Chasing Serenity (Seeking Serenity) (10 page)

When I was fifteen, my mom and I visited her distant cousins in Louisiana. I was a bitter little thing back then, angry at my father, at my mother for letting him leave, but that time down south opened my eyes. It was November then and the air was still humid, still somewhat warm. I spent most of the trip staring out of windows, avoiding eye contact with people she told me I was tied to by blood and genetics. They were loud. They laughed too much, hugged perfect strangers and called everyone “sugar” or “boo.” I’d been intent on keeping to myself, never letting the smallest hint of a smile disturb my purposefully solemn, angry features. And I managed it for most of the trip until our overly friendly, far too happy cousins brought us to Death Valley for a college football game.

Gold and purple flags flapped against the hot breeze. The aroma of barbeque, jambalaya and beer hung in the air like heavy fog and cars and RVs lined up, bumper to bumper around the stadium, filling the entire town with music and laughter. All of this was nothing to the deafening roars of the crowd huddled together, screaming like maniacs as their team took to the field. Those people in South Louisiana knew how to do sports, they knew how to be fans and, seven years ago, they taught me to smile again.

Their mania on the field and around it, reminded me of our pitch. Their insults screamed at the opposing team had me missing the drunken songs sung during our matches. They loved their team with a fervor I had only experienced watching the Cavanagh rugby squad zip and barrel down the pitch in every game since I was a kid.

The all-consuming love, the die-hard adoration and excitement felt at every match has not lessened for me. Even after my father left behind two half-living women who mourned the shadow of his memory, our love for the matches, for our team remained. It may have faltered for a time, but it would never be truly extinguished.

Match days are always ridiculous on campus. Cars are draped with a wash of crimson, flags and sweaters, hats and chairs all outfitted with Cavanagh’s red and white colors. And the roosters. Dear God, the smelly, free ranging roosters. Presently, there are four large roosters strutting back and forth in front of the bleachers, clucking as peanuts and rubbish are tossed at their feet and on the tops of their crowns. The smell of beer is overwhelming and covers the aisle next to our seats as Sayo, Mollie, Layla and I huddle near the front, just two rows from the pitch.

A thousand of our closest friends encircle us, families and couples, loud, grumpy old men and bored housewives chatter on about our chances, wager against the new squad members and, of course, clamor over Tucker’s glorious return. When the old men above us, cheeks and noses already bright red from liquor, mention Tucker, Sayo’s lip curls in an uncharacteristic snarl.

The match is set against Rushing United, a small college from the other side of the state near the Arkansas border. When their squad runs up the pitch clad in horrendous orange, the insults begin, loud, offensive, and my friends and I join in.

“Go back to your mama, little boy!”

“You scrawny bollocks!”

“Layla!” Mollie says, fussing at our foul-mouthed friend.

“What?” She blinks once and at her faux innocent smile, we all laugh.

Cursing turns to cheers, to loud disorderly squeals of delight as the Cavanagh drummers beat a heartbeat onto the pitch. We’re on our feet instantly. Every year the squad has a new chant, each more confusing, more indiscernibly Gaelic than the year before. Running in a line, the row of red breaks through the crowd and each squad member’s step slams into the ground timed with the band’s thud of the base drum.  Every player wears a stern, angry scowl and they loop around the field screaming their chant, pounding their chest until their intimidating chorus is louder than the screams of the crowd.

“There’s your fella,” Layla says, nodding her chin to the center of the pitch.

“I don’t have a fella.” My voice is firm, but I quickly scan the field and I know my friends watch me staring at Declan as he stands next to Donovan, jumping in place to work his large thighs.

“Lookit! She’s blushing,” Mollie says. I serve them with an eye roll and internally curse my stupidity for telling them anything that happened last night with Declan. My eyes shift to them and a small well of guilt begins to suffocate me. I’d told them about the basement and the courtyard, but couldn’t bring myself to mention the bet or Declan’s offer.

The thought of him has my eyes back onto the field. He turns to stretch his shoulders and catches me watching him in the process. His cheeks dimple and he winks, then rubs his thumb across his bottom lip as if he wants me to know he’s thinking about that quick kiss last night. My face heats, then deepens when Tucker catches our exchange. He approaches Declan, his mouth rounded in something that has the Irishman grimacing. He likely mouths off, causing Tucker to step up to him, chest protruding. Luckily, their little tiff ends with Mullens’ loud barking as the team comes together.

Tucker breaks away from his squad and runs in front of us, waving his hands up, earning high-pitched shrieks from the fans as his crosses the length of the bleachers.

“Boo!” Sayo screams and is rewarded with crumpled napkins and empty cups leveled at her head. “Watch it, asshole!”

Tucker’s smile is wide, infectious, and I can’t help but return it, a quick memory of past matches coming to me. He used to do this; work the crowd into a frenzy and then dart up to my seat for a good luck peck. When he nears us, my back straightens, and I slip my hand over Sayo’s, nervous, wary, and though he pauses in front of me, gives me a brief nod, he doesn’t approach. I don’t exhale until he runs back toward his squad. Declan catches my eye again and I offer him a smile, taking in the snug fit of his red jersey and the way his black shorts hug against his body.

The ref approaches and a high, sharp whistle blows before the squads assemble into the scrum—eight large players from each team, shoulder to shoulder, pushing, grunting until they steady under the hard gaze of the official.

“God, I love this part,” Mollie says, her voice taking on a low, husky tone.

The backs surround the scrum—Tucker among them, who wait for the ball, eager to run or kick it down the pitch. As scrumhalf, Declan thrusts the ball through our scrum and it soars forward, releases as he dives for the ball and passes it crosswise into Tucker’s waiting hands. My ex lofts it with a sharp kick over the Rushing defenders. Red jerseys are a scramble, charging forward after the ball that bounces like ping pong and it lands right back into Tucker’s hands.

“Yes! Go! Run you bastard!” Layla’s scream joins the crowd’s and we all shoot from our seats as Tucker speeds down the field, leaving Rushing’s desperate tackles behind. We jump and yell as he scores in the corner.

“Tucker is an amazing asshole, Autumn, but shit can he play.” Layla says.

Something rude flirts on the tip of my tongue, but Tucker readies for a conversion kick and we all watch the ball arc into air, twisting like a top before it flies through the uprights.

“Yeah,” I say. “He can play.”  

With every minute that ticks by and each rise in our score, Tucker fists the air, earning screams of approval from the crowd. He doesn’t look at me once during the match, but every time Declan nears our side of the field, I get a wink, or at least a quick chin jerk.

We’re up by seven after a rushing drive. Backs and forwards scatter around the field, toward our try line. Four times our tackling stops the drive, but Rushing retains possession and on the fifth assault we’re hit with an open try, and then, a conversion. The crowd protests, cursing the orange jerseys as they pass by.

An hour later, Donovan manages an open field try score in the corner and Tucker shouts as though his squad mate has done something wrong. He recovers and punches his fist in the air again, something he seems unable to stop doing, when he avoids the last orange jersey to try and tackle him. There is another penalty kick, then a dropped goal before our fly half manages a gorgeous try. The whistle sounds and my ears ring at the volume of screams around me as the game ends.

Tucker jumps up, holding the ball in his hand as the squad huddles around him and lifts him on their shoulders. All except Declan, who starts walking toward the benches. I think how separated from the squad he seems, how annoyed he is when he should be celebrating.

All around me the crowd is a thunder of movement, stomping feet, loud, raunchy chants and sloppy embraces from my friends and total strangers. We are caught up by the victory as Tucker runs toward me, dropping the ball behind him and I don’t immediately recoil when he hugs me. Sayo clears her throat and I stiffen against Tucker’s arms before giving him a brief smile.

“Congrats, Tucker, really, you were great.”

“Did you see that? Donovan killed it and that meathead defender was too damn fat to even manage a tackle and I—” whatever he meant to say was abruptly interrupted when his head jerks forward and the game ball bounces off the back of his skull.

“Oh shit,” Mollie says and she and Layla jump from the stands.

Sayo grabs my arm, then nods toward Declan whose devious grin is impossible to ignore. He leaves the field, his bag on his shoulder, but then Tucker spins, darts toward him and slams his palms against Declan’s back.

My hand is still in Sayo’s as we run after them.

“What the hell is your problem?” Tucker says, giving Declan a push on his chest.

“What are you yammering about?”

“I know you threw the fucking ball at me.” He steps forward, his nose touching just under Declan’s chin. “You got something you wanna say to me?”

“Get out of my fecking face, Morrison.”

“What’s the matter? You didn’t like Autumn touching me?”

Declan’s cheeks redden and his heavy breath moves Tucker’s hair off his forehead. “You’re out of your head, mate. I don’t give a shite who she touches.”

“Yeah? So why are you trying to get with her every time my back is turned? You need to stay the fuck away from her.”

Declan grabs fistfuls of Tucker’s jersey. “And if I don’t?”

Tucker answers with a swing, but Declan ducks and catches his arms. I am between them when Tucker stumbles, but my presence doesn’t quell their anger. Declan’s sweaty chest pushes against my back and Tucker grabs me, tries to move me aside, but I refuse to budge.

“That’s enough, both of you. This is stupid.”

“Stay out of this, Autumn,” Tucker says. “I’m trying to teach this asshole a lesson.”

“Oh and what’s that?” Declan pulls me back by my belt loop and I am jostled between them like a rag doll.

“You don’t mess with my shit.”

I don’t know if I want to laugh or slap Tucker. He can’t be serious. A breeze cools my back as Declan steps away from me, coming to my side. I’m still oblivious to both of them, but then I push on Tucker’s chest, drawing his attention down. “What the hell did you say?” Tucker only glances down at me.

“She doesn’t belong to you, arsehole.”

When I realize they aren’t going to listen to me, I walk away from them and grab Sayo’s elbow. “Let’s go. Maybe they’ll work out who’s bigger and all this drama will be over.”

The sound of bone and skin meeting drifts behind me. There are louder curses, darker threats, grunts, and the shocked noise of the growing crowd before Mullens’
  gruff voice yells. “That’s enough, you idiots. Pointless now anyway, she’s not even sticking around to watch you throttle each other.”

My parents never fought. Mom was insufferable sometimes, a touch on the dramatic side, but I think that was one of the things my father loved best about her. Still, I never heard them fight once. For the first fourteen years of my life, they always hid away to shadowed corners and forgotten nooks to steal kisses. There was laughter and low moans coming from their closed bedroom door and long stares given across the dining room table when they thought I wasn’t watching. As a kid, I found it highly embarrassing. As an adult I occasionally forget that something was buried beneath the surface of all that passion. Something I’ll probably never know.

Living in a calm household, full of love and laughter isn’t always best. Sure, there is serenity and the certainty that life can be very good if you work hard at it, but in the wake of contentment are impossible expectations. Its effects aren’t realistic. I’ve always searched for the joy my parents had, always believed that I deserved that kind of happiness and so I sought it out. I hoped finding it would chip away the firm walls I’d built around my heart, break free the happiness that was once a part of my life.

Tucker didn’t give me that. Ours was not something secure, probably something not remotely normal. Passion is not the same as love. Love shouldn’t consume you, shouldn’t breathe fire and rage and venom inside you. He never understood that. Clearly, he still doesn’t.

 An older couple heading for their car watch me, shaking their heads, tutting their tongues at the foul, under my breath curses I utter as I pass them on the sidewalk.

 
“Idiotic, alpha male bullshit.” A brief flash of their disapproving stern glowers catches in my eye as I hurry toward my apartment.

“You don’t mess with my shit.”

Tucker hasn’t changed. Tucker won’t ever change. That he and Declan fought over something so asinine and juvenile shouldn’t surprise me. But him thinking I’m still his? No. It was ridiculous for Declan to instigate anything with Tucker and no amount of wonderfully managed kisses will lessen the disappointment I feel about Declan’s behavior.

My anger simmers as I hurry down the sidewalk, barely managing to miss passing cars as I cross the street. From the beginning of Dunlap Street I can make out the curve of my building. There are four terraces above my apartment and, against the sunlight, I can see the beautiful stone carvings in the arch above each window and over the wide doorway.

 Puddles from the sprinklers wet the front of the steps on the sidewalk and the low growing bushes and flowers in the brown stone planters are still moist.

Behind me comes the heavy falls of running feet and then, Tucker is in front me, grabbing my shoulders between his bloody hands.

“Autumn, wait. I’m sorry.”

“Get away from me, you asshole.” My shoulders come away from his touch as he holds up his hands. His face is a disaster, but I don’t think it’s just from his fight with Declan. Mullens would have never allowed those two idiots to have a brawl on the pitch. Rugby is a rough game so many of these scrapes are likely left over from the match. I wish, though, they weren’t. Tucker deserves a few punches on his smug face. Large bruises and scrapes are angry over his pale skin. Purple whelps form under his left eye. “God, you’re an idiot.”

“He fucking started this shit. That wasn’t me.”

“You’re both idiots.” When Tucker reaches for my hand, I slap him away. “Don’t touch me.”

He stands still, not meeting my eyes, hands hanging casually on his hips. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“What? That I’m your shit?”

He closes his eyes. “You’re not shit and I know you’re not mine. He just pissed me off. I…I don’t like the way he looks at you.” He takes a breath. “I don’t like the way you look at him.”

Tucker tries to touch me, but I manage to sidestep him, walk toward my building. I don’t care what he thinks. I don’t care that his face isn’t masked, that his eyes are glistening. “Wait, Autumn, don’t leave.”

“What do you want from me?”

“I want you!” His hands are tight on my shoulders, his grip firm, pinching into my skin until I wince. “Fuck!” The passion is familiar. It took me a long time to forget it, to push it down, to convince myself that it isn’t healthy. Tucker’s face flames bright pink and he rubs the back of his neck, something he does when he’s trying to calm himself. “Am I supposed to pretend I don’t? Shit, Autumn. I spent a solid year thinking about you, dreaming about you. I loved you. I still love you. You’re everything to me and you damn well know it.”

“No, Tucker, I’m not. You left me. You told me you loved me and then you just left like I wasn’t a consideration to you at all. You wanted me to give up my life to follow you around Europe. You didn’t even ask me if I wanted to go. You just expected me to.”

“That’s bullshit. I was thinking of us, both of us when I left. It was a short notice tryout, I didn’t have time to plan. I had to go.”

“Fine. You had to go. But did you have to stay gone?”

“Things…happened.”

I can only image what those things were. Images of blondes, brunettes, race through my mind, girls I’m certain that happened to Tucker while he was away. Not that long ago, I had obsessed over those images, now they are fleeting thoughts. I’d been helplessly jealous. In the two years we were together, there had been too many unexplained phone calls in the dead of night, too many instances of me finding phone numbers and smelling perfume on Tucker’s shirts. I’d tolerated it, ignored it all like a complete idiot. His mouth is tight and I know that he is angry, that his temper is surfacing. I don’t care. It’s no longer my job to calm him or to even make him feel better.

“Yeah, things did happen, Tucker. Things kept happening everywhere despite you not being here. And you can’t just come back into my life and expect me to drop everything because you’re back. You can’t fight with Declan because you don’t like the way he looks at me. I’m not yours and my life doesn’t revolve around you anymore.”

Tucker turns around, hands on the top of his head, until he finds a metal garbage can on the edge of the sidewalk ready for tomorrow’s pick up. In one swift movement, he kicks it, scattering rubbish and debris all over the street.

I don’t have time for this, for him. There have been too many minutes squandered on Tucker, on thoughts of him, on the heartbreak he caused. My chest is tight, filled with anger so rigid, it burns; it distracts me, blinds my awareness. When I stride toward the front steps of my building, I notice a tall, wide man standing next to the entrance. At first, I disregard him, my anger not letting me linger too long on anything other putting distance between me and Tucker, who is still rushing after me. I need to get away, to isolate myself in the solitude of my home, the scalding water of my shower spraying against my tense muscles.

But then the man steps forward and the shock of orange hair and light blue eyes that seem so familiar grabs my attention, then stops me where I stand.

“Autumn, wait,” Tucker says, coming up behind me. His hands fall on my shoulders, but I don’t jerk away from him, am too caught up in the echo of the man I once knew standing in the place of the wrinkled face before me. Joe’s eyes narrow over Tucker, on his hand gripping my shoulders, on the fierce scrapes collected over his face. “Can I help you, buddy?” If Tucker thinks he’s doing me any favors, he’s far more delusional than I suspected.

“Tucker. You need to go.” My eyes won’t leave Joe. It’s impossible to make my hands stop trembling.

“Who’s this guy?” When Tucker walks around me, blocks me from Joe’s view, my father’s body becomes a rigid line, tense, defensive. I’d always remembered him as a giant of a man, but his shoulders seem wider now, his chest thick like a barrel. He makes Tucker look every bit a scrawny kid.

“Tucker. Go.”

“Why?” He nods to Joe. “You know this guy?”

“
This guy
, is her father,” Joe says, accent heavy and voice whiskey deep, raspy.

The seconds gather, stretch and Tucker’s face pales. He takes a step forward, to do what, I’m not sure, before my hand is on his wrist. “You need to leave. Now. Go to the infirmary, get patched up and stay away from me.”

“Like hell. I’m not leaving you here with—”

Joe grabs the back of Tucker’s neck, fingers digging in and by the twitch in my ex’s eye and the wince he tries to withhold, I know my father’s touch isn’t gentle. “Fack away, boy. Unless, o’course you’re keen to add to those bitty marks on your gob.”
  Joe pushes Tucker forward and he stumbles, nearly falls on the sidewalk. He levels one hard stare at my father, doesn’t bother eyeing me before he disappears down the street.

When Joe faces me, the irate dint of his frown is gone. He swallows, scratches down his dense ginger whiskers then takes another step forward. I don’t want him here. I don’t want him anywhere near me. My lungs burn. My breath is tangled, a thick knot sticking in my throat.

 “Autumn Honor,” he says, as though the name is a promise sighing off his tongue.

“No one calls me that. Not to my face.”

“It’s your name.”

The fight and Tucker and Declan’s immaturity are suddenly forgotten, replaced now by a bright rage. “What are you doing here? I told Ava—”

“What was that, then?” Joe says, jerking his chin down the street.

“That was none of your business. Now. What are you doing here?”

“I had to see you, didn’t I?”

“How would I know?” I pull my keys from my bag and hurry up the steps, eager to end this day, to forget the pulls of selfish men against me. They suffocate me, cripple me.

“Please don’t walk away. I’ve so much I want to say to you."

My keys jangle against the erratic tremor of my fingers, making it impossible to get my key into the door. Joe inches up the steps and when the wind picks up, I smell him, that strong scent of pipe smoke and peppermints. A rush of memories comes back and before I can stop them, tears cloud my vision. The brass keyhole is a thick, unfocused blur.

“Go—go away. I don’t have anything to say to you.”

“I was so sorry to hear about you mum, sweetheart.”
 

I spin around and take a step up so that I am looking down at him. “Were you? I can’t imagine why. It’s not like you ever cared about her. Or me, for that matter.”

My father and I have the same reaction when mad—red, blotchy cheeks, deep contours creasing around our eyes. I wait for his anger, for him to yell, but just then a tear betrays me and falls from my eye. His face softens and, to my disappointment, his eyes shine.

“I deserve that, love. I know I do.” He steps up, reaches for my elbow and I flinch, move out of his reach. “I deserve your hatred and anger, Autumn, but yes, I was very sad to hear about Evelyn’s death. I loved her once and she loved me. What I did to you both cannot be forgiven, but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t dreadfully heartbroken to hear that she died or that you were injured.”
 

“I don’t want your sympathy.” When his fingers slide against my face, wiping back my tears, I lose all composure. I can’t have Joe touch me. He’s a coward. He betrayed us. He abandoned us.

Me.

I hate that my face is wet. I hate that there is nowhere else to go, no escape from my father, from his eyes welling and moist. I want to hit him so badly. I want to slap him, punch him so that he feels every ache that has severed my heart, every ounce of pain that has ripped me to pieces for the past eight years.

I want to injure. I want violence and rage. I don’t want tears. I don’t want sympathy. I don’t want his remorse.

“I hate you,” I say, but my voice is low, soft, it dwarves the anger I feel.

“I know,” my father says. He isn’t proud, isn’t making grand statements of apology. He seems, in fact, quite gutted. Joe’s body sags, loses all stiff bearing and he exhales, the movement pulling down his arms, his shoulders until he sits on the steps at my feet. I watch him for a moment, the regretful way he slouches, the limp hang of his wrists on his knees, how he scrubs his fingers through his beard. “I know you do, love.” 

My mind is a mass of contradictory emotions. I hate him so much for abandoning us. I hate him for never once contacting me. For never telling me if he was alive or dead. I hate him for all those nights I cried myself to sleep, for all the years my mother spent alone.

“Ach, darlin’…”

Despite myself, I allow him to pull me down next to him on the step. We don’t touch, not really, and when Joe continues to rub his face, to dig his fingers in hair and stare out onto the sidewalk, I release the bubble of rage so that it does not choke me anymore. He is defeated, that much I can tell. Then Sayo’s voice comes back to me; her words about family, about my last connection that ties me to the earth. It’s sitting right next to me, that connection. It’s breathing the same air I am. Joe is a tether to my past, to the serenity I once held.

Again, the wind wisps over us and I catch his scent. Memory collides with rage, dampens it, brings back my da, the man who walked two miles around the county fair, stopping at every single booth in an effort to win me a stuffed giraffe. The same man who dressed up as Santa Claus every year for my elementary school Christmas pageant. The same man who sang “The Nightingale” to me when I was scared or sick with his perfect tenor voice.