First Position (22 page)

He walked towards her.  “Your hair,” he said, straightening it with his fingers.  “It looks like we just fucked.”  He rubbed her waist and back. 

I wish
.
She shook her head slightly to remove the thought, then tugged at his shirt.  “I prefer you without this.”

He smiled, tugging at her boxer shorts.  “I prefer you without these.”

“I guess we’ll both have to live with disappointment.”  She kissed him quickly on the lips and led him to the sofa, turning off the television music.

“I love that song, by the way,” Mason said, grinning.  “Almost as much as 69 itself.”

Emory giggled. “What are you talking about?”

“That song -- it’s about 69.  It’s called ‘Summer of ’69.’”

“That’s not what it’s about.  It’s about summer love.  It’s about when Bryan Adams got his first guitar -- his ‘first real six-string.’”

“Oh, right.  And it just happens to be in 1969.”

“You are so crazy, Mason.”

“The guitar is a symbol for his dick.”

“What?  The song is not about sex.  Bryan Adams was like 10 years old in 1969.”

“I don’t know how old the dude was.  And I don’t care really.”  Mason took her in his arms.  “We can play the song when we’re in 69, hopefully soon.”

She pushed him away, blushing.  “Our food is getting cold.”  They scooted close to the coffee table.  “Everything OK with the baby?” 

“Yeah, fine.”  Mason removed the lids from the eggs and bacon, cheeseburger, chicken noodle soup, granola with yogurt, chicken caesar salad, and french fries.  “Did you order the whole menu?”

“It all sounded so good.  I got overwhelmed.”

“Steven got Olivia donuts for lunch.”  He grabbed a piece of bacon.  “Said she’s very demanding about her food.”

“I understand,” she said, reaching for the cheeseburger.

He dunked a fry in catsup.  “God help us when you’re pregnant.”

Emory put down the cheeseburger, and Mason offered her the fry.  Faking a smile, she took it, then asked why Steven had called so many times.  Mason didn’t want to keep any more secrets, so he explained his mother had heard a woman’s voice and was concerned how that could look in the divorce if Alexis got wind of it.  And Steven thought she had a point.

But Emory was unfazed.  “If any of that happens, we’ll deal with it together.”  She took a sip of soup and added in some crackers.

“Together?”  He held her hand.
 
I can get used to that.

“Yes, together.”

“Can we be together when we get back to Charlotte tonight?”

“I can’t.”  She slurped up two floating crackers.  “I promised Wesley I’d hang with him.  He’s having a hard time with Tomás and his own family.”

Mason scooped up some eggs and reached for the yogurt.  “I could come over late?”

She kissed him tenderly on the lips.  “I have to photograph a baptism in the morning at St. Peter’s downtown.”  She put aside the soup and picked two tiny pieces of chicken out of the salad.

“Damn, OK,” he said, taking a bite of the yogurt.  “You know, I think I wandered into that church a few days ago.” 

“It’s so pretty in there.  Such good lighting.”  She popped the chicken in her mouth.

“I was thinking I should probably start going to mass again.”

“I usually go there myself.  Father Tony is great.”

“He encouraged me to sign with the Panthers.”

“He’s a big Panthers fan.”  She chased down the chicken with some water.  “He’s like my booking agent, too.  I swear he gives my business card to every pregnant couple he sees.”

“Maybe we could start going to mass together?  I need it.”

“I’d like that,” she said.  “I’d like that a lot.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Wesley sat on a swing in a playground in Freedom Park, a handful of children playing on monkey bars and slides while their parents looked on.  He’d hoped some fresh Saturday morning air would provide some clarity and courage to make the call.  He’d tried for an hour, alone in the confines of his apartment, but couldn’t do it.  He thought a change of scenery would propel him, but now, sitting on a swing surrounded by children, he thought he probably just looked like a creep.

He offered a smile to a woman, then saw she watched her child more carefully.
 
Maybe I shouldn’t be smiling
?
Wesley cleared his throat and dialed.

“Wesley?” His mother stood alone in her kitchen, grabbing the edge of the counter to brace herself.  “Oh my God!”

Wesley hadn’t heard his mother’s voice in years -- he’d lost count how many.  “Yes, Mom, it’s me,” he said cautiously. 

“I can’t believe you called,” she said, tears filling the crevices  on her worn face.

“I’m a bit surprised, too, Mom.”  He looked down at the ground and kicked some dirt, his hand shaking slightly on the swing.

“I can’t believe you’re calling me ‘Mom.’”  She reached into a cabinet for a hand towel and wiped her face.

“Should I call you something else?”  Wesley looked up and saw a child hanging upside from a monkey bar.

“I can think of several things,” she said, with a small chuckle, looking over at a photo of her son on the kitchen counter, his strawberry-blond hair the same as hers.

“I think I’ve called you all those things -- at least to myself.”

“I expect you have,” she said, sniffling, “and with good reason.”  She took a seat at her kitchen table, all quiet in the house.  It seemed it had been quiet since Wesley left, or rather the day she and her husband had thrown him out.  He was always such a vibrant, funny presence, and now all that remained was a coldness and dreariness, hanging alongside the gray walls and brown furniture, infecting her soul.

“Yeah, well, it didn’t make me feel any better about myself.  It didn’t make me hate you, either.  It just made me sad.”  Wesley wiped a tear from his cheek.  “And I don’t want to be sad anymore.”

“Wesley. . . .”  Her chest heaved, as she broke down, barely able to speak.  “Wesley, I. . . .  Wesley, I am so sorry.  For everything.”

“I know, Mom,” he said, choking up himself, doing his best to keep up with his own tears.  “I’m sorry, too.”  He noticed the parents around the playground watching him even more closely.
 
They think I’m a sad pervert.  If they only knew what I’m dealing with here!

“You have absolutely nothing to be sorry about, baby.”

“I could have called sooner. . . .”

“We gave you no reason to.”

“. . . .or if I wasn’t gay.”

She sighed.  “Being gay isn’t something you need to apologize for.”

Wesley looked into the sky, the sun gaping through the clouds.  “I’ve been waiting for you to say that for years, Mom.”  He took a deep breath and exhaled.  “You have no idea.”

“I was ready to say that years ago, but I was too ashamed to call you.  I was afraid you wouldn’t want to talk to me ever again.  And I wouldn’t have blamed you.”

Wesley kicked some dirt.  “What about Dad?”

“I am working on him, believe me.  He’s a stubborn old mule.  He loves you but just doesn’t understand.  He may never understand.”

“I’m happy to have you, for now.”

* * *

On the flight back to Charlotte, Mason gave Emory his wallet and asked her to order a beer from the flight attendant making her way down the aisle, then excused himself to the restroom.  She reached in the wallet for some cash to pay for the beer and noticed a condom stashed inside.
 
Is that for us?  We never used those
.
  Her mind raced, wondering why he was carrying that around.

The attendant returned with the drinks, and a moment later, so did Mason.  He opened the beer, taking a sip, as Emory pulled out the condom, dangling it in front of his face.  He gagged.  “Jesus Christ, Em!”  He lowered her arm and took the condom.  “We’re on a plane.”  He looked around nervously to make sure no one was looking.

“Why do you have that?” she asked, her jaw set.

“I forgot it was even in there.”

“But why do you even have it?  You told me you’d only been with me and Alexis.”

“Keep your voice down.  Can we talk about this later, in private, please?”

“No, why do you have it?”

“Be quiet,” Mason whispered, running his fingers through his hair.  “I always used one with Alexis, OK?”

Emory loosened her seatbelt and turned to face him.  “Why?”

“Later, please.”

“No, now.”

Mason loved Emory, but she could be stubborn when she wanted something.  He knew it was hopeless to get her to back off, so he slugged the rest of the beer for patience.  “I never trusted her.  She said she was on birth control, but I didn’t want any accidents.”  Emory felt her stomach clench.  “So I always used one, OK?”  Mason squirmed, cocking his head from side to side to try to loosen up.  He explained Alexis had wanted a child, and asked several times, but Mason always refused, putting her off for various reasons -- a hectic regular season or a busy offseason.  The time, and the woman herself, never seemed right, so he resigned himself to wear a condom each time, never trusting she would handle the protection. 

“Always?”  Emory asked, leaning towards him in disbelief.

Mason closed his eyes and exhaled deeply.  “Yes.  Can we drop this now?”

“No!”

“Em, can you understand how difficult this is for me to discuss with you?  And on a plane?”

“Not one time, never, did you ever . . . .”

He stopped her.  “No!”  Emory smiled broadly and leaned back in her seat, tightening her belt.  “This makes you happy?”

She bit her bottom lip.  “It makes me happy to know that I’m the only woman who’s ever felt you.”

* * *

Wesley heard the key hit the door and stood up, dressed in black, form-fitted pants, with a lavender button-down shirt.  Emory held her bag, walking into the den, as he gave her a dazzling smile.  “Hot date?”  Emory asked, hoping he’d reconciled with Tomás.

Wesley took her bag.  “Yep, going dancing with my best girl.  Get ready.  The band starts in thirty minutes.” 

Emory needed some sleep.  She also needed a shower.  But apparently there was no time for either, and she wasn’t about to delay Wesley’s plans.  It was good to see him happy, and his enthusiasm was infectious.  She walked into her bedroom and slipped off her clothes.  Wearing only her black lace panties and matching bra, she freshened up her make-up and hair in the bathroom.

Wesley approached, holding two pair of shoes.  “Which of these works better with my shirt?”  He saw her from behind.  “Damn, girl, did Mason see you in those?”

Emory applied some mascara and eyed him through the mirror.  “Nope.  He was a perfect gentleman.”  She picked a pair.

“Really?”  Wesley quipped.  “Did the doctor put both his arms in a sling?” 

Emory put on a dash of lip gloss and smacked her lips.  “I told you we are taking things slow.”  She held up a tight red dress.  “What do you think?”

“Hell yes!  You look sexy in that dress!”

Emory rolled her eyes and stepped into it, Wesley zipping it up behind her.  “Did you talk to Tomás when I was in Atlanta?”

“No.”  He stuck out his lower lip.

“Dammit.”  She pulled her hair up into a high ponytail.  “What did you do while I was gone?” 

“Well, not too much.  I taught class, watched a bunch of Bond movies, and . . . .”

“And?”

“And called my mom this morning.”

“You did?” she shrieked, running to him.

“Yep.”  Wesley smiled.  “She said she was sorry, and that she loved me.”

Emory threw her arms around him.  “Did you make plans to see each other?”

“Yes, at the wedding.”

Emory excitedly clapped her hands.  “Now let’s go shake our booties.”

* * *

The club was shaped like a circle with dark windows on all sides.  A young, hip crowd sipped drinks at bistro tables around the dance floor, while others, as the small band played, gave their best impressions of swing and jazz dance from decades past.  Wesley led Emory inside and made a beeline for the dance floor, twirling and spinning each other, laughing and smiling together.  Her dress moved with her and came dangerously close now and again to swinging too high to reveal her lace panties.  But Emory didn’t care -- not on this night.  She was happy for Wesley and his mother and didn’t know anyone at the club anyway.  They all seemed so young, like they should still be in high school.

The band shifted to slow jazz.  Slightly out of breath, Wesley and Emory went their separate ways --  Wesley went to get some drinks, and Emory hustled to get the last empty table.  She sat idly for a minute until a young guy in a flannel shirt and jeans, with blond bangs hanging over his eyebrows, strutted towards her and and sat down.