Page 72 of Keep Paris

She lowers her sunglasses and raises her eyebrows, and I chuckle.

“Surely you realize you just hit me with a cliffhanger. Come on, out with it. I’m not going anywhere. You have the whole lousy day to tell me lousy things.”

She knew I needed a second of levity. We sit for a moment in the sun, and I breathe in and out centering myself for the rest of this.

She squeezes my thigh and her tone shifts again, “You don’t have to tell me any more if you don’t want to. But I’m here.” I nod and stare straight ahead for a moment and let the noise of the city lift me away from the situation in my head.

I can’t look at her, but I need to get this out, “I got up when he kicked her. I rammed him into the kitchen sink and slammed my head into his nose. Blood went everywhere, but he didn’t even blink, he just dug his thumb into my shoulder until I was on the ground. Then he stomped on my forearms and hand. Breaking everything he could to not only stop my future in football, but to make sure I couldn’t hold a pencil or a paintbrush. All the while yelling, ‘You don’t get to dream. You get to fucking suffer like I did. Robbie is special. He’s my ticket out of this shithole with shit kids and that needy bitch.’”

I outstretch my crooked knuckles in her hand, and she sees that they didn’t heal right. She rubs the tiny scars where surgery put them back together with pins and plates.

She rubs my back. She’s almost sitting in my lap and I’m tempted to put her there. I want to make the pain go away by burying myself in her. But with each sentence and each touch, I do feel it all dissipating somehow.

“He went for her again. She was bleeding and passed out. He was going to kill her. I don’t know how, but I got up and bashed him with a chair over and over.” I pause and look over the park as I collect myself a little bit. I’ve relived that scene a million times.

“AND. Please do not stop telling this story.”

I grin at her. “You know it’s not fiction. It’s not a Hallmark special.”

Her voice is soft. “Please tell me your mom is ok. Even if we don’t ever see each other past these couple of weeks. Tell me I get to meet the kick-ass boy-mom who raised sweet, kind champions.”

I put my arm on the back of the bench and slide to the end to get a better look at her.

“I called the police. He’s still in jail and only Law has gone to see him.” She grins and I touch her cheek lightly with my knuckle. She closes her eyes and it looks like she’s savoring my touch. I fucking need that to be true. I pull us out of the moment and finish this part of my story.

“We moved to Philly as soon as Ma and I got out of the hospital. My aunt and uncle helped us get out. Robbie bought a condo with his signing bonus and provided for us while Mom and I recovered. We never looked back. I’ve never wanted to be associated with Christopher Danson again.”

She pulls her legs up onto the bench and rests her chin on her knees. “OH! The name change. He’s the criminal upstate!”

I chuckle and nod. She must have googled Christopher Danson a few times.

“My middle name, despite what you thought, is Hayden. Corelli is my mom’s maiden name.”

BETTE

Tears slide down my face as he recounts what he’s lost and gained. It hurts.

“Why aren’t you more upset right now? I’m a fucking mess.”

He grins but doesn’t quite laugh. “A shit-ton of therapy, and the fact that he’ll rot in jail. It turns out, he stole quite a bit of money over the years from people who didn’t appreciate it. He never really had a job. He let us believe he was a pillar of blue-collar stamina and integrity. He bitched how his hard work paid for our equipment and sports club fees. He stole it all. Prep school was a scam. I found out I was on a handshake deal and a partial scholarship. He never paid them, but I did last year.”

He threads his fingers in and out of mine. It’s not sexual but easy. It’s like we left Hayden and Bette behind so Lizzie and Danny could catch up. We don’t say anything else as he pulls me to standing.

We’re strolling down Bleecker and our hands are still intertwined. Like this is something we do all the time, strolling down a lively city block, like we did in Paris. Like we’ve continued to do it for the last ten years.

I break our silence. “This is nice. I don’t want to ruin it. But I need to know more.”

Hayden’s rich dark hair falls in his face. It’s not as poofy as he’s had it. I like it less than perfect. “Firecracker, there’s not much else to tell you. You kind of know it all. The specifics are: I recuperated when we all moved. I changed my name and got a Graphic Design degree from Temple and lived at the condo with Ma and Law. He came back to help us recuperate before we forced him bak to FSU for the spring season.”

I roll my head back and snap it forward. “That’s why I couldn’t find you at BC. That’s how you disappeared.”

“And you? There’s no record of a Lizzie Fox from Stanford.”

“I became Bette at Berkeley. I gave up Stanford, remember?” I raise my eyebrow at him.

He hits his head. “Ahh, yes, you certainly did, for me.”

“For us,” I correct him. “And no worries, I still don’t regret Stanford at all.” I blurt out, “Why did you stand me up?”