Clarity Page 17

  “Hello, son.” The guilt in his greeting is also opposite of what I had received from my mother.

  “Father.”

  I’ve never called my parents “Mom and Dad” as most children do. I’ve only ever formally addressed them. I was raised to respect my elders, using ma’am and sir to address anyone in our world of power. I was taught to hold my tongue, never to speak back to my parents, and had never dared to until tonight.

  Taking a seat at his side, he gives me a curt nod. “Would you like a drink?”

  Refusing his offer, he turns to request a refill of his empty glass.

  “You disappeared on us.”

  “I went after Taylor. She left.”

  “I apologize about tonight. It shouldn’t have happened.”

  Nodding my head in agreement, I stay silent, unable to respond just yet. The only sound between us is the clinking of the ice in the glass he’s swirling in his hand.

  “I told Mother tonight was the last straw. I don’t think I can ever forgive her for what she did.”

  He stares off into the distance, lips flat. “I can’t blame you, son.”

  His admission should bring me satisfaction, but it doesn’t.

  “Did you know I wanted to be a pilot when I was a child? The infatuation began when I was young and we’d board our jet to fly to our destination. I’d imagine myself in the pilot’s seat flying us around the world. I never got to follow my dreams.”

  “You could have if you wanted to.”

  He doesn’t seem convinced by my words. “It was different then. I was expected to follow the path laid out in front of me.”

  “As I am?”

  Now finding my eyes, he looks shocked. “No,” he declares. “I’m proud of the man you’ve become. You followed your dreams.”

  If my heart weren’t in pieces because of the situation with Taylor, it’d be beaming at the moment.

  His mouth forms a smile. “I really like this girl. She’s . . . different.”

  “Yeah, she is. She’s like no one I’ve ever met before. She’s a little firecracker.”

  “I bet. She looks it. She’s earned my deepest respect for tolerating as much as she did tonight.”

  His reminder of my loss has my darkened mood returning.

  “She’ll come around,” he says, sounding confident it will happen. I wish it were as easy as he makes it sound.

  “Tell me, where did you meet her?”

  I recall the moment I first met Taylor clear in my mind. It’s the reason for my smile. “She was my original sports therapist, but it didn’t last more than a week before she had me transferred.” His brows arch with curiosity. “She refused to put up with my shit.”

  “Is that so?”

  “I just couldn’t let it be. I don’t know,” I say with a sigh. “She’s different,” I repeat my father’s words. “She didn’t care what my name was or how much money I had.”

  “Maybe that’s why you’re drawn to her.”

  “When I’m not with her, I don’t feel complete.”

  “You’re in love,” he declares.

  I’d already known that, but hearing my father point it out makes it feel real.

  “Yes, I am.”

  A silence lingers between us. Again, the only sound is the clinking in his glass as he twirls it.

  “I really miss our conversations.”

  “So do I,” he draws out.

  “You’re not around long enough to have them anymore,” I bitterly let out.

  “It’s my fault,” he admits. “But I plan on remedying that. I don’t want to live my life being a stranger to my own sons. I want to know what’s going on with their lives. It’s a shame my son is dating a pretty girl and I have no clue who she is,” he teases.

  “If it makes you feel any better, Taylor didn’t know, either.”

  He’s questionably looking at me. “I was an ass and never got around to clarifying how much she meant to me until tonight, but it was too late.”

  He cringes with me when I finish.

  “If there’s anything we Hunters have ever proven, it’s how hard headed we are. We don’t know how to take no for an answer,” he says with a wink.

  His declaration leaves me hopeful.

  I was going to do everything in my power to earn Taylor’s forgiveness. As my father stated, I’m a Hunter, and it’s in my blood to refuse the answer no.

  DECEIVE . . . TO MISLEAD by a false appearance or statement; delude.

  A dictionary isn’t needed to remind me of Nick, my shattered heart was doing the job for me.

  It’s been four days since I last saw Nick. Four full days since he deceived me that dreadful night. It’s when my soul discovered the true identity of Nicolas Hunter.

  Regardless of his attempts to beg for forgiveness, my heart is too wounded to consider the thought. He began with phone calls, which I only deterred to voicemail. Seconds later, they were followed by a text message. I also ignored those after the first one.

  “I’m sorry, Taylor. Please, just talk to me.”

  The days feel endless. I’ve tried hard to push the memory of Nick behind me, but my heart won’t allow it, and the memories are branded in my mind.

  I tried hard from the beginning to push him away, but I failed to make him understand that nothing good would ever come from him chasing after me. He was persistent, a trait I valued in him. But falling hopelessly in love with him only to have him shatter my already wounded heart was the result.

  Forcing myself to focus on my patients and their needs helped make the days flow easier. It gave me a momentary distraction throughout the day.

  After crying the last tear I allowed myself to cry for Nick, I forced myself to shut him completely from my mind. It wasn’t easy, but unfortunately I had help. The nightmares had returned, this time with a deeper intensity than before. These were different. I wasn’t waking up screaming for anyone to get off me, I was now begging for someone to stay . . . Nick.

  Regardless of my begging and screaming, he would turn and leave. I would wake up crying, wishing it weren’t true. I knew they were simply dreams, but they still felt real.

  I could practically smell him, feel the warmth of his skin against my hands, and taste of his mouth as it kissed me in return. Then just as quickly, he would drift away.

  It was easier not to sleep than to have to endure the nightmares, the result taking a toll on me mentally and physically. I was more distant than normal, and at times, I would avoid anyone and everyone if possible. I’ve resorted to taking the L to and from work to avoid having to face Katie. I didn’t want my broken heart to be the cause of me saying something I may regret.

  Arriving home at the end of the day, I’m barely walking into my apartment when Katie stomps her way from her room. She stops at the end of our hallway, glaring directly at me.

  “Where were you?” she demands. “I tried calling you but you still have your phone turned off.”

  I’d informed her the day I silenced it. She wasn’t happy with my decision, but understood.

  “I went to get coffee.”

  “You need to get over your little tantrum already and turn on your damn phone,” she scolds. Normally a lecture like this would make anyone cringe, but not me.

  “Why?”

  Katie throws her hands up with an exasperated sigh. “You didn’t get home on time and I started freaking out, that’s why.”

  “I’m sorry,” I apologize. “I’m home now.”

  She growls at me, full on growls in exasperation

  “Taylor, I get it. He acted like an asshole, but it doesn’t mean you have to completely shut out the rest of the world.” She continues to lecture as I walk into the kitchen. “And I bought dinner. So you better eat it or I’m shoving it down your throat!” she shouts over her shoulder before disappearing down the hall into our bathroom. Within minutes, I hear the starting of the shower.

  With a raised brow I stare down at the deli sandwich sitting on the counter. I
’m far from having an appetite. To be honest, I haven’t had one in days. Grabbing the sandwich, I place it in the refrigerator so it won’t go bad. Maybe Katie will eat it for lunch tomorrow.

  Returning to the living room, I throw myself onto the couch. I slump into the cushions to rummage through my purse for the object she was lecturing about. Turning on my phone, I wait. As expected, it immediately begins to ping. Surprisingly though, it takes minutes for it to stop.

  My text messages from Nick say . . .

  “I have one brother, his name is Nathan. He’s three years older than me.”

  “I was raised in New York City, spending all my summers in the Hamptons until five years ago.”

  “I never had a dog, but always begged for one. I never got it. My mother never wanted the dander or mess in her house.”

  “My favorite color is blue.”

  “I have no middle name.”

  “My first car was a Porsche. I wrecked it two months later.”

  “My first kiss was with a girl named Mindy, who slobbered more than kissed. I won’t tell you who I lost my virginity to because I know you could care less, but I also remember the girl’s name in case you change your mind.”

  That last text has me scrunching my nose at the phone.

  “I broke my arm falling out of a tree when I was six. My mother grounded me for a week for disobeying her order of not going outdoors and getting dirty.”

  “My nanny’s name was Barbara. For the longest time I had a crush on her, until I found her kissing our cook. Our cook was a woman.”

  This one makes me smile as I bite back my laughter.

  “When I discovered my love for baseball, I dreamed of playing for the Yankee’s. Now I despise the team.”

  Now I’m chuckling.

  “My childhood best friend’s name was Tom. I told Tom all my secrets. Tom was a very good listener. He was also my imaginary friend.”

  This text I can tragically relate to.

  “I once spotted a girl from across the room. The sight of her left me breathless, especially when she lifted her head and stared into my eyes.”

  There are no words to express how I’m feeling after that text message, but I continue reading.

  “This same girl was constantly in my thoughts. I couldn’t get her out of my mind. She consumed me, day and night.”

  This text message makes me feel the same as the one before it.

  “Her name is Taylor . . . and I love her.”

  It’s the last text message, and the one that leaves me breathless.

  Holding my phone while my mind recaps each text message, my injured heart is slowly mending.

  Why?

  A simple, yet complicated question, which continues to repeat itself in my head while I read through the messages once more.

  This time though, I deliberately take my time to read each one. My heart is gradually feeling the need to respond as I absorb every word written. When finished, my vision is obstructed by the tears that have built. I’d told myself I had cried enough tears for Nick this past week and I wouldn’t cry anymore, but I’m finding it difficult to obey my own decree as the tears slowly trickle down my cheeks in defeat.

  My selfishness to refuse to allow anyone in my heart had eventually hardened it. Yet Nick had somehow managed to find his way in. The heartache I’ve been carrying since I’d pushed him to leave has left me feeling as if it were a mistake. But can I truly believe I’ll be able to excuse and forget Nick’s faults if I do forgive him? Somehow, it feels I may be failing myself if I keep telling myself no.

  My thumb brushes the screen of my phone, contemplating my next step. Bravely, my fingers find the response box and cautiously type the next words.

  “Wilson. It’s my last name, but I hate it because it’s a reminder of a father I never had.”

  I push send while I still have the courage to do so. My heart is now hastily beating as I sit and wait for a response. Seconds turn into minutes, minutes that sluggishly tick by with no response. My once rapidly beating heart is starting to sink into the depths of my stomach, the rejection from the silence eating away at my emotions.

  Katie’s footsteps force me to pull myself from my thoughts. Blinking away the remainder of my tears as she walks into the living room, she takes a seat on the other end of the couch. Katie turns in my direction as if preparing to say something, but suddenly pauses as she furrows her brow. “What’s wrong with you?” she worriedly asks.

  I swallow the tears that have built, still unable to answer.

  “Tell me,” she demands.

  Not knowing how to explain the cause for my anguish, I scroll to the beginning of the text messages and hand her the phone instead. A minute later, she’s looking at me with a confused look upon her face. “When did he send these?”

  “I don’t know. I got them when I turned on my phone.”

  She considers my response for a second. “I don’t get it. Why would he send you random sentences about himself?”

  “Maybe he thinks if he shared secrets about himself I would, too.”

  She looks down at my phone, a hint of a smile curving her lips.

  “Apparently it worked,” she says, referring to the response I’d sent him.

  Taking the phone back from her hand, I contemplate if there is any way to take my own text message back. “No, it didn’t. I sent it ten minutes ago and he hasn’t responded. It’s obvious he doesn’t care anymore,” I grimly reply.

  “What time is it?”

  Looking down at my phone, I say, “Seven thirty-three, why?”

  “He’s not going to respond anytime soon.” There’s already a hollowness piercing at my emotions, but Katie’s comment deepens the wound. “He’s playing right now,” she further explains.

  Reaching forward for the remote sitting on the coffee table, she brings the television to life and flicks through the guide until coming upon the sports channel. Pressing enter, it now displays a baseball game. As she mentioned, the image on the screen is projecting the White Soxs in the midst of a game.

  “Look, there’s Nick,” Katie comments, pointing at the screen, but all I see is an enlarged image of the stadium before it focuses on the batter. The player hits the ball, a pop as the ball makes contact with the bat sounds from the speaker of the television. Just as fast, the camera is zooming in on the ball as it speeds down the field and I instantly recognize Nick on the screen. He dives for the ball, throwing it to second base. The second baseman’s hand reaches forward to catch the ball, turning to throw it to the first baseman. The receiver catches it, tagging the running batter coming in his direction out. The crowd cheers with excitement as the camera’s view returns to Nick. The commentator is now praising Nick for his excellent play as he runs his way off the field.

  Days’ worth of sorrow have completely vanished with just that moment of viewing him. My breath has hitched, my heart has returned to erratically beating, and my insides begin to turn giddy from only those couple of seconds I was able to view him before it leads off into a commercial.

  “Why is it going to a commercial?”

  “It always does that in between innings. It gives the teams time to warm up without us having to watch them.”

  I sit, impatiently waiting for the game to return. Just as I’ve begun to lose my patience, the game comes back on. Nick reappears on the screen as the first batter. The faint chorus of the song “Wild Ones” is playing throughout the stadium as he walks up to the batter’s diamond.

  “Why are they playing that song?” I ask Katie, perplexed as to why those specific words would be played for Nick.

  “They always play a specific song for each player. It’s usually one they choose. It’s like a signature song for them.” My earlier giddiness has vanished. “Taylor, they’ve been playing that song for him for a while. Don’t take it too serious.”

  “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one who would be considered part of his wild side,” I remark, my eyes locked onto the scre
en in front of us.

  Nick lowers himself into a crouched stance as he readies himself to hit the ball. The pitcher looks behind his back as he brings his right hand up to his glove. His right knee is brought up towards his chest and he throws his body forward as he releases the ball. It flies through the air straight ahead of him in Nick’s direction as he throws his first pitch. It lands in the glove of the catcher and the crowd groans in disappointment. Nick steps back a moment, swinging the bat in the air before he returns to his earlier stance, preparing to hit the ball. The pitcher throws the ball again, this time it makes contact with Nick’s bat, but zooms to the side of the field. I expect Nick to run, but he keeps himself at the diamond instead.

  “Why didn’t he run to the base?”

  “It’s a foul ball. He isn’t supposed to run,” Katie explains.

  I have no clue what she means by that answer, but my eyes have never left the screen of the television. They’ve been focused solely on Nick. The pitcher readies for another pitch. This time when he delivers the ball, Nick is quickly jumping back as it swooshes by him. Continuing to keep my eyes locked on the TV, I can see Nick’s body language in reaction to the last pitch; he’s clearly irritated. Once more, he’s readying himself to hit the ball, but when the pitcher delivers the pitch, it’s now striking Nick’s thigh.

  “Holy shit!” Katie shouts at my side. I’m gasping into my hands as I watch Nick drop his bat and rush to the pitcher. The pitcher mimics his move and is meeting him halfway as they throw themselves at each other and begin fighting. Both teams are soon following onto the field as the crowd erupts in a chorus of roars. In my mind, I’m predicting the teams will help separate the two players, but I’m proven wrong when the mass of players begin to participate in the brawl. The overwhelming cheers and hollers from the crowd are only encouraging them to continue, when in my mind I’m wishing they would just stop.

  I’ve completely lost sight of Nick in the mass of players who have all begun to blend together in the center of the field. Fists are aiming in whichever direction they can swing. Players are pulling and yanking forcefully, trying to outdo the opponent. Within minutes the brawl is ending, but Nick is forcefully being dragged off the field, disappearing into a passageway in the dugout. The announcer is speaking, but my astounded mind is still trying to process what has occurred. The disappointed groans and boos of the crowd can be heard clearly through the speakers of the television.