I’m doing, but right now, I need to learn more about her most recent visit with her neurologist. Based on the timing of her appointment with thespecialist in Denver, she should be about halfway back. Bill went with her and is likely driving.
“How did your appointment go with Doctor Roman?” I ask.
“What appointment?”
I rub my forehead, trying to suppress the frustration…and devastation…rising within me. I hate hearing her sound so disconnected, even if I know her appointments always do this to her. They take her out of her routine, and they cause her stress, two major influences on my mom’s ability to remember.
“The one you had today,” I say, my voice quiet. “The one with Doctor Roman.” I try to keep calm, but I can feel the weight of my mother’s memory loss pressing down on me, threatening to overwhelm me.
She goes silent for a moment. I can hear her breathing, slow and measured, before she clearly holds the phone away from her and says, “Bill, did I see Doctor Roman today?”
“You sure did, Alice,” Bill replies, his voice upbeat despite the situation, which, more than anything, suggests how bad the news must’ve been.
