Page 7 of Newly Tied

“Tell her not to go to any trouble on my account. I’m stoppin’ by Coach Preston’s house, and Mrs. Preston has been up all night cookin’ for all of us who’re leavin’ today.”

“Yeah, some of the guys I know said you’re a real fine player. I had no idea.”

Of course he didn’t.

I lifted the box. “Thank you for this.”

“You’ve got everything?”

“Yessir.”

I put the shoebox in the front passenger seat, then jogged to the driver’s side and got in. Moments later, I was down the gravel driveway and out on the road. I never looked back.

I still had the shoebox, which was filled with letters from my mother to me, her unborn child. There was a picture of her smiling like crazy, pointing to her stomach where I had been at that moment in time. She wrote that she loved my brothers so much, and she already loved me the same. She could barely wait to meet me. She named me Delroy after her father. He’d passed when she was young, and she still missed him. Her people were from Lubbock, and though I was curious, her mother had never looked us up, neither me nor my brothers, so it didn’t seem she could have cared all that much. And maybe my father had scared off everyone from my mother’s side of the family, but still, if you cared, you made the effort. Mrs. Ross, Lang’s mother, who insisted I call her Etta, told me that as a parent, it was your job to keep showing up. You could never stop trying to be a part of your child’s life. Never.

I learned over the years how parents and grandparents were supposed to be. In college I had teammates who took me home with them for the holidays every year, and I was treated to kindness, nurturing, and concern. When I blew out my knee, my team was the family that showed up at my bedside—the players and their families. Despite not playing football anymore, I lived with some of my teammates until I graduated, and once I was all healed up, I applied to be a deputy US marshal. It turned out, a knee that couldn’t take running on the gridiron was more than good enough to chase fugitives down city blocks. I was in great shape physically and more than ready to serve. With my degree, I was accepted and began my career. I still saw my teammates—we were friends for life, and we met on vacations. I was part of many a wedding, sent baby gifts, flowers when their parents or grandparents passed, showed up at funerals or sent huge plants in remembrance of the love and support I myself had been given.

When I got legal papers from my father wanting me to give over my stake in the land in Wimberley to my stepsisters, I signed my name on the line and got that right back out to him by FedEx the following morning. I had seen my brothers’ signatures above mine, and it was odd to be reminded that we were out there in the world, all three of us, without care for the others. Sometimes I wondered what my life would have looked like had my mother lived. Sarah Roundtree McCabe had been a sweet soul—at least that’s what Etta said when I showed her my mom’s letters.

“That’s why you’re such a wonderful man,” she told me. “Your mama loved you from the start, and you know, that never dies.”

I liked hearing that.

But even now, thinking back to falling asleep with blood on my face, having no one question the bruises, split lips, and black eyes when I showed up at school, hearing my father make excuses when bones were broken, like boys will be boys, and that we were horsing around again, and reminding people that of course, his own father had tanned his hide more than once…sometimes, still, the memories clogged my throat. And though I’d schooled myself to never let my eyes fill—that had always brought on a quick, hard strike from a clenched fist—there was nothing to be done about being unable to speak. James McCabe had never minded silence; it was the tears that incensed him. I couldn’t even imagine ever confessing my homosexuality to him. I might not have lived through that exchange.

Others had blessedly let me be when I was suddenly swallowing down my feelings. When I got overwhelmed, friends respected me enough to leave me alone, giving me both space and my dignity.

Lang thought that was cowardly of them.

“They weren’t sure what to do,” he told me the first time I walked away from him only to have him chase me down the sidewalk in the drizzling rain.

I’d stood there, with him in front of me, wanting to both run again and stay where I was. He needed to get under an awning, but I couldn’t even suggest that to him because I didn’t have use of my voice right then.

“If you want to be alone, I’ll respect that,” he told me, his tone gentle, smooth like honey, and so very warm. “I would never force you to do anything you didn’t want.”

I knew that.

“And you know I’m not in the habit of chasing after people who aren’t wanted for breaking the law, but this is the first time you’ve ever run from me, and it was surprising.”

I nodded.

“So for clarity, that’s why I’m standing here getting wetter by the second.”

It wasn’t necessary to say anything, and that was good since I couldn’t.

“It won’t change our friendship if you need time alone,” he promised, his smile slow, allowing me to breathe. “If you need your space, then tell me.”

I didn’t want that. What I needed was someone to be fine with the fact that every now and then, between me and my brain, there was a disconnect.

“I just want to remind you that we’re partners, yeah? You can trust me.”

And I could. I knew I could.

He was studying my face. “So tell me what you want, and we’ll do that. Or if you can’t right now, give me a nod and I’ll go. We’ll discuss this later when you can.”

For once, I let go of my fierce control and allowed another person to see the tears that were quickly washed away in the ever-strengthening shower.

“You’re killing me,” he murmured, opening his arms.