She manages to snicker, like she thinks I’m kidding.
I’m not.
“Word got back to my aunt and uncle,” she says. “My aunt was our high school chorus teacher and my uncle was the vice principal of the junior high. They even saw some of the photos …”
Irie buries her face in her hands.
“It was public humiliation beyond anything you could ever imagine—and at home it was nonstop shaming,” she says. “They made me go to counseling with their pastor three nights a week and then they sent me to some church-sponsored reform camp for eight weeks. I almost didn’t graduate from high school because I’d fallen behind from being gone so long.”
“Bastards.”
“My uncle couldn’t look me in the eyes for months … my aunt played the victim card, taking it personally and obsessing over how it reflected on her. Lauren … Lauren relished every minute of it. She loved watching my fall from grace, loved watching me become the social outcast and taking my place in my group of friends.”
“Sounds like a fucking nightmare. Do you even realize how strong you are for setting foot back here again?”
“I’m only doing it for Aunt Bette.”
“I know, but still.” I cup the side of her face, swiping away a half-dried tear with my thumb. “Your high school boyfriend can eat a bag of fucking dicks and your family are assholes … but you, Irie? You won.”
She sniffs. “It’s not about winning …”
“Oh, but it is. You got out of here. They kicked you and you got back up. You left this sad sack town behind, you moved forward with your life while they’re all still here swimming in the same disgusting waters, convincing themselves they’re better than everyone else because no one’s ever aired their dirty laundry.”
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” she says. “I just … I had to vent for a second. Lauren had me all worked up …”
“Of course,” I say, kissing her ice-cold lips. We lie back on the turf, and I pull her close against me, doing my best to keep her warm. I don’t want to make her go back there with all those self-serving bastards, not yet.
Plus I love when it’s just us—no matter where we are.
“Tell me something fucked up about your past,” she says, nuzzling against me. “Something you’ve never told anyone else before.”
“Okay,” I say, clearing my throat. “My stepdad told me he’d divorce my mom if I didn’t play football.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yep.”
“I don’t understand. What would you playing football have to do with his marriage?” she asks.
“See, the thing about Mark is …” I smirk. “He’s a loser. He’s also a user. He met my mother when she was a widowed single mom sitting on a fat stack of cash from my father’s life insurance policy. He, too, was a single parent who had just lost his spouse. So he weaseled his way into her life by showing her how wonderful this new little family of theirs could be together and part of that was playing the role of super dad to me. My mom was beyond impressed by how attentive he was with me, and she loved the idea of being able to give me a father figure. But what started out as the two of us playing catch in the backyard a few nights a week morphed into flag football and local leagues and competitive leagues and by the time I got to junior high, he had me working with former NFL players, dropping thousands of dollars on coaches and clinics—anything he could do to push me to be the best … because that was his dream. He’d just accepted a full-ride to San Diego State playing football when he tore his ACL. Never made a full recovery. Lost his scholarship, lost his dream of a career playing pro football.”
“So you were his surrogate.”
“Exactly. And when I told him I was tired of the game, tired of eating, sleeping, and breathing football, he lost his fucking mind,” I say. “He knew how much I loved my mom and he knew I’d never do anything to hurt her. She was crazy about him. Still is. The man deserves an Oscar because he can play that husband-of-the-year role better than anyone. You know, once I walked in on him fucking his secretary in his office. Mom sent me to drop off some dinner since he claimed he was working late.”
Irie pulls a breath between her teeth.
“I never told her,” I say. “And I don’t know that I will. But only because it doesn’t take much to set her over the edge. She’s fragile like that. It’s why she’s always self-medicating.”
“Has she always been like that?”
“I don’t think so. From what I’ve been told, losing my dad was pretty traumatic for her.” I gaze up at the starry sky that blankets us. “She was never the same after she lost him. He was the love of her life.”