Page 57 of On the Edge

“For now.” I shrug and a smile pulls at my lips.

“You are insanely arrogant,” she groans as she rolls her eyes toward the ceiling of the plane.

“I’m a realist. And the reality is, you and Marco are not meant to be together.”

“And you and Iare...?”

“Your words, Jackson. Your words.”

CHAPTER16

JACKSON

Boston, MA

“So your mom saw the race in Levi,” Dad says as we pull out of the airport and head toward the tunnel that will take us to the interstate. “And the part before the second race, when you and Nate had your foreheads pressed together. It didn’t look like a PT-athlete relationship to her.”

“How mad was she?”

“Oh, she’ll tell you all about it herself. I already took the worst of it, I think. That damn Italian temper of hers.”

He and I agreed it was better if she didn’t know I was training Nate because we didn’t think she needed the extra stress and worry right now. But now I wonder how we thought we’d make it through a whole season without her finding out. It seems stupid that we lied, even if our intentions were good.

“Hmm,” I say, thinking how my mom is like a hurricane—she blows in strong when she’s mad and leaves calm, despite the destruction in her wake. I used to be the same way, but having to hide so much of what I was feeling after Nate left, and having to face the press so often, has taught me how to tamp down my emotions.

“It’ll blow over. I just wanted you to know before you walk into the house because there’s no way she’s not bringing it up.”

“Thanks.”

“So, care to tell me how Nate ended up on your flight back from Paris?”

Dad had been pretty shocked when Nate and I descended the escalators to baggage claim together. They’d been cordial to each other, but there was a shitload of tension there.

I glance over at Dad. It’s dark in the tunnel, deep beneath the Charles River, and we’re both glowing orange from the lights that line the walls. His eyes are fixed forward—there’s no room for error down here, where the two lanes are narrow and each ends only a foot from the curved concrete walls.

“I’m not sure, but it’s not the first time I’ve ended up on a flight coincidentally seated by one of our athletes.” I choose my next words carefully. “But on the flight, Nate told me that hedidcome back to the hospital in France when I was in the ICU. And he told me what you said to him, and why he left.”

My dad’s breath hisses as it exits his lips. “Yeah, about that ...” His hands grip the wheel and I can’t help but notice they’re more wrinkled than I remember. Glancing at his face I notice that it is, too. His auburn hair and beard are littered with gray which stand out in sharp contrast to the deep copper color I’m used to seeing. I’m sure the change has been gradual, but I only see my parents a few times a year and I notice the changes more and more with each visit.

“When were you going to tell me, Dad? We don’t keep secrets from each other, remember? And that is kind of a big one!” My voice cracks and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. Knowing that the one person I trust above all others has been lying to me for years has shattered my reality. In the back of my mind I know he would feel similarly if he knew about my relationship with Marco, but that’s a secret I have to keep to protect Marco and Christian. I can’t see that Dad had any such reasons for keeping this secret from me.

“I was going to tell you ...” my dad starts.

“Yeah? When?” I ask when he doesn’t finish his sentence. “Because the time I needed to know this was years ago!” My voice is rising in anger as we exit the airport tunnel into the larger tunnel that runs beneath Boston and will take us to the bridge leading north, out of the city.

He glances over at me quickly, then puts his eyes back on the road. It’s a minute before he says anything and the silence that passes while I wait is not a comfortable one.

“When they brought you out of your medically induced coma,” he says slowly, “Nate was the first person you asked about. When I told you he wasn’t there, do you remember what you said?”

“I had been drugged for days, how would I remember the first conversation I had after coming out of a coma?”

“You told me ‘good.’ That was your first reaction. With no time to think about it, no time to plan your response, your first thought was that you were glad he wasn’t there.”

Dad’s got the Irish storytelling gene, so he’s always embellishing everything. But I can tell, just from the directness of his words, that this is no exaggeration.

“And it never occurred to you that it might have been my pride speaking? Or the drugs?”

“You were so adamant, right then, and in the days and weeks following, that you were better off without Nate. It seemed irresponsible to tell you he’d actually shown up, like it might derail your recovery.”

---