Page 21 of The Girl He Loves

He plays with the strap. “You sure I can’t convince you to go to dinner with me tonight at the very least?”

I hold firm to my resolve. “We had a no-strings-attached night, Dax. Isn’t that what every guy wants? I truly don’t expect anything more from you.”

He blows out a sigh. “Okay.” He meets my gaze.

Yeah, I’m sad he’s going to leave and that’ll be the last of him. But it truly is for the best. And the sooner he leaves, the sooner I can start looking for a lawyer and get to the bottom of expunging my record.

Behind me, the front door opens. I know this because the hinges need to be oiled and have a distinctive creak.

“Oh, my word. Is that you, Dax Griffin?” my mother calls from the front of the house.

Dax smiles and lifts a hand. “How are you, Mrs. Lowell?”

Mom comes outside and crosses the yard to Dax. “It’s so good to see you. I watched you get that second concussion against that other California team and, Lord, it scared me. I wanted to email your momma because I knew she must be worried something fierce.” She holds out her arms for a hug. Dax complies.

“Yeah,” he says when they’re done hugging. “She didn’t like it much. She’s part of the reason I left early. Kept showing me facts about concussions and brain integrity.”

“As any good momma would do.” She pats his cheek. Then gives a start as if she’s struck by the best idea ever. “Dax, weren’t you real good with fixing things? Mechanical things like dishwashers?”

“No, Mom.” I leap out of the back of my van and rush toward them. “I said I’d take care of it.”

She rolls her eyes. “Heather’s dishwasher is broken. She won’t let me buy her a new one.” Mom’s got her sing-song happy voice going. “But if you’re still good with things like that and can tell me what parts to get, I’ll go get them. She’s busy enough with finishing college and raising Tyler, seeing to his medical needs, and with Justin always delinquent with child support….” She gives me a sidelong look. “You thought I didn’t know about that, but I do. And when I see his momma I’m gonna give her an earful about her deadbeat son.”

I slap my hand over my face. Heat from embarrassment rushes up my neck and flushes my face. I groan, “Mom.”

“What?” She smacks her hand against her thigh. “It's not a sin to ask people for help. And you need help.”

“I don’t need help. I told you I’d take care of it.” I dare not look at Dax, too mortified.

“So, Dax, care to give it a look?” Mom sings. She’s like a dog with a bone. This is how she cons people. Like a siren with a song. Only she’s a mom siren, and the lure is guilt.

“Sure. I still love to take things apart. Take me to this misbehaving dishwasher.” He sets his helmet on his bike seat, gives me a sassy smirk, then follows my mom into my house.

I really want to kick over his bike. Then maybe kick my mom’s SUV, too.

I didn’t want Dax to know where I live.

I don’t want Dax to know about my life.

And I certainly don’t want him in my house.

Tyler comes running out, his eyes huge. “Momma, did you see who Mimi brought in the house? Dax Griffin. He used to play for—”

“Yes, I know. Remember how I told you that a long time ago your mom and Dax were friends? He popped by to say hi, and Mimi convinced him to take a look at the dishwasher.”

Tyler loves football. He doesn’t fully understand the game, but something about it appeals to him. Lord knows, I’ve tried to figure out what. Maybe it's because they play rough, and he can’t? Or maybe it’s because he used to watch it with his dad, and that's how he keeps the bond. Tyler knows about Dax because the local sportscasters always talk about the local guys who made it big. That, and the fact that I went to college with Dax impresses Ty.

“Do you think he’ll give me his writing?” He makes like he’s scribbling.

Sometimes Tyler has a hard time finding the right words. Or even understanding what’s being said. It’s called a language processing disorder. What the doctors can’t tell me is whether this processing disorder happened because of the seizures or alongside them. “His autograph? Yeah, I’m sure he will.”

Tyler beams. “I’m gonna go watch.”

“You stay out of his way,” I say, but Tyler’s already back in the house.

With a last look of longing toward the road as an escape from this mess, I head back inside.

Dax has stripped off his flannel shirt and pulled out the dishwasher. Mom is laying out the machine’s ailments.

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