Vegas Aces: The Wide Receiver Complete Series

CHAPTER 10 TESSA

Soundgarden pumps through my speakers as I travel the I-88 west toward Fallon Ridge. It’s an unfamiliar drive since I haven’t ever had to make it, but it’s a quick and easy three hours to home.

Paul and Marsha were beyond understanding when I told them I needed to take the rest of the week off to go home for my father’s funeral.

Except the thing is…I don’t want to go home.

I don’t want to face my mother’s best friend…the woman who I once thought would be my mother-in-law. I don’t want to face the man who played golf with my dad every Thursday afternoon, the man I thought would be my father-in-law.

I don’t want to keep telling the lie my dad fabricated in my absence.

I don’t want the looks of sympathy as I mourn the loss of a man who I never really knew…a man who did everything he could to turn me against him. A man I haven’t missed for seven years, who I won’t start missing now.

But I do want to be there for my mom. As much bad blood as there ended up being between my dad and me, I’m not going to let her go through this alone. She’s my mom, and she has always been by my side—even when she couldn’t stop what was happening.

She tried. She failed.

And he was still my dad even though he forced choices on me that I didn’t want, choices that changed the trajectory of my entire life.

But in going back home, most of all, I don’t want to face him.

He’s in season, so I doubt he’ll show up. But what if he does?

Is it too late to share the truth with him?

Or is this one of those situations where it’s never too late to share the truth?

I couldn’t tell him back then. I couldn’t get in touch with him.

I was under lock and key, resigned to my fate without so much as a phone.

My dad didn’t allow me to have one, and at the time, I didn’t drive—I didn’t need to in Fallon Ridge since everything we could ever need was within walking distance. I didn’t even know Tristan’s phone number since any time we needed to talk, we’d just meet at our bedroom windows.

These aren’t things I want to be worrying about as I make my way toward the town where I grew up. I don’t want to think about the most horrifically painful part of my past as I prepare to bury my father.

And I can’t help the little voice in my mind that keeps reminding me who caused all that pain.

“You’re the pastor’s daughter,” he’d told me. As if my lot in life was fully dependent on who he was. As it turned out, it was. There were certain expectations for the way I was supposed to live my life, and my dad didn’t understand the definition of a happy accident.

All he saw was one big mistake.

And so he took matters into his own hands. If I’d have had an earlier birthday instead of a later one, the decision would’ve been mine to make. But I was seventeen, still a minor, and back then…I didn’t have a choice. Dad made the choice for me.

“Black Hole Sun” pumps through my speakers, and I turn it up as I try to drown out the thoughts. I’ve gotten good about just putting it out of my mind, but then there are times when it sneaks up on me and hits me out of the blue.

I wish I wasn’t thinking about this right now. I wish I wasn’t as resentful of him as I still am all these years later.

I wish I could attend his funeral without this at the forefront of my mind…but I can’t.

It’s why I’ve stayed away.

It was his fault.

And now it’s too late.

There’s something tragic in that, something sad, along with the fact that he’ll never work for my forgiveness again and I’ll never be able to give it to him in this lifetime. And maybe as I look into the casket to say my goodbyes, I’ll find some way to make peace with that.

I know I was young, but I was old enough to make that decision for myself.

As much as I’ve tried to move on, I keep picking losers who can’t offer me any sort of future. Losers like Cam who dress in winners’ clothes but who end up being nothing but assholes.

Maybe I’m better off alone. Maybe it’s the punishment for my sins.

It’s Wednesday evening by the time I drive over the Mississippi River, crossing from Illinois into Iowa.

I think about all the time we spent by the river. It borders our town, and the scenic overlook on the east side of town beyond the cornfields is where Tristan and I spent a lot of time in our teenage years. Someone built the overlook a long time ago, a wooden dock that led out to a wooden platform with benches looking over the river.

Sometimes we’d go there to hang out with friends. Sometimes we’d go to talk. Sometimes it was a place to go make out. There were even nights we’d go there to do our homework.

It always felt like our spot .

It was romantic, but it wasn’t sexual. Except for the Fourth of July, when it was packed with people wanting to check out the fireworks from neighboring towns, if there were any, it was almost always deserted. It was a ten-minute walk from home, and we could watch the water as it rushed along its path, or we could stare up at the sky and dream.

Memories are already plowing into me, and I haven’t even crossed into Fallon Ridge yet.

Fifteen minutes after I make it over the bridge, I’m pulling into my parents’ familiar driveway. I sit in the car and stare at the front of the house a while without getting out. My eyes edge next door as memories plow into me, and then I focus on my parents’ house.

My mom’s house.

My mom came to visit me every few weeks after he sent me away.

We cried together over the loss.

I knew it wasn’t her idea. I knew my dad was concerned with appearances.

And that was why she was still with him all the way until the day he died despite his best kept secrets.

She hated him for what he did to me—to our family. Yet she stayed married to him all these years, so there had to be some reason. I guess over the next few days, I might find the answers to that…along with a host of other questions that’ll come up.

She must’ve heard my car pull in because the door swings open and my mother stands in the doorway. She offers a sad smile, and the heat of tears pinches behind my eyes.

I cut the engine and exit the car, moving toward my mom, who pulls me into her arms.

“Hi, my Tessi-cat,” she greets me.

“Hey, Mama.”

She squeezes me tighter, and I glance over her shoulder into the house.

It’s like looking into a time capsule.

Everything’s the same, and I can see Tristan in every nook and cranny of the house from the front stoop. I’m supposed to be here remembering my father, but all I can think of is Tristan. He’s in the family room where we cuddled on the couch. The kitchen table where we shared meals. Down the hall in my bedroom.

It’s all so familiar, and yet…it’s all so different than the last time I was here, when my father smiled as the car carrying his problematic daughter drove away. He wiped his hands of the problem.

“You doing okay?” I ask, pulling back to get a good look at her.

“Yeah,” she says, knuckling away a tear from her cheek. “It’s good to see you. It’s been too long. Are you eating enough? You’re too skinny.”

I chuckle. “I’m eating fine,” I say. “Work’s just been busy.”

She nods, and for the first time, I wonder what life is going to look like for her now that my dad is gone. She always worked at the church in some capacity. Will she still? Or will the new head pastor bring in new people? Will she even want to work there? Did she ever want to?

“Come on in,” she says, opening the door wider. “I made some lemonade.”

“Oh yes,” I cheer, and she offers a small laugh. “It’s been way too long since I’ve had your famous lemonade.”

“Are you hungry?” she asks.

I nod.

“Well good news. I fixed the buttery noodles you always liked. And brownies. And cheesecake.”

I giggle. She always found solace in baking, and her love language has to be food.

I have a feeling by the time the next week is over, she won’t be calling me too skinny anymore.

I begin to follow her toward the kitchen, but the doorbell rings before we’ve even cleared the entry. I turn back to answer it, and she’s a few paces behind me.

A woman a little younger than me stands on the stoop. She has dark hair and blue eyes and…well, she looks a lot like me. “Is this the Taylor residence?”

I nod as my brows draw in together.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” she says.

My mom moves in behind me. “And who are you?” she asks.

She clears her throat as she looks nervously between my mom and me. “My name is Stephanie. Um, Stephanie Taylor. Bill was my father.”

My mom and I exchange a glance.

Her father ?

As in…my sister ?