Till It Hurts by Cora Brent
Jace
Now
For twelve days the only other face I’ve seen belongs to McClane.
This is just fine with me.
The hundred-year-old cabin was chosen for its location, which is so remote that even basic cell phone service is spotty on its best day. Not that I care. I switched my phone off and shoved it in a drawer the day I arrived. I also have zero interest in television and even less interest in the internet.
I’m sure my agent is having all kinds of tantrums and clogging up my voicemail but that’s just tough shit. The day I drove up here I told him that I wasn’t ready to ink the contract and that I’d let him know when I changed my mind. So far, my mind hasn’t been changed. Mike Campinelli is an excitable kind of guy and I can envision him chewing half a bottle of chalky Tums in his Manhattan office as he begs me to understand that the owner of the New York Lions doesn’t appreciate being left dangling on a thirty-million-dollar contract offer as the question of next year’s quarterback situation remains unsettled.
Again, tough shit.
Since my grandmother died there’s no one left who matters enough to announce my comings and goings. As for the New York Lions, I finished the season and now they have their long awaited Super Bowl win. I’ve done what they expected me to do. And I’ll answer their latest offer when I fucking feel like it.
McClane sighs deeply from his lookout spot at the edge of the porch. A ripple of movement catches my eye about fifty yards into the wintry wilderness and the brown feathers of a wild turkey strut into sight. The dog turns his broad head in my direction, his eyes pleading ‘Just this once!’ and I swear he pouts when I shake my head. Defeated, his chin sinks down to his paws and he moodily watches the stupid turkey lurch around and peck at pebbles. The calendar insists that spring will arrive in three short weeks but winter is slow to loosen its grip this deep into the mountains. Most people wouldn’t be comfortable hanging around on the front porch in just a flannel shirt and jeans but I’m tired of being cooped up inside. Plus, while this may be cold by reasonable standards, I’ve been far colder. Compared to playing through a Green Bay blizzard in January, this is nothing.
A glance at my watch tells me I’ve passed two hours sitting out here, which explains why my hands feel so stiff. I lean back in the creaky chair and snap my hardcover book closed. It’s about the London Blitz and it’s the tenth one I’ve read since our arrival. I thought I packed enough reading material to last for a while but now I’m running out. I’m also running out of food, both human and canine. Like it or not, a field trip is on the horizon.
McClane’s ear twitches. He yawns.
“How about we go to town today?” I ask him, as if there’s a chance he would understand and possibly object.
McClane doesn’t object at all. In a flash, the dog jumps to his feet and he leaps over to me with tongue-wagging excitement.
“Is that a yes?” I scratch his ears, my fingers grazing a rough spot where there’s scar tissue, a remnant from his old life of abuse. He licks my hand. Then he barks. He’s a great dog. We found each other two years ago on a frigid Christmas Eve. I’d just finished a grueling workout at the team facility and was focused on the next day’s game while trying not to feel guilty about being unable to visit my grandmother for the holidays. I didn’t notice that there was a stowaway in the bed of my truck until I got home. I’d already parked in the cavernous garage and was unlocking the door when I heard an insistent ‘Woof!’ and saw a flash of fur.
The poor guy was a mess of matted hair, skeletal ribs and unhealed injuries. He also wore no collar and was half frozen from being exposed to the icy elements. Yet he thumped his tail and tried to jump into my arms like I was his long lost best friend. One emergency veterinary visit later, I learned the pit bull mix was about three years old, had no microchip, was malnourished and had been horribly mistreated by someone for a long time. The vet was sure he’d been used in a fighting ring because most of his injuries were clearly inflicted by other animals. He was in such bad shape that he needed to spend the night to get treated. However, when I tried to leave the room he let out the saddest whine of anguish I’ve ever heard so I returned to his side and patted his head.
“Don’t worry, I’ll come back for you,” I promised and he breathed with relief before falling into a deep sleep.
When I returned for him on Christmas Day after pounding the Dallas Cowboys into submission, my new friend already looked much better. Somewhere along the way I’d started thinking of him as McClane, as in John McClane, the tough talking, sarcastic hero of my favorite Christmas movie.
There’s got to be some sentimental irony in finding true friendship in a dog after rejecting human contact for so long. My teammates were usually kept at arm’s length and my rare relationships with women were always short sex-filled disasters. Truth be told, I stopped trying to behave around other people years ago. Only my grandmother was spared this bad attitude.
“In a minute,” I grumble to McClane because he’s already running around the cabin with his leash in his mouth. He obeys my every command without a leash but people tend to get uptight when they spot an unrestrained pit bull so we’ll go through the motions.
Strawville is thirty miles east on a twisty mountain road and it’s one of those middle-of-nowhere towns where most residents appear to be over the age of fifty. I’ve pulled on a baseball cap and sunglasses in case there’s a tourist or a newcomer around. I’ve been coming up here for a few years now. The locals have all grown used to the sight of me and understand that I’d rather be left alone, but you never know when a new sports fan might show up, especially now that wealthy city people are starting to colonize this part of the state and build sixteen room vacation homes.
I know I sound like a piece of shit, this entitled millionaire football player who grumbles because some starstruck fellow might try to fist bump and beg for an autograph. Everyone from my agent to the team owner likes to complain that I need to work on my image. They get annoyed that I refuse to invite a press entourage along when I volunteer to read books aloud at the local children’s hospital or when I visit nursing homes during the off season. I’m guilty of being a jackass most of the time. However, I’d be downright disgusting to treat a charitable act as a publicity stunt. Fuck that noise. It’s what I hate about the whole celebrity sphere.
McClane sniffs at the passenger window. I crack it open and he happily shoves his nose into the wind. There’s not a single other vehicle on the road to Strawville and I’m tempted to floor the accelerator and rocket down the curve.
I’m caught off guard by the stab of old memories. For a split second, instead of bare maple trees and snow-capped mountains I see the sagebrush and dusty flatland of Arcana, Texas. Back then the truck I drove was a twenty year old rattletrap that was always one breakdown away from being added to the salvage yard. No doubt the passenger seat would have been occupied by my best friend, Colt Malene. Colt, forever the wildest of daredevils, would be giving me some good natured shit about sticking to the road and going easy on the gas pedal. Colt believed in the full speed ahead approach to life, whether he was charging down the football field or operating a vehicle. The semester we were assigned to the same Driver’s Ed car he gave mild mannered Mrs. Tedesky more than one gasping panic attack. He was nearly expelled when he lost control speeding through a hairpin turn and drove the school owned sedan into the Nature Club’s fishing pond. The fact that Colt’s sister was president of the Nature Club only added to the drama. Tori was furious and shrieked at us both even though I’d done nothing except sit in the backseat and laugh. Colt and I had to give up a month of Saturdays to help rebuild the fishing pond while Tori ordered us around.
These fleeting images only take seconds to tumble through my head and then turn toxic. Losing Colt had hurt like hell and stings even now. But losing Tori clawed my soul to shreds. I’ve spent a lot of years and endless energy trying to erase them both.
At times I felt like I might succeed.
But ever since my grandmother’s death they keep resurfacing. I thought they might have the decency to show up for her funeral but they didn’t. Colt was supposedly off digging holes in the tundra or something. I don’t know when he last had anything to do with Arcana or anyone in it. Tori, on the other hand, was just a plane ride away in San Diego and I know she kept in touch with Gloria. Gloria would slip Tori’s name into the conversation now and then in the hopes that my heart might soften. I’d always pretend like I didn’t hear any mention of the girl I’d once loved more than freedom or reason.
But props to Gloria for trying to get the last word in her will. She bypassed my father and left the house to me and Tori and Colt. The will was a Hail Mary pass, one final desperate effort to stitch the three of us back together.
That was never going to work. The world is filled with broken things that can’t ever be fixed. My friendship with Colt is one. The way I once felt about Tori is another.
McClane wags his tail and glances at me with his tongue hanging out. We’re closing in on Strawville now and scattered homes can be spotted set far back from the road. There’s not much to the town but at least there’s a small grocery store where I can get food and supplies. The obnoxious mansion I own on the north shore of Long Island stands empty and I’ve made no plans to return to it soon. When I drove up here three days after the Super Bowl, I was thinking I might remain up at the cabin for a month or two. Now I can’t think of a good reason to leave.
The dog whines when I pull off the road half a mile outside town. He barks with some indignation when I wrest my cell phone out of my pocket.
“Behave and I’ll buy you a chew stick,” I promise him and squint at the phone to make sure I’m within service range. Before I dive into whatever problems are waiting in my voicemail, I place a call to Leon Chaps.
Leon is the best wide receiver I’ve ever thrown to and during the third quarter of the Super Bowl he suffered a crushing tackle in the end zone. He didn’t let go of the ball despite being knocked unconscious and requiring a stretcher to make it off the field. He’s a good guy with newborn twin sons and while we’re not super close, I would still call him a friend. After the game, as the confetti still flew and microphones were still getting shoved under my chin, I blew off the celebration and drove straight to the hospital to check on him. I was talking to Deanna, Leon’s wife, when three grim-faced doctors appeared to let her know her husband would need emergency surgery to ease the swelling in his brain. He’d been playing pro for eight years and each concussion did a little bit more damage.
It wasn’t the first time it occurred to me, as I sat there in a metal hospital chair and listened to Leon’s wife cry, that I fucking hate the game of football.
Deanna is the one who answers her husband’s cell phone and I can hear a baby or two babbling in the background. Leon is taking a nap but she assures me he’s been making big gains in physical therapy and is doing well, although the energetic athlete I’m familiar with probably wouldn’t be napping at noon if everything was really fine and dandy. She doesn’t mention whether he’ll be returning next season and I don’t ask. I don’t want to keep her on the phone so I tell her to take care of the family and she promises to pass along the message that I called.
“By the way, Jace,” she says before hanging up, “where are you? Everyone’s been wondering.”
“In the middle of nowhere,” I admit and she laughs and tells me not to get lost in the wilderness for too long.
Once that connection is broken, my thumb automatically scrolls through my contact list to find my grandmother’s number. Then I have to set the phone on the dashboard and stare out the window for a few seconds because a fresh wave of grief has just hit hard.
Gloria Zielinski put in most of the hard work of raising me and the job wasn’t always easy, especially during the teenage years. I don’t remember ever thanking her for giving up a peaceful retirement to deal with an unruly grandson. I should have thanked her. I should have said out loud that she was the only person I could truly count on. I should have found the time to go see her more than twice a year.
McClane senses the mood shift and angles his head for a reassuring pat before resuming his duty of watching a flock of black crows in the trees.
For a minute I toss around the idea of just doing my shopping, driving back to the cabin and pretending like I’ve got nothing more important to do than figure out what to eat for dinner. Listening to Mike Campinelli howl about contracts isn’t likely to add any joy to the day. Yet I don’t really like knowing all that noise is just sitting out in the atmosphere waiting to be dealt with.
There are six voicemails from Mike, each one sounding more desperate than the last.
In between, there’s a message from my accountant informing me that I need to sign my annual tax forms. There’s also a drunk dial from a fashion blogger that I had a short term thing with about a year ago. She slurs out an invitation for a weekend fuck at her house in the Hamptons. Then the tin voice of a robocall suggests that it’s time to revisit my car warranty.
There’s also a message from my father. I have to stop myself from flinging the phone away from my ear when I hear his voice. The background is noisy as he shouts something about a business meeting in Las Vegas and while he doesn’t outright say that he wants money I know that he definitely does want money. That’s all he ever wants and he’s been told repeatedly to address his requests to my lawyer but he always seems to forget. He was furious when he found out that he wouldn’t be inheriting his mother’s house and I ended up throwing a sum at his feet that was five times its market value just so he’d shut up. Obviously, he’s now pissed all that away and is looking for more. Giving money to my father is like feeding gold into a sinkhole but the investment is worthwhile if it keeps him out of my face.
I don’t see the point in calling him back. I’ll just arrange to have some funds wired to him in whatever decadent hotel he’s currently holed up in and call it a day until the next time he remembers he has a famous son with a big bank account.
I’m down to the last voicemail and it’s from a west Texas area code.
“Oh, hi Jace.” High pitched female tone. Nervous giggling. “This is Nina Elkins and you probably don’t remember me because I was like, a kid when you last saw me but I’m here working at my grandfather’s office because I left college last semester and that’s probably not that interesting but my grandpa asked me to give you a quick call because he switched on the utilities at your grandmother’s house now that it’s going to occupied at least for a little while and he just wanted you know and he said you are free to call him if you have any questions or you can always call me and I’ll help you however I can. Here’s my number…”
I’m no longer paying attention by the time Nina Elkins recites a phone number and finishes by saying she really really hopes we’ll talk really really soon. Clearly, she’s the granddaughter of Paul Elkins, my grandmother’s longtime friend and attorney. My brain has already sorted through Nina’s needless babble and become stuck on the part where she said Gloria’s house is going to be occupied.
This makes no sense.
Paul Elkins has been serving as the caretaker until I could figure out how to deal with the house while still honoring my grandmother’s wishes. Yet Gloria’s house has remained vacant since the day she died. My dumpster fire of a father is busy partying on the Las Vegas strip and he barely bothered to stop by for his mother’s funeral. He wouldn’t be there now. I don’t have any other family. There’s no one who has the right to move into the house.
Well, no one except the other two legal owners.
The fingers of my right hand drum the steering wheel as tension builds in my gut. Somehow I can’t picture Colt suddenly deciding to set up housekeeping in my grandmother’s living room.
That leaves Tori.
Unlike Colt, who’s rumored to move around every time a season changes, Tori has lived in San Diego since college. She works in some medical clinic or something and volunteers in soup kitchens in her spare time. At least that’s the version she told my grandmother. There’s got to be a story about why she’s left all that behind. Since Arcana isn’t some tropical vacation spot she must have another reason for skulking back there. If she really is there at all.
There’s an easy way to find out.
Nina Elkins picks up on the first ring.
“Nina, thanks for your call. It’s Jace Zielinski.”
“Jace! Wow, I mean, hi, how are you? I watched the Super Bowl. I mean, like, everyone did. Half the town was crowded into Ringo’s Grill to see you kick ass. You’re so amazing. I mean, I’m sure you know that but-“
“Hey, Nina, can I ask you something?” I have to cut her off or she might prattle away for half an hour.
“Oh my god, yes! Of course you can totally ask me anything, Jace.” She giggles, a tee hee sound that would drive me bananas if I had to listen to it for more than eight seconds.
“Who’s staying at my grandmother’s house?”
“Oh, that.” She’s disappointed. “Yeah, my grandfather took care of everything, had all the utilities turned on, and arranged for a cleaning since there was some dust and I guess he just wanted you to know because you told him to send any bills related to the house directly to you and so that’s what he’s going to do, although I’ll probably be the one mailing it all out because I think I told you I’m working here now.”
This girl could probably win a world record for longest run on sentence and yet she still manages to avoid answering a simple question.
“Nina.” I say her name more sharply than I intend to. “Who is staying at the house?”
She pauses. She’s too young to have firsthand knowledge of the social scene during my teen years, but in a small town where everyone is neck deep in everyone else’s day to day shit, gossip has a way of being amplified. Especially when it comes to the only NFL player ever to graduate from Arcana High.
“It’s Tori,” she says, a little timidly, almost like she’s expecting to be yelled at. “Tori Malene. I guess she’ll be staying there for a while.”
It’s what I expected and yet the sudden ferocity of my anger nearly causes me to crush the phone on my hand.
Tori.
I’ve got to hand it to her; she’s got some kind of fucking nerve. She couldn’t trouble herself about paying her respects at my grandmother’s funeral. No, but she finds the time to go stake a claim on her inheritance.
“Thanks, Nina,” I hear myself saying. “If it’s not too much to ask, could you keep this conversation to yourself?”
“Yes, of course, Jace, and if you want to know anything else just call no matter what time it is, and I mean that in all seriousness, totally and completely.”
“Will do. Thanks.”
McClane is startled when I shove the phone in the glove box. I’ve had enough human communication for one day. He watches me for a minute. When I don’t move, he decides looking at the birds would be more interesting.
I don’t know what Tori’s deal is, if she’s got financial issues or if San Diego suddenly lost all its charm. Frankly, I don’t really care what went wrong in her world. She shouldn’t feel so comfortable setting up camp in my grandmother’s house. It’s like returning to the scene of the crime.
Yet even as my temper rages I know some of the fault is mine. Once upon a time I kissed my best friend’s sister and maybe that’s what set in motion a chain of events that ruined everything between us and around us. We fell hard and fast and it was good, for a little while anyway. I haven’t forgotten that. I also haven’t forgotten the rest. I haven’t forgotten how she made me sorry that I’d ever touched her. It seems to me that a reckoning is overdue.
Long fucking overdue.
I snap my fingers at McClane and he tears his gaze away from the birds.
“Buckle up, my friend. We’re going to Texas.”
The dog tilts his head in confusion. I get the uncanny sense he understands what I’ve said and thinks I might have lost my mind.
Maybe I have. I don’t like people and I hate complications and any reunion with Victoria Malene is destined to be messy, an emotional clash of pain and fury. All the things I despise. Almost as much as I despise her.
Then again, I smothered my feelings a long time ago. This time if anyone winds up hurt it’s going to be Tori.
And that’s something I might enjoy watching.