“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never broken my leg,” he answers calmly, placing the glass in the sink.
There’s a long, lingering moment, where the mood in my house shifts. Misty finally gets a clue and makes a face.
Keith fishes his keys from his pocket. “I have some paperwork left that I should finish before Kerby skins my ass. Call if you need me, Cath.” His expression has smoothed over to that unreadable cop face, the one he uses to hide whatever’s going on inside his head. Or his heart.
Misty cringes as he walks out the door. “Shit. I’m sorry. I thought you already filled him in.”
I give her a flat look.
“Right. Why would you rush to talk to your best guy friend who’s secretly in love with you about another man. Yeah. I’m a little slow sometimes, okay?”
I dart out the door. “Hey, Keith! Wait up!”
He’s almost at his car. His feet slow, but it’s a long moment before he turns to face me. “What’s up, Wright?”
He rarely uses my last name, and when he does, he’s usually doing his best to create distance between us.
I don’t even know how to approach this. We’ve never actually addressed any feelings that Keith might have for me.
I finally decide on “I know you’re the one who called Brett about coming today. I just wanted to say thanks.”
Keith’s unreadable gaze shifts to a spot behind me. “It’s no big deal, really.” And yet I can clearly hear the lie in his voice, I can feel the tension swirling around him. “It’s all good. See you later.” He turns back toward his car.
“Keith.”
“Whatever makes you happy, makes me happy, Cath. Always. You know that.”
I fight against the prickly ball forming in my throat and the tears forming in my eyes. “You’re the best friend I could ever ask for.”
He turns back to face me again, his jaw tightening as he nods. “So . . . you and Madden? Is it real?”
“I don’t know what it is,” I answer honestly. Real for now?
“But you want it to be.”
“I don’t know.” That’s a lie. “Yes.”
Keith chuckles, dropping his focus to the stones under his boot. “Well, I’ve never seen you look at a guy like you look at him.”
“It’s just . . . I’m scared. He’s so convinced that this isn’t just because I saved his life. What if he’s wrong? What if he decides I’m not what he wants?”
Keith offers me a sympathetic smile. “You mean when he decides, right? Because you just keep doing everything you can to convince yourself that he will.”
I forget sometimes just how well Keith knows me—my fears and my insecurities. “How could he not?”
His gaze roves over my face. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, and then he reaches up to skate his thumb over my cheekbone, catching the tears as they start to roll.
He lets his hand fall away. “You know what, maybe he will and maybe he won’t, but if you don’t even try, you’ll only have yourself to blame.” He hesitates. “You think I’m upset because I can’t handle you falling for another guy? Yeah, I’ll admit it’s hard for me, but that’s not what this is about. How many excuses have you come up with already? Let me see . . . Madden’s a celebrity and you’re a waitress so it’ll never work, right? I’m sure Hildy has had something cynical to say that hasn’t helped your confidence.” He counts on his fingers. “What else? Photographers are a pain in the ass, that’s another strike against Madden. Another reason to avoid taking a chance to be happy. With a really decent guy, by the way.”
“And you don’t think those are valid reasons?”
“I think they’re worth considering, sure. But . . .” He takes a step forward. “You keep saying you just want to move on, but I’m beginning to think you don’t want to move on at all.” He hesitates. “Do you still have a thing for Philips?”
“No!” My anger flares. I can’t believe he’d even suggest that.
“Well, then what is it? So it didn’t work out and he’s a huge asshole, and you got hurt. Get over it already. Everyone else has!” He purses his lips to stop from saying more. I’m glad, because I don’t think I want to hear any more hard truths from my best friend right now.
The sound of gravel crunching up the driveway cuts our conversation short. It’s Jack, on his way home after the gym. I quickly brush away the rest of my tears.
“Singer!” Jack hollers. Sweat runs down his cheek. He’s oblivious of the conversation he’s just interrupted. “Did you catch the score for the Phillies game?”
“Four-all about ten minutes ago. Did you sprint here all the way from the gym?”
He leans over, his hands resting on his knees. “Uh-huh.”
Keith shakes his head as he climbs into his car. “If I catch you drinking my beer again, I’ll have your ass charged.”
“When are you gonna take me out with you?” Jack asks, smoothly ignoring his reprimand.
“So you can see how little the police actually work? Hell, no.” Keith’s chuckle is hollow. “I’ll do a couple laps around here later, Cath.”
“Thanks.” I avert my gaze, the pain of being utterly dissected by my best friend too raw. I quietly watch his taillights as the car rolls down the driveway.
Jack frowns. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
I’m expecting him to pester me, but then he sees the red Honda in the driveway. “Whose car?”
“Misty’s.”
His eyes light up.
“No. Jack.”
“But—”
“Stick to girls your own age.”
“Yeah, yeah . . .” he mutters, climbing the stairs on my front porch.
The moment we walk in, my words are forgotten.
“Hey, Misty.” That same goofy grin on his face as earlier has appeared again.
“Hey, Jack! I’m sorry I couldn’t talk earlier.” Her eyes widen as she takes him in, and I see that spark in them that flashes when she’s assessing an attractive guy. “How did you get so huge?”
I roll my eyes, while his grin grows wider. “My coach is a hard-ass for body conditioning.”
“That’s not a bad thing.” She smiles, her playful confidence unwavering, even in her Diamonds uniform.
“Brenna’s waiting for you.” I usher him out of my living room with a push, my fingertips coming back damp. “Ugh, gross. Don’t get in her bed like that.”
“Yeah, yeah . . .” He winks at Misty, that cocky swagger of his emphasized as he disappears.
“Jeez, your brother is—”
“Nineteen.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Nineteen.”
Misty presses her lips together with frustration. Finally she mutters something that sounds like “fine,” as she climbs out of the La-Z-Boy, grabbing her keys and purse. “What happened with Keith?”
“Nothing. He’s just worried about me.” I’m not about to get into that conversation.
“He’s always worried about you.”
“He’s a good friend.”
“So am I. See you on Wednesday.” She disappears out the door, but not before hissing, “After you’ve called Brett!”
I sigh.
Brenna lies under her covers, one arm around her stuffed dog, a book in hand, a deep perplexed frown on her face. “So why did they give you a key if it doesn’t open anything?”
I push her curls off her forehead. “It’s just a symbol. It’s their way of saying that the town thanks me for saving Brett’s life.”
“Oh.” Seemingly satisfied with that answer—until she sees it again, no doubt—she curls onto her side. “Is Brett going away again?”
“I don’t know. We’ll see.” It depends on me, apparently.
“Does he live far away?”
“A couple of hours. Not so far away.” A lot closer than California.
“When will we see him again?”
“I don’t know.” Misty, Keith, Jack on his way out . . .
now Brenna. Good grief, I wouldn’t be able to push thoughts of Brett aside even if I wanted to.
“Maybe if you telled him you wanted to see him again, he’d come over.”
I stifle the urge to correct her and smile instead. “Night, Brenna.”
I reach for her lamp to shut it off.
“Mommy?”
I sigh. It was a long day and my patience is wearing thin. “Yes, Brenna.”
“Who hurt you?”
So innocently, she moves from Brett to that. It takes a moment for me to recover. “What do you mean?”
“Uncle Jack said that someone hurt you a long time ago.”
“When did he tell you that?”
“When he was babysitting.” She peers up at me. “Who was it?”
Dammit, Jack. “Just someone I knew a long time ago.”
“A friend?”
“Sort of.”
“Was it a boy or a girl?”
“A boy.” A man. I was the girl.
“How did he hurt you?”
I hesitate. It’s too soon to have this conversation; she’s too young. “He made me believe things that weren’t true.”
“He lied to you?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you love him?”
“Yeah.”
“So that’s why you made Brett leave?”
“I didn’t make Brett leave.”
“Uncle Jack says you made him leave.”
I struggle to keep my tone casual. “What else did Uncle Jack say?”
She shrugs. “That you really like Brett but you’re scared. Actually, he called you a chicken.”
What an ass. “What else?”
“Hmm . . .” She looks up as if searching through her thoughts. “That you’re blind. But he didn’t mean actually blind, like you can’t see. I can’t remember what he meant.”
“That I can’t see something that’s right in front of me?”
“Yeah. That.”
I wonder if Jack realizes just how adept his niece has become at regurgitating conversations. “Anything else?” Just so I have all my facts straight before I kill him.
“I don’t think so.” She pauses, and then states with absolute certainty, “I don’t ever want to fall in love with a boy.”
I smile. “Yes, you do. Or, you will when you’re older.”
“But what if he hurts me?”
“Then you just try again.”
“But you’re not trying again.” There’s a hint of accusation in her tone. At least, that’s what I hear.
“That’s . . . different.”
“Why?”
I struggle for an answer. “It’s not something I can explain right now. Maybe when you’re older.”
“Is it because you’re scared?”
“Yeah.” Is it wrong to admit that to your child? I only remember my mother being all-powerful when I was young. She could solve every problem, she knew everything. She was never scared, as far as I was aware. Of course, she must have been. She just never admitted it.
A look of resignation flickers across Brenna’s face. “If you’re scared, then I’m going to be really scared.”
A heavy weight settles on my shoulders. “It’s okay to be scared.” I brush her mop of golden curls off her forehead. “But you won’t let that stop you, because you’ll be brave.”
She scrunches up her face in thought. “Then can’t you be brave, too?”
I tried.
It’s not worth it.
It’s not that easy.
But I haven’t tried. Brett is worth trying for. And it may not be that easy, but I’m always telling her that the best things in life aren’t easy.
What kind of role model have I become for my impressionable young daughter?
“I guess I can be.” I sigh. “I just have to figure out how.”
She seems to ponder that. “Well, Uncle Jack said that Brett really likes you. So you should just tell Brett that you like him, too.”
I smile. “That sounds easy enough.”
“And he’s nice so you don’t have to be scared of him.” Her face breaks out in a bright, hopeful grin. “Uncle Jack says he really likes it when girls tell him they like him.”
I burst out laughing, partly at her innocence, partly at the obnoxious look I can imagine being on my brother’s face when he said that. “Night, Brenna.” I shut off the light and duck out. And find myself staring at my living room wall as I replay that conversation from every angle, wondering if I said the right things. If I should have handled it differently.
Wondering what kind of example I’m offering my daughter.
A mother who has perpetually sad eyes.
A mother who hides behind her fear.
A mother who has forgotten how to let herself love.
A mother who everyone keeps touting as brave but who isn’t, really. Not at all.
And with that, the last threads of uncertainty that held me back today, while sitting with Brett, snap.
My hands are trembling as I type out a message:
My 5 yo said I should tell you I like you.
I can’t keep my fingernails from my teeth as I wait for a response.
It comes almost immediately.
I like hearing that.
I breathe a sigh of relief and let out a small giggle.
She said you would.
She’s smart. Takes after her mom.
Is that what I am? I take a deep breath . . .
I wanted you to kiss me today.
And I let myself plummet.
Chapter 22
Have you been to Philly lately?
I’m half smiling, half frowning at Brett’s cryptic text as I punch in a food order.
Not in years, why?
Watch the game with me this Saturday?
My heart does a flip.
What game?
Have you heard of a sport called hockey?
I roll my eyes.
But your team isn’t playing.
We’re cheering for Toronto now.
I smile with understanding. Of course. His dad is Canadian, after all.
Where?
Well, seeing as you’re too embarrassed to be seen in public with me, I guess my place.
I struggle not to giggle as I deliver three coffees to Table Twelve, replaying the text conversation that ensued after I finally found the nerve to reach out last night. Brett has a playful sense of humor, and I was treated to it into the early hours.
My phone vibrates in my pocket as I’m waiting for my food.
Is that a no?
Sorry, some of us have to work.
I follow it up with a smiley face and:
I’d love to. Let me see if I can find a sitter.
Bring Brenna. My dad will be here.
Are you sure? She talks a lot.
I think I can handle one chatty little five-year-old girl.
I remember Jack and sigh.
What about a chatty, giant nineteen-year-old boy who will kill me if I don’t let him tag along?
Bring him. Donovan will pick you guys up.
He wants to send a car all the way to Balsam for us? I shake my head with a chuckle.
We peasants can drive ourselves.
He knows how to get in and out of the building without people noticing.
I sigh, somehow having let the situation slip my mind. The media has moved on to the next juicy piece of gossip, thankfully, but that doesn’t mean a tip or picture wouldn’t pull them back to Balsam. Plus, I get the sense that Brett thinks I’ll bolt like a skittish cat the second I see a camera pointed at me again.
Leroy bangs on the bell that announces a ready food order, and I jump. Five plates sit on the ledge in front of me. I hadn’t even noticed him putting them there.
“Better not let Lou catch you with your head in the clouds.” Leroy gives me a knowing smile. I haven’t said a word about Brett, but I guess it wouldn’t be that hard for them to figure it out. I’m relieved that M
isty isn’t working. I haven’t decided how I’ll handle telling her that we’re talking, or if I will. After the way she blabbed to Keith last night, I’m just not sure she can keep something like this to herself.
Fine. Gotta get to work. Let me know how your doctor’s appointment goes.
I drop my phone into my pocket and plant my feet firmly back in reality.
It’s almost ten when I hear the front steps creak. I assume it’s Jack or Keith.
Until a knock sounds.
Through the blinds, I spy a single figure leaning against crutches, waiting.
A wild rash of butterflies flutters in my stomach. I haven’t heard from Brett since lunchtime, before his appointment. And now he’s standing on my doorstep.
Wrapping myself in a blanket—not for warmth but rather to cover the threadbare nightshirt I’m wearing—I throw open the door. “Hey, what are you doing here?”
Brett stares down at me through glossy, intense eyes for a long moment before giving his head a slight shake. “I had to see you.” He’s not smiling.
I peer past him to the front yard. Donovan’s SUV is parked out there, blocking the view for any possible lurkers behind Rawley’s. But, just to be safe, I usher him inside, the faint scent of beer trailing. “Is everything okay?”
He hesitates for a moment, and then reaches up to twirl a wayward strand of my hair, damp from my shower. The rest of it is piled on top of my head. Finally, the smallest smile curls his lips. “I was always partial to Piglet.”
It takes me a moment, but then I let out a small giggle, realizing that I’ve wrapped myself in a Winnie the Pooh fleece blanket. Of course Brett, even in a pair of jeans and a plain gray T-shirt—fitted just enough to settle over the curves of his broad, sculpted chest—looks like he could be on his way home from a cover shoot.
“I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“No, I couldn’t sleep.” I was worried when I hadn’t heard from you, I don’t add, afraid that would make me sound clingy. I hesitate. “How was the doctor’s appointment?”
The hard line of his jaw tenses. “Okay.” He reaches up, tentatively, to unfasten my hair clip, releasing the long, damp tendrils to tumble and settle against my bare neck. A shiver runs through me as his finger skates over my skin, as his eyes flicker to my lips. I sense him leaning forward and I inhale sharply.