Arms

Jack, October

Six hours and ten texts later, she still hasn't responded. I'm showered and dressed, sitting in the kitchen eating a late lunch of leftover chicken and rice when my mom walks in.

"Hey bud," she says, smiling. "How was the dance?"

"Good. Where y'all been?"

"Oh, I thought I told you. Dad and I went to Houston. John and Becca had an event last night, so we made dinner for the grandbabies and stayed over."

"Oh, that's right."

"Sorry we missed you and Bree. Did you get some good pictures?"

"Bree made sure of it. They're probably all over Insta by now. I'll get you some. How are my girls?"

"Perfect. So damn adorable. That little Lottie is such a spitfire."

Charlotte is my youngest niece. Everybody calls her Lottie. She's three and already a handful.

"What's she into now?" I ask.

"Kitties. She wants to be a cat. She insists on eating and drinking out of bowls on the ground. And she refuses to take baths. Instead, she licks the back of her hand and rubs it against her skin and hair." She giggles. "She's really pushing mommy and daddy to the edge. They drew the line when she asked for a litter box."

I laugh, shaking my head. "How's Ava?" Ava is quiet and serious. She's only six, but we have the best conversations. She's always asking me questions like if I ate myself, would I be twice as big, or just gone? Sometimes those conversations linger in my mind for days after we talk.

"She's a thinker, that one. Such a curious mind." Ma smiles.

"Yep." I nod.

"So, what are you up to on this beautiful Sunday afternoon?"

I shrug. "Might go hang out with Peyton. Throw the ball or something."

"How's she doing?"

"Honestly, I don't know. She seemed good last night. But not sure that's still the case."

"Yeah, I heard about the paper."

I nod. "It's all bullshit. I hope everybody knows that."

"If there's one thing I know, it's that the truth always comes out, for better or worse. But it sounds like she could use a friend."

"Yeah." I rinse my dish and put it in the dishwasher. "Alright, I'm out. Text me if you need anything—I'm going right by HEB."

"Okay. Thanks, Bud."

*****

I've never visited Peyton at home before. According to the football directory, she lives about ten miles away from the ranch on East Lake Drive, nearer to town. I turn into her neighborhood and drive by the mid-size houses tucked far back from the road on lots that are at least an acre or two. Her gravel driveway winds down and back up until I reach the house. It's a two-story farmhouse style with a wide front porch.

My nerves have now taken over—I don't know what I thought I was doing, just showing up like this. I sit in my car and send her one last text.

I'm here.

I wait a few minutes, drumming my fingers on the seat. No response.

Someone is peeking out the front window at me, probably wondering what the hell a random truck is doing parked in their very remote drive.

The door opens, and my stomach nearly turns inside out.

I exhale when I see that it's just Emma. She puts her hand over her eyes to shield them from the slant of the late afternoon sun. When she recognizes me, she hops down the porch and skips over to the truck.

"Hey, Emma," I say, rolling down my window.

"Hey, Jack."

"Peyton here?"

She nods, then turns her head to look up at what I assume is Peyton's window. "Yeah, but she's asleep I think. Had a rough morning." She raises her eyebrows and kind of looks off to the side.

"Yeah, I heard. I tried texting her, but she never responded. Just wanna know she's okay."

"You want me to go see if she's up yet?"

"Yeah, that would be great. Thanks, Em."

"You're welcome to come inside," she says.

"That's okay. I'll just hang out on the porch." I grab my football, go sit on the steps leading up to the front door and wait some more.

She finally opens the door, wearing a Longhorn cap and jeans, no socks or shoes. I peel my eyes away from her feet and say, "Beautiful afternoon."

She screws up her mouth and looks out at the blue sky and sunshine sinking lower behind the pines. "Yeah, I guess."

"Nice day for a game of catch." I toss the ball up in the air and let it fall back into my hands.

She sighs deeply. "Okay, let me get my shoes."

We head out to a field next to the gravel driveway. "So I take it you saw the article," she says.

"It's all over social media." I hate telling her that, but she'll find out eventually.

"Didn't take you for the Insta type, Chaplin." Well, at least she hasn't lost her snark.

"The guys sent a link."

"Oh. What did you tell them?"

"That it's a bunch of horse shit."

She's staring at the ground, hiding her expression under the bill of her cap. I need to take her mind off it. She's likely in a shame spiral.

"Go long," I say, and point to a spot in the distance.

I watch her run. God, I love to watch her run. She's wearing a tight pair of Levi's, but that doesn't hamper her stride, and her shoes kick dust up behind her as she pushes faster. She turns her head to see the ball arcing through the sky, catching it easily over her shoulder. So graceful. So natural.

My stomach kind of falls when I remember Bree. And last night. And...everything. I don't know why, but it feels like I've closed a door somehow, one I can't open from the other side.

I'm locked in.

I walk towards her, wanting to hold her in my arms, protect her from all this bullshit, and make her safe. Instead, when I get to her, I say, "You need to report what happened, Peyton."

She studies my face. "What do you mean? What happened?"

Seriously? She knows what I mean. "That thing with Cash."

"You mean when he..."

"Attacked you? Yes." Just the memory of it makes me want to punch something, and I wasn't even there. I don't even really know all that happened.

She just scoffs.

"It's a crime, Peyton. I looked it up. Even worse, he's eighteen."

"So?"

"So you're not. Which means he can be charged with a much more serious offense, if you report him to the police."

"No freaking way."

"Peyton, it's always better to be honest. If you tell your side of the story, all the rumors can be put to rest."

"I can't tell the truth, Jack."

"Why not? It's almost always better than a lie."

"I can't! I can't admit that he got to me. That I was weak." Her voice breaks. I look at her standing there with her eyes shut against it, tears leaking out the corners. She's so isolated, so afraid, and probably angry too. I yearn to comfort her.

I take her hat off and pull her to me. She buries her head, her face warm against my chest. I flash back to the dream. Her pulling me down against her and nuzzling her head into the cradle between my neck and shoulder.

Snap out of it, you perv! She's crying.

She's actually sobbing, and I absorb the rush of energy from her as she lets go of it all. It's terrible to think this right now, but it feels amazing. Like she was meant for my arms. Like I was meant to spend the rest of my life hugging her when she struggles, laughing at her dry humor, marveling in her beauty.

"It's not weak to be attacked by a predator. You didn't do anything wrong."

"That's not the point. They'll find something. They'll make it about me, not him. And what about Marshall? If they think he had a reason to hurt Cash on purpose, then what happens to him?"

I pull away from her, hold her at arm's length by the shoulders, and search her eyes trying to make sense of this. First of all, I cannot believe she's worrying about Marshall Payne. That twinge comes back, so I breathe deeply trying to calm myself.

It's not like I have any right to be jealous.

"That was just football. Payne will be fine."

Her eyes shift down and off to the side. "Well, yeah, football. But also, when Marshall...found us...in the locker room. He, uh, went ballistic...on Cash."

"Wait...he found you? What do you mean he found you?"

"I was in there changing alone while you guys were showering on the boy's side. Cash caught me off guard, pinned me against the lockers. I tried fighting..." her voice breaks under the pressure of that memory.

"Oh my God, Peyton. You didn't tell me that."

She shrugs. "It's not something I want to relive." The haunted pain flashes into her eyes. She won't look at me.

"He was going to rape you." I can't believe it never dawned on me. This is why she looked broken that night. It wasn't just some kind of cruel prank. He was trying to break her.

She's stiff, expressionless. "Marshall came in. He threw him across the aisle into the lockers before..." 

I hug her to me again. "I'm so sorry, Peyton. I wish I'd known." If I had known, he'd have two broken arms. And possibly a leg.

She sniffs and puts her arms around my shoulders, burying her face again. "I can't let Marshall be punished..." she says in a muffled voice, "for protecting me."

I want to yell, screw Marshall. I should have protected you! And I'd gladly take the punishment for it every day of the week.

But I don't.

Instead, I just say, "I understand." I clear my throat. "But, you should probably get your story straight with Marshall. They'll ask you for both your stories. And the two sides have got to match."