by Natalie Wrye
He offers up a sad smile. “Thought I was going to miss you tonight. And even more afraid I was going to miss you by morning.”
I smile back, the expression weak. “I wouldn’t have left without saying goodbye, you know that, Sevin. I just…needed the last day or so to think. But hey, you’ve got everything you need, right? Everything lined up for the next few games? I’ve emailed an itinerary and carefully plotted-out schedule to your manager, and I—”
“Nome, nome. Relax. I’m not thinking about missing a schedule. I’m thinking about missing you. Not the assistant-you. Not the “handler” you. But the friend, motherly, overbearing, ballsy-as-hell and just as funny you. That one. I’m going to miss her.”
Tears decorate the back of my eyes, but I keep them at bay, grinning up at Sevin, nudging the built baseball player with my shoulder. I wrap my hand around his forearm, squeezing. “She’s going to miss you back. You know Miami is only a few of hours away via flight.”
“But who the hell is going to book that flight without you?”
I nudge him again. “You’ll think of something.”
“Oh, I’m thinking. I’ve been thinking of a lot of things these past few days, Nome.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah…” He hesitates, the impenetrable boss I’ve had for two years strangely at a loss for words. He says them slowly, his voice barely above a whisper, meeting my gaze with his. “I talked to Sawyer.”
My eyes flick open enough to mimic full moons. I hold my heart. “And?”
“And he told me everything. Of how everything happened when we were seventeen and had just met. Of how Kimmy had caught him at a vulnerable moment a month or two after his mother’s death. Of how he had tried to warn Finley away after realizing that he’d broken our bro pact of staying away from each other’s girls. But he said warning Fin had only pushed my ex-roomie farther into Kimmy’s arms. Seems trying to scare away Finley had the opposite effect and he hadn’t wanted to hurt me anymore.”
I come closer, pulse thrumming through my veins as I watch Sevin’s face, inching towards him. “And you believe him?”
“Of course. I’ve known Sawyer Kennedy for eleven years. I know his heart. His mouth?” Sevin flashes a lopsided grin. “Well, that’s a separate issue. But though he goes about situations in clumsy ways most of the time, and he sure as hell doesn’t always say or even do the right things… I know he always means well. Basically,” he turns to me, examining my face, “I know when a man like him breaks a pact that there’s a reason behind it. Usually a damned good one. So, yes, that’s a longwinded way to say that I do believe him. And maybe…you could afford to believe him too.”
The comment leaves me breathless.
I want to say that I want to believe him. Want to believe Sawyer when he says that he’ll take care of me, be there for me.
Because the truth is… I already do. That’s why I’m so scared.
But I say nothing, letting the silence between Sevin and me stretch until it’s thick enough to cut. And my boss seems to know it.
Knows how I’m feeling.
So, when he stands to his feet, beckoning me to do the same, when he wraps me in a bear-hug hard enough to crush my kidneys, I let him, holding onto him with everything I have, secretly hoping I can wash the fears away.
Until Sevin surprises me, picking me up and swinging, letting my carefully-shaved legs circle through the air as he twirls me around.
“Hey, watch it!” I call out, giggling as a breeze hits my calves. “I’m in a skirt. Don’t show all my goodies.”
“Whoops.” He sets me down, staring. “I know how you like to keep your goodies carefully wrapped up.”
“Well, that was a gross visual.” I take a step back, brows rising. “And are you calling me a prude?”
“If the Victorian dress fits…” He winks. “But I like seeing you like this. Dressed so nicely.” He gazes over my outfit, his smile wide.
I slap his arm, laughing, feeling lighter than I have all week.
“And speaking of ‘goodies’…” he continues in a conspiratorial tone.
I let my eyes tumble to the back of my head. “Yes, I made you the pastelistos. They’re on a table with other ‘goodies’ in your back office.”
His brows wiggle. “The ones with cream cheese?”
“Yup.”
“And the crispy, flaky crust?”
“Of course.”
“And the guava?”
“Okay.” I hold up one hand. “If you say one more word, you don’t get any pastelitos.”
He winces. “Right. I’m outta here. I’ll meet you over at the food table after I’ve eaten half of the tray.” He kisses my cheek. “Thank you, Nome. You’re the best. See you over there soon.”
He starts to walk away, but emotion—some strange version of it—makes me reach out, grabbing him. Head held high, chin unnaturally still, I hold my stare steady as I look up at him, my mouth dry from holding onto all I haven’t said.
I wet my bottom lip, making an attempt. “Sev… I know this is going to sound strange, but…” I huff, the words grating as they leave my mouth. “Do you still think Sawyer has a chance?”
His dark eyebrows raise, highlighting the lines of his handsome face. He waits. “On our baseball team? Hell yeah. He’s too good to trade. And unless he’s sleeping with the owner’s wife…” He tilts his head with a grin. “I don’t think he’s going anywhere. But if you’re asking if he has another chance with you?” He shrugs, his brows lowering as his mouth tugs upwards. “Then I guess only one person can answer that question, don’t you?”
Leaning in, he brushes another kiss across my cheek before walking away.
I turn back to the dance floor, tongue still tied in knots. That is, until Rosalyn, at last, rushes forward, her arms outstretched for a hug, looking devilishly great in a silk gold dress accentuating her curvy figure. She wraps them around me.
“I’m here!” She cries out loud, pulling me into her body. “I’m here, I’m here! Did I miss anything?”
“Only me teetering on the verge of tears while talking to Sevin. No biggie.” I shrug, laughing—a sound that is foreign even to my own ears it’s so fake. I step back to look at her excited face. “How about you?”
“Oh, I was up to absolutely nothing but misplacing my whole life. My mascara—lost that again. I couldn’t pick which pair of shoes I wanted to wear. And every single part of my outfit didn’t want to cooperate. I didn’t want to look homeless on my last night to see you for a while.”
“You forget: I’m the person you never have to worry about looking homeless around. You’d be in good company.”
“Not with you looking that,” she exclaims, tilting backwards to take in my outfit. “Halter top? Red lips? A skirt? Contacts on tonight?” She grins, the gesturing lighting up her pretty, high cheekbone-flaunting face. She holds out her arms. “Who are you? And what have you done with the Naomi I used to know?”
I shrug. “I might have exchanged her for one capable of a little more clit-whippage.”
“Well, whip away, woman. Because you look phenomenal. And I’m sure the company I brought tonight will think so, too.”
“Company?” My heart falls to pieces, dropping and collecting in my shoes. I can barely move. “Company? What company?”
She steps aside, and I crane my hand around to catch a hint of blue eyes. But these are hazel instead.
Emily steps forward. Arms full of wrapped presents, she holds them out to me, her beautiful smile framed by a curtain of dark hair. “Ros is being modest. We were so late because we had to collect a few ‘Please don’t go to Miami’ presents.” She steps forward. “But seriously, Naomi… We all are going to miss you so much.”
I grin, but even moving my mouth hurts. Everything hurts.
Especially when I expected the company to be someone else.
I leave the smiling for later, encircling Emily in a hug so she doesn’t see the disappointment on my face. I squeeze h
er tight.
Turns out there is a special place in Hell for people who enjoy parties. But there’s even more special place for ones who can’t enjoy them because the one person that should be there to complete it…isn’t.
Chapter 30
NAOMI
Saturday night
The night is almost over when I take my first sip of wine.
After dancing on the Alchemist’s textured, groove-ridden hardwood floor all night, I find myself suddenly thirsty for something other than water.
Sawyer never showed.
At this latest Cougars-win afterparty-slash-unofficial-going-away-party-for-me, after all the twirling, hips swiveling and laughing is done, the DJ finally starts to slow the music and I have come to the slow realization that he isn’t coming.
Probably ever again.
I can’t say I blame him.
I never picked up his calls.
And even when my fingers literally itched to pick up my phone and dial his number, I’d pulled them back, occupied them with making pastelitos or scheduling last minute events and charities and autograph-signings for Sevin until I was blue in the face.
Even now the urge to grab my phone is overwhelming, and I attack the corner of my red-polished thumb nail, nerves eating me from the inside out.
Rosalyn comes over to my side of the bar, smiling hard. “What the hell are you doing over here? You missed my latest moves on the dance floor?”
“Nothing. Just taking a well-needed break. I’m wiped.”
“Me too.” She turns around, head swinging for the bartender, and it’s Chris who smiles in her direction. She rotates back. “Well, maybe not that thirsty…”
“What do you mean?” I point. “Chris is right there.”
“That’s the point.” She tosses me a pointed look. “He’s right there. And he shouldn’t be. We promised to stay out of each other’s hair.”
“So much for that. You guys left the club together.”
“We did not leave the club together. I needed a ride.”
“I repeat: You guys left the club together.”
“Okay, okay, okay.” She smirks, the expression quickly devolving into a frown. She runs a few fingers through her curls. “Technically we did leave the club together. But it won’t be happening again,” she promises. “It’s best for both of us to just stay the hell away from each other. Trust me,” she stresses. “It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
“Not to me. Where the hell else can you get free drinks right here in Chicago?”
“Mm, touché. I’ll have to think about that.”
I start to prod further about Chris, but the music slips into something slower. A song I’ve never heard of—something heartbreakingly beautiful—comes over the speakers, a melody I’ve never heard from the Alchemist DJ before.
I glance over at the grimace on Rosalyn’s face. She grunts. “While I know the night is technically winding down and we’re in a slowdown, I wish this DJ would play something else. The last four songs have been nothing but hard-on-your-luck, lost-my-favorite-girl Johnny Cash songs on repeat.”
I frown. “Johnny Cash?”
“Yeah, I recognize this song from the movie, I’m sure. I think it’s called ‘Cause I love you’.”
The song sounds vaguely familiar but I can’t remember all the specifics of the Johnny Cash movie. I listen closely anyway.
The lyrics speak to me in a way they shouldn’t, a way I wish they didn’t. One particular part hits me in the pelvis, pummeling down low in my belly, and I have to remind myself to take a deep breath, remind myself not to crumble into pieces when I hear the actual words to the song—sultry, emotional words that wring every emotion out of me.
Words that go like this:
“I'll take all your troubles
And I'll throw 'em in the river
Then I'll bundle down beside you
And I'll keep you from the cold
I'll be right beside you
No matter where you travel
I'll be there to cheer you
Till the sun comes shinin’ through
If we're ever parted
I will keep the tie that binds us
And I'll never let it break
'Cause I love you”
It’s enough to place a furball in my throat. Clearing it, I excuse myself from the bar while Ros tries to avoid Chris and get a new drink.
And when I have enough space, I run to the back of the expansive hub, heading for Sevin’s office fast. The damned space is empty. As usual.
And once the door is shut, I sit on the mahogany edge like I’ve done a million times before. Fingertips pressed to my brows, head in my hands, I attempt to beat back the well of emotion, rushing through me, but for the second time in a week, it breaks through, coming out of my eyes and spilling on the floor.
The tears fall freely now.
There’s nothing there to stop them. No Aunt Sandra. Or Mama. Or walls.
Not here alone in my ex-boss’s office.
The only issue that makes them stop is the fact that I might be ruining all of my ‘going-away’ presents, Emily’s included. The carefully wrapped packages to celebrate my moving back to Miami are placed sort of haphazardly on top of Sevin’s desk, and in need of distraction, I grab the first one, tearing my fingernails through the wrapping paper, my sniffles barely audible over the sounds.
I take joy in that, ripping even more.
The first present is a gag gift—a fake brochure on “How to Use Your Vagina” from Rosalyn for the purposes of quote—‘Learning how to use it in Miami’—end quote.
The second gift is from Emily and it’s a vinyl album.
There’s no note on it, and I stare at the cover of the Johnny Cash album in my hands, aptly titled ‘Blood Sweat and Tears,’ not getting the joke at all.
Maybe it’s a gag. Gotta be.
I tell myself it is when I go for her next gift, tearing through the shiny paper and when my fingers finally make it through, I gawk openly at this present, some strange sort of sentiment settling horribly in my stomach.
Because this…it’s a bundle of bananas.
The brand sticker of Del Monte displayed openly on each piece of fruit, they almost seem to tease me, evoking memories I’d already socked away. Lifting them up farther to see, I almost don’t notice the letter squished in between.
Some letter-lined sheet of paper, folded neatly into a square.
I unfold it, fingers working slowly, as I begin to read, starting at the very top of the page—the bold script begging for attention. Attention I can’t ignore.
I take my time.
To the woman who won’t answer my calls,
I’ve always been a man of many words. They’ve just never been the right ones.
So I figured I’d let the patron saint of my tortured heart—Johnny Cash—do the talking for me.
My parents always loved the two of them together. I never knew why.
Until my dad lost his June Carter.
I don’t want to lose mine.
To put it in words that are easier to understand:
“You still fascinate and inspire me.
You influence me for the better.
You’re the object of my desire, the 1 Earthly reason for my existence.”
Signed,
Johnny Cash to June Carter, on her 65th birthday
Signed,
Me to you on the day I decided to convince you to stay
Signed,
A dumb pact-breaking man to the woman he loves, hoping she’ll love him enough to stay.
Signed,
Yours truly,
Sawyer
P.S. These bananas aren’t for practice. But for you to think of me, whenever you get lonely.
I love you.
If the song playing on the dance floor was enough to bring me to tears, this note from Sawyer is sufficient to push me over the edge. The emotion is so thick in my system that the tears won’t even come
out.
Dropping the note, I rush for the door, throwing it open.
I’m already dialing Sawyer’s number by the time I hit the dance floor in a frenzy, eyes sweeping to find the fastest way out.
Chest tight, phone to my ear, Sawyer’s cell phone starts ringing in my ear, the sound soft, barely audible above the soft rumble of the now-smaller crowd as the night winds down.
The phone rings once. Twice. A third.
I don’t even realize that the sound I’m hearing isn’t coming from my phone but someone else’s. Someone on the dance floor, staring at me, blue eyes partially blocked from fifteen feet away.
He ambles towards me, hair off his shoulders, pulled into a sloppy bun that shows off just how beautiful he really is. How breathtaking.
Without the strands straddling his face, I can see the true nature of those immaculate features of his, and once again, I am in awe—awe that a man who looks like that, who smiles like that, who loves me this way…could actually be mine.
I’m overwhelmed with joy, rendered absolutely speechless and motionless as he reaches my side, looking down at me as if the whole world’s in my eyes.
I know that’s how I’m looking at him.
Because it is.
The whole world—or at least, my heart—is in Sawyer Kennedy’s eyes, and when our gazes cross, mine is already clouded by tears, each salty drop blurring the beauty of the gorgeous baseball player currently standing me.
He reaches out his hands and I fall into them, wrapping my own around his shoulders, too overcome with my love for him to see.
I don’t even try to clear my vision, no longer needing to have a view to understand that I am absolutely, completely and cryingly in love with this man.
I say nothing as he wraps me tight, his deep voice soothing in my ear, his lips against my hair. He speaks to only me.
“I’d convinced myself I never wanted to become my father… A man undone by his love for someone—my mother. But the truth is, if not becoming a shell of a person means losing you? Then I’d rather be a fucking shell any day. I’d rather come unglued. I’ll let love do its worst. Have it. Undo me. Because nothing is worth losing you. Nothing in this world. Johnny knew it. And I do, too.” He grins against the shell of my ear. “You’re my fucking June Carter, Naomi Silva. And I don’t care who knows it. The only pact I want to make from now on…is to be by your side. Every day. Always. Even if it means moving to Miami…”