DALLAS
We step off the plane at Dallas Fort Worth Airport and follow the signs to Baggage Claim.
“You’ve been to Texas before?” Dylan asks.
“Never had the pleasure,” I say.
“A virgin,” he says.
“Hardly after what we did this morning.”
He smiles and draws his hand down my neck, down my back, heat blossoms on my face. “Welcome to the Lone Star State.”
“Sadly, the Lone Star State’s seen far better than me. I feel like something the dog rolled in.” I pause in front of the Ladies Room. “Give me a moment.”
“Take two.” He leans back against the wall, and checks his phone.
I use the facilities, stand in front of the mirror, run a hand through my hair that feels heavy and stifling hot on the back of my neck even though the air conditioning is blasting.
I’ve been gone a week. I’m lying to my friends and my employer. I’m not making any money. We agreed to one last game and then he puts me on a plane back to Chicago. I’ll be home tomorrow night. I don’t know if I should be celebrating or if I should buy a beer and cry into it.
I’m acutely aware I signed up for this gig of my own accord. I’ve got some savings stashed away in an account that will cover a few month of bills. But the biggest bill, the one that needs to be paid the first, is Mom’s invoice from the Institute. Tick-tock. The clock counts down and I’m dangling from the pendulum swinging back and forth between my desire to spend time with Dylan and my need to make enough to keep Mom and Ruby and me above water.
I drag a brush through my hair, twist my locks into a loose bun, and secure it with a pretty clip. I snag a lip gloss from my purse, apply a fresh coat, and check my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Not horrible. I wet a paper towel with cool water and press it against my face, my neck, my chest. I thought Chicago was hot in the summer. Texas heat kicks sand in Chicago heat’s face.
Thank God this is just another game and I don’t have to impress anyone. I’m here for Dylan. The game’s tonight and part of tomorrow. No matter what happens I go home tomorrow night with a clear conscience and a heavy heart. Mom needs healing, Ruby needs babysitting, and my needs do not come first.
I swipe my phone off airplane mode and ping-ping-ping am inundated with texts.
Amelia: Where are you?
I text back with the truth for a change.
Evie: Dallas.
Amelia: WTF are you doing in Dallas?
Evie: Explain later.
Amelia: I’m worried about you.
Evie: Don’t. I’ve got this.
Evie: I mean -- I think I’ve got this.
Amelia: You need to tell me what’s going on.
Evie: Sure.
Evie: I’ll explain everything when I get home. I’m on a tear.
Amelia: A tear?
Evie: Figuring out a puzzle.
Amelia: OK?
Amelia: You can always run stuff by me, you know. I’m happy to help.
Amelia: I’ll water your plants.
Amelia: Make sure your Fan isn’t walking around naked in your apartment while you’re OOT.
Amelia: Playing with your underwear.
I shiver.
Evie: TY for the lovely visual.
Evie: No worries I’ll be back tomorrow night late.
Amelia: K. Let me know if anything changes.
Amelia: I’m a little worried about you.
Evie: Will do.
Amelia: Promise.
Evie: Promise.
I check more texts.
Madame M: As much as I like you, Evelyn -- you are replaceable.
Madame M: Just tell me if you don’t want to work at Ma Maison.
I sigh.
Evie: LOVE working for Ma Maison.
Evie: Finishing up a personal issue. Sorry. Back soon. Promise.
Madame M: Don’t disappoint me.
I scroll.
Ruby: In a pinch. Send $ please. I’ll pay it back.
Ruby: Seriously -- need your help.
Crap! What’s going on now?
Evie: How much?
Evie: What’s going on?
Ruby: Some crazy guy.
Evie: Crazy BF guy?
Evie: Crazy meth head Joe?
Ruby: I won’t put up with the kind of stuff like Mom did.
Ruby: I’ve got to get out.
I frown.
Evie: OK.
Evie: You can’t do what Mom did – right?
Ruby: No! This is a once in a lifetime problem. Swear.
I roll my eyes.
Evie: Except this is the third time.
Ruby: Talk later. ’K?
Ruby: Paypal me a thousand.
Ruby: TY!
I log in at Paypal, check my credit, and hit ‘Send.’ I scroll to the next text.
Mom: Ruby’s trying to scam money off me.
Mom: She’ll ask you next. Tell her ‘No.’
Mom: I have ESP about this shit. Something’s hinky. Say ‘No.’
Crap.
Mom: I miss you.
Mom: When are you coming to visit me?
Mom: I miss the old days.
Evie: Miss you too, Mom.
Evie: We’ll talk in next couple. ’K?
Mom: Love you, daughter.
Evie: Love you back.
And in less than a minute my shoulders have knitted to my ears. I mute my phone, stuff it in my purse, and exit the bathroom. I’ll be damned if I’m going to let family drama cut into whatever time I have left with Dylan. My sexy player’s leaning against the wall, looking Texas boy next door handsome in jeans and cowboy boots, his casual shirt open a few buttons. My pulse picks up. “Hey, hot cowboy,” I say walking toward him.
“Everything okay?” he asks as we make our way through crowded airport corridors.
“Another day, another drama.”
“Anything important?”
I shake my head. “Family stuff.”
“Know that one well.” He’s not meeting my eye. The springs are already pre-loading within him, coiling tight.
“You’re doing it again,” I say.
“Over-thinking?” he asks.
I nod.
“The Dallas game is my opportunity to win back my money. Redeem my pride. Be my Lucky Charm tonight?”
“Yes,” I say, trying to keep my heart in check because I can’t play this part forever. Being with him forever, for real, just isn’t on the table. “I’ll be your Lucky Charm tonight. But you’ve got to chill out. Get grounded. Do the things we talked about.”
“Meditate before I hit the game. Center. Get grounded. I’ll do it.” He pulls me tight to him and kisses me. “I’ll do whatever you say, Evie. I’m crazy for you.”
My resolve to leave weakens. This man. This delicious man. “Ditto.”
But the clock winds down and fear, my old friend, bubbles up. I’m hitting this game to support him and then I’m going home. No more random motel rooms. No more games. No more hot sex with my hot player. I lived without him before. I’ll build a damn wall and do it again.
We wait in Baggage Claim for the carousel to dump off our luggage, his possessive, muscular arm draped over my shoulders. I text back and forth with Mom about what she thinks is going on with Ruby – when I sense someone’s eyes boring into me. A taller, ruddier, harsher version of Dylan, ambles toward us checking me out.
“Dylan,” he says.
My player swivels, and startles. “Patrick? How did you –-”
“You told the human loud speaker.” Patrick hesitates then walks the rest of the way toward us, stopping short. They regard each other awkwardly. No shaking of hands, no hugging.
“Of course, I told mom,” Dylan says. “Patrick -- meet Evie Berlinger. Patrick’s my older brother.”
“Your only brother,” he says, reaching his hand out to me. “Any friend of Dylan’s is a friend of mine, Evie.”
“Evelyn,” I say as we shake.
“Glad to see Dylan’s got a girlfriend,” Patrick says.
“Me too.” Dylan keeps his arm on lock down around my shoulders. “I told Mom to keep my visit quiet. Quick trip and all. Not a ton of time for family stuff.”
“You need to re-think that,” Patrick says. “Shit’s going down.”
Dylan frowns. “Mom didn’t mention anything.”
“She doesn’t want to worry you. She wears her poker face with you because you’re her baby.”
“What now?” My bag tumbles down the baggage chute and Dylan reaches for it, hoisting it onto the tile floor with a thud. “More bad test results?”
“You could say that,” Patrick says.
“I thought Mom’s thing was under control,” Dylan says. “Handled.”
“The doctors told her that. But they don’t know everything.”
Dylan grabs his suitcase from the carousel and sets it on the tiled floor. “We good?”
“One more,” I say.
“How bad is it, Patrick? This is a short trip, but I’ll make time--”
“Her breast cancer’s back,” Patrick says.
“Crap.” The color drains from Dylan’s face. He sways and I grab onto him, my fingers blanching on his arm. I’ve gotten into the habit of keeping this man standing and that’s not changing today.
Patrick hoists my bag off the carousel and places it on the floor.
“Thanks,” I say.
“No problem.”
“What now?” Dylan shakes his head in disbelief.
“Surgery. After that they run the lab results and figure out what comes next.”
“When?” Dylan asks his face stricken.
“Monday,” Patrick says.
“Another lumpectomy?”
“Double mastectomy. They’re not messing around this time.”
My beautiful player’s resolve crumbles in front of me like stale cake left out on a plate for too long. “I’ll cancel the game.”
“Good,” Patrick says. “That’s for the best. She wants to be with family this weekend. There’s the church event, and she’ll go, put on her game face, but she’s not telling a lot of people.”
My stomach plummets and I make a snap decision. “I’m already here at the airport. I’ll book a flight back to Chicago.”
“No,” Dylan says, a hand pinching that small space between his brows.
Patrick nods at me as if we are suddenly in an unspoken partnership. Collusion. “I’m getting the car. I’ll be out front in ten minutes.” He grasps Dylan’s suitcase, rolling it behind him. “Whatever you decide -- nice meeting you, Evelyn.” He leaves through the exit doors at the same time the heat from summer in Texas bullies its way inside the cool, air-conditioned baggage claim.
“Shit,” Dylan says, running a hand through his hair.
I stare up at my beautiful player. “You need to be with your mom. You need to hang out with family. The last thing you need is me here.”
“That’s not true.” He shakes his head. “I need you here, Evie,” he says, whisking my suitcase away with one hand, placing his other on my arm. He hustles me away from the carousel, away from the thinning crowd of passengers to a side wall.
“I’ll be in the way.”
“Is this your empathy talking?” He drapes both arms over my shoulders, leans me back against the wall, boxing me in.
“No. It’s my practicality.” I twist a lock of hair around my fingers, pulling it taut, trying to think this thing through.
“Your practicality doesn’t get to tell me what or who I need. I need you.”
“This is so intimate. It’s your family. They’re not going to want a newcomer in their midst during a tough time and I don’t blame them.”
“You calm me. You center me. Stay the weekend,” he says prying open my fingers open, my hair falling. “Just a few more days. Stay the weekend and then I’ll get you on a plane back to Chicago before Madame Marchand sends out her storm troopers and has me arrested.”
“Why do you say that?”
“She figured out what your ‘personal problem’ was. Why you’re ‘calling in sick’,” he makes finger quotes in the air. “She’s been texting me since we landed in Dallas.”
“Shit. I’m sorry. She’s so smart.”
“She’s not going to can you for one more weekend. Besides, my mom will love you. I want you to meet her. Actually, I need you to meet her.”
“Think about what you’re saying.”
“I know what I’m saying. Everyone will rally around Mom. Patrick’s wife will be there for him. Even though most of them won’t know about her surgery – the congregation will be there for Dad. Who’s going to be there for me? Mom normally does that, but I can’t really ask her to do that right now.”
My heart travels full circle and aches for him.
“Who’s going to be there for me, Evie?”
“Everyone, Dylan.” I blink back tears, unsure if they’re mine or his. “Who wouldn’t want to be there for you?”
“You mean -- who will be there for me because of the come to Jesus money? There’s an awful lot of power and prestige partnering up with a famous preacher’s prodigal son.”
Crap, he’s right. Who really will be there for Dylan because he’s lovely and amazing versus who will want to be with him because of God’s dazzling dollars?
“I told you the pretty story, not the shitty story.”
“What’s the shitty story?” I ask.
“I’m the black sheep of the family,” he says. “I didn’t fall in Dad’s footsteps. Didn’t take on the family business. I took the love of the game we played around a kitchen table to the next level and when my marriage tanked, I left town.”
Out of nowhere anger sparks like a brush fire in my chest. It starts small, burns faster, hotter, quickly out of control. It’s Dylan’s rage. It’s spitting lava, a volcano threatening to erupt. Its tentacles root deep down in this man but its branches are stuck in his throat in the form of words that need to be spoken. Words that must be spoken or screamed out loud.
“Home was stifling me. Home was killing me. But I tried,” he says, breaking away from me, pacing back and forth like a fighter gearing up for the big match in the ring. “I tried, I gave it my all, but then the shit hit the fan and I blew out of town, left the church. And now I find that there are only two places -- make that three -- that I call home anymore.”
“What’s that?” I ask.
“A poker game. Hanging with Mom. And being with you. Home is three things and right now, two are dying.”
The cold wind blows through Dylan’s life and I shiver. Can I help him? Can I save him? “You don’t know that. Not about your mom. Not about the game.”
“What about you, Evie?” He trains those blue eyes on me.
“I came here for you, Dylan,” I say. “I’m just here for you.”
“Then stay the weekend.”
“Yes.” I don’t even draw a breath. “Absolutely yes.”