We lie still like this, holding each other just as we finished, for minutes—until I’m sure his arm is falling asleep, and my body begins to grow cold from being exposed. His grip on me loosens, and I slip away from him, pulling my shirt over my head so I can step into the closet to freshen up at my sink.
My reflection catches my attention, and I pause at the mirror, noticing the flushness of my face. My chest feels tight, and every nerve in me wants me to cry. I don’t understand it, because I’ve never been happier. But something happened between Ty and me just now—something amazing, and beautiful, and special—but also something raw. And I want to hold onto it hard and fast.
When I slip back into the room in a fresh T-shirt and a loose pair of sleep shorts, Ty is already dressed in his boxers and is waiting for me, my quilt pulled back on the corner, a welcome for me to join him. I flip the light switch and crawl into his arms, this time my cheek finding the firmness of his chest. His lips touch the top of my head, resting there for several seconds before he turns his head, replacing his lips with his chin.
I love you, Tyson Preeter. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you…
I mouth the words, shrouded in darkness. It’s a rehearsal for the real thing, and I feel the quaking in my gut, because the thought of saying this aloud terrifies me. I’ve never said this, not to anyone, other than family. I rarely say it now to my parents and Paige; in fact, I think we were kids the last time I uttered those words to her. It’s sad how hard it gets to love.
“Thank you,” he whispers, interrupting my homemade panic attack. His whisper is soft, but perfectly clear. I don’t say anything in return, because I know what he meant by thank you. I squeeze him tightly and kiss his chest once more before closing my eyes, my lullaby the chorus of I love yous that cease to end in my head.
Chapter 21
Cass
The debate over whether or not I would join the soccer team picked up right where it left off the night before. When Ty left for his workouts with clients, I turned the sound back on for my phone and endured the three messages waiting for me—one from my father, reiterating his reasoning; one from my mother pretending nothing was wrong at all; and one from Paige, telling me she heard about it all from Mom.
I don’t feel like talking to any of them, but I call my dad back anyway because if I have to talk to one of them, at least he has a valid point. He isn’t going to waggle a finger or feign like everything’s fine and my spirit isn’t destroyed.
“Hey, sweetheart. Just got in the car to head to the office, but I can talk for a few,” my dad says. “How are you feeling about things this morning? Fresh perspective after a good night’s sleep, I hope?”
I wait a few seconds before responding, half tempted to shock him by saying something like “…no sleep for me. Spent the night with my boyfriend. Thinking about getting pregnant. Oh, and then joining the team. And maybe I’ll pose nude for Playboy, too.”
I don’t say any of those things. But I don’t roll over either.
“Yeah, I thought. I’m still joining the team,” I say, and his heavy sigh comes fast, just like I knew it would. He’s disappointed. What’s new?
“Cassidy, we talked about this. I know what your mother said, how she doesn’t feel comfortable with you overexerting yourself. But it’s more than that. If it were just the physical demands, Cass…if that were it…? I could hold your mom off. But this Paul Cotterman thing—Cass, we just don’t know how it’s going to go.”
That’s what had me in tears last night, more than anything. I called home to tell my parents I was going to play for McConnell, and in seconds, my father stripped my power away with news that Paul Cotterman was thinking about not signing the bargain—not following through with the carefully laid plans my father had constructed—the plans that would erase that awful experience from my life.
He was the one who was wrong. He was the one who should be punished. But I was the one who was going to suffer.
My mom found out. My dad tried to keep it between us, but the Cotterman issue, as it was now referred to, was just too big for him to keep hushed. She didn’t really believe me either. I know she didn’t. My dad said she knew, but my mother never brought it up when we spoke. Like so many things, she just liked to pretend that none of those bad things were real. Instead, after she told me soccer would kill me— exact words—she spent the next ten minutes filling me in on her bead workshop and the new things she got in the store.
“Cass, listen. I’m just pulling into the office. I’ve got a few calls out, and we’ll see where things stand in a day or two. But for now, honey…” I hate it when he calls me honey. “For now, let’s just sit on this. Sit and wait this out. Maybe next week…maybe the outlook will be different.”