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“I looked it up when I heard about this case.”
Cornell shook his head. “What case? What are you talking about?”
Benton looked over his shoulder again. “Look, we get these briefings. This isn’t my case, but… some details came up.”
“What are you talking about, Benton?”
“Graham Jones was charged with sexual assault two weeks ago.”
Cornell couldn’t quite follow the rest of what Benton said as he grew dizzy, flexing his legs on the bar stool to maintain his balance. He didn’t want to listen as Benton continued, saying something about an on-campus party at Graham’s new university, about a female student running immediately to campus security, who called the police.
“Cornell?”
“I’m here.”
But I’m not.
Cornell gripped the near-empty beer bottle tightly with both hands as his vision clouded with what Graham had done to Ali—with what he had done to someone else.
“Look,” Benton said, moving his head closer across the high-top table. “I don’t know where that case stands. But this guy has nothing on record.”
“I know that. I told you that.”
Benton nodded. “The statute of limitations in Texas for sexual assault is ten years,” he said softly to Cornell. “Even a statement at this point might be something the prosecutor—”
“I can’t ask her to do that,” Cornell assured him. “I won’t.” I won’t put her through that.
“I don’t mean ask her to. But she has a right to know that she still has a choice. And this time, her choice matters a little more.”
“Whose turn is it?” Ali’s voice rang out as she and Tara returned to the table. “We have another fifteen minutes.”
Cornell gritted his teeth and swallowed it all down—the wave of emotions with the strong undertow that threatened to pull him out of the moment and drown him again.
“It’s mine,” he said, trying to relax his face when he turned to Ali. Holding her gaze, his hand subtly drifted across his lap, so his hand could lightly stroke her left forearm as if he were worried about the ghost of Graham suddenly returning and roadblocking them on their way toward forever.
“You okay?” Ali asked, concerned.
Cornell didn’t answer and instead stood, walking around her to the bay, picking up one of the axes. He held it steady by his right ear before releasing, hitting the center—exactly where he saw Graham’s face—so hard that the blade deepened the indent further, splitting it open.
“Never better.”
* * *
“I’ll give you apple pie, but no pecan.”
Cornell nodded, slowing to turn on their street. “Awesome. Thanks.”
“I said no pecan.” Ali sighed, shaking her head. “What’s going on with you? You’ve been acting weird since before we left.”
Get out of your head, Cornell told himself. He went to squeeze Ali’s thigh only to realize his hand hadn’t been just resting on it during the drive home—he was already squeezing it.
“Cornell?”
“Sorry,” he said, pulling into their driveway. “Got a lot on my mind about recruits.” Ali’s stare bore into him. “I’m losing my first and second-string centers. Do you know how hard it is to find a big guy who can snap the ball as quickly as Julian calls for it?” He removed his hand and turned off the car.
Ali sighed, walking into the house.
Cornell rubbed a hand over his face as she disappeared, leaving the door slightly ajar. There it is¸ my whole fucking world right in that house. It was Ali. It was Mowgli. It was the future waiting for them when the near past threatened to bang down the door.
