by Nicole Deese
My eyes struggled to make sense of the list of names.
Weston—head coach. And then several players underneath his name was my daughter’s.
I slipped the paper from the magnet adhering it to the fridge and read it over for a second time, as if I’d missed a simple word or phrase or perhaps a much-needed parent signature.
A hard knock on the front door was followed by a twist of the knob and—“Hey, Wes?”
Patrick.
I knew his voice even before I saw his face—probably because I’d replayed our last conversation every night before giving in to the pull of sleep, wishing I could take a step back through time and erase my hasty accusation.
The instant Patrick saw me standing in Weston’s kitchen, his footsteps halted. We stared at each other, a silent game of Who Will Speak First playing out between us.
He won—or maybe he lost. I wasn’t quite sure of the rules.
“Hi,” he said, his chest heaving, hands squared on his hips. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”
Code for I wouldn’t have stopped by if I had.
He lifted the hem of his damp T-shirt and wiped his brow, flashing a set of abs that made my throat feel two sizes too small.
“Hi. Yeah, I was just . . .” What was I even saying? He didn’t care what I was doing. I’d given him every reason to believe I was an emotionally disturbed woman. “I’ll grab Weston for you.”
I reached for the door handle that led to the garage, and he moved toward me.
“Wait.”
I froze under his quiet command.
“I’m sorry, Willa.”
His words shook something loose inside my chest. “No . . . I’m the one who should be apologizing to you. You did nothing wrong.”
Like usual, I’d jumped to the worst-case scenario and created a familiar chasm of doubt and fear that couldn’t be bridged.
He continued into the kitchen, the overhead lighting illuminating the copper undertones in his hair. He wore black mesh shorts, a gray cotton shirt, and running shoes. Obviously the man didn’t believe in taking a breather after office hours.
“That’s not the way apologies are supposed to work.” Patrick’s gaze held steady. “I say, ‘I’m sorry,’ and then you’re supposed to say, ‘Apology accepted.’”
“But honestly, there’s nothing to accept. I was the one who—”
He cocked his head to the side and gave me a look that said he wasn’t going to change his mind.
“Okay,” I said on a sigh. “I’ll accept your apology as long as you accept mine.”
“Deal.” He stretched his hand out and my fingers tingled.
When our palms touched in a warm clasp, goose bumps traveled down my arm.
The door to the garage burst open. Savannah’s giggles and Weston’s teasing tenor entered the room before they did. I pulled my hand away from Patrick’s.
“Oh, hey,” Weston said, eyeing us both.
“Hey yourself. So much for taking that five-mile run you bragged about this morning, huh?” Patrick asked him.
Weston patted his barely-there gut. “I’m already down eight and still have plenty of time.”
Ah yes, the bet to lose twenty pounds by December 20—Wedding Day.
“So, you’d say your diet is going well, then?” I asked facetiously, as I’d just watched Weston inhale a double bacon cheeseburger and fries an hour ago.
“I’d say it’s going fine.” He stretched the word out, as if lengthening it might burn a few extra calories.
“And what happens if he loses?”
Patrick stepped up to the plate. “He wears a kilt to his rehearsal dinner.”
Weston gave a hearty one-ha laugh. “You’ll be the one in a kilt, pal. Twelve pounds is nothing.”
Savannah rose up on her tiptoes, her hand reaching for the neon flyer I’d set on the counter. My stomach nose-dived. That was the last discussion I needed to have right now. In front of Patrick. Hadn’t we aired enough family drama in front of him?
I tried to pluck the paper from her hand, but she was already reading it aloud for all of us to hear.
“Oh, good! I meant to tell you about that.” Weston’s tone was casual, as if he hadn’t trumped my parental power by adding my daughter to his soccer team. “I’m gonna coach Little Kicks soccer. Practice starts next week and runs for eight, ends just shy of the wedding. Worked out perfectly.”
“I get to play soccer? But Mommy said I couldn’t because—”
Weston squeezed her to his side. “Because she didn’t know that I was gonna coach you.”
Savannah’s confusion lifted and she smiled brightly. “Wait till I tell Alyssa! Is she on the team, too, Uncle Wes?” She searched for her friend’s name and then yelped when she found it. “Yes!”
Weston chuckled, amused by her delight. I wasn’t nearly as amused. The last thing I wanted was for Savannah to overexert herself. Wasn’t going to school six hours a day enough of a change?
“We’ll need to discuss this later, Savannah.” As in, not in the presence of your substitute doctor.
“That always means no. You always say no even though you promised to start saying yes.” Savannah’s pout was evidence of an oncoming emotional storm.
And this was what Weston did best: work her up, commit her to things he couldn’t deliver, and then leave me to deal with the consequences.
Painfully aware of our captive audience, I chose my next words carefully. “That’s not true.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “So I can play, then?”
Weston’s puppy-dog eyes grew rounder as the twosome waited for an answer. As if my answer should require no thought at all. As if I had nothing to consider but his overzealous desire to please her. Sometimes it felt like I had more than just one seven-year-old to parent.
The hollowed-out ache in my chest radiated when I spoke. “You can play.” But the thought of her breaking a bone or getting a concussion or needing IV fluids for dehydration was enough to make me want to throw my glass of water at Weston’s skull.
“Do you have a soccer ball here, Uncle Wes?”
“Sure do. Follow me, kiddo.”
She followed him down the hallway as I gripped the counter behind me with slick palms. Patrick leaned against the opposite wall.
“You don’t think she should play.”
His statement distracted me from the mental clutches of my increasing anxiety. “Apparently what I think doesn’t matter.”
And there I went again, airing the family drama—parents who pulled me back, a brother who pushed too far. I lifted my head and—wait . . . maybe . . . maybe what I needed was standing right in front of me. A third-party opinion from a medical professional.
I straightened my spine.
If Patrick agreed with me, then wouldn’t Weston be forced to see reason as well? “You know her medical history. Do you think she’s ready to be thrown out into the world, allowed to do all the normal kid stuff that Weston thinks she can do?”
He pushed away from the wall, watching me. “I’m not sure that’s the right question.”
With a single exhale, hope rushed from my lungs. My whole world revolved around that question—around keeping her well and happy and whole. And if that wasn’t the right question, then—
“What about asking yourself if you’re ready?”
My eyes snapped to his face. “To give my brother free rein over her childhood? To let him risk her health for the sake of momentary happiness? No, I’m not ready for that.”
Patrick widened his eyes as if to indicate that I’d missed his point.
Sucking in my bottom lip, I rethought his question.
And then I reconsidered him. This man who’d bungee jumped off bridges and safaried with zoo animals. Perhaps I hadn’t asked the wrong question; perhaps I’d asked the wrong person.
Patrick was risk in its most concentrated form.
I folded my arms over my chest. “Are you about to tell me the answer is to swim with sharks or hike Mount Everest
or—”
His laugh was deep and even. “No. That’s not what I’m suggesting at all.”
My pulse beat hard against my throat, fear mounting in the pit of my belly. Yet the part of me that wanted Patrick’s advice was bigger than the part of me that wanted to pretend I didn’t. “Okay?”
“We take risks every day. The key is to make the ones you take count.”
A soccer ball rolled down the hall and into the kitchen. Before I could blink, Patrick had trapped the ball underfoot and then proceeded to bounce it from heel to toe.
With a light tap, he popped it into the air.
I caught it with both hands.
“Your turn.”
Chapter Nine
I’d organized every closet, matched every single pair of Savannah’s socks, sorted all the Tupperware bowls and lids, and still had three and a half hours until Savannah came home. Her paternal grandparents were in town for the day and had asked to take her out to lunch and to the latest animated movie. And for the first time since her diagnosis, I’d allowed her to leave with them. Alone.
Sure, I’d eaten a quarter of a bag of my mint candies, but still this had to count as a medal-worthy leap forward.
And Weston wasn’t even here to see it. Because Weston was off rock climbing with his add-on groomsman.
I slumped against the sofa and reread Georgia’s invitation to join them, to eat a picnic lunch and enjoy one of the last days of sunshine before winter.
And then I reread my immediate decline.
My leg bounced to the cadence of my internal debate. Should I go?
No. I should definitely not go.
Patrick’s face floated to the forefront of my mind again: a set of piercing eyes, a jaw edged in day-old stubble, an Olympian’s smile and build. I should really stop being so ridiculous. Think of something else. Anything else. Like the grime on the bottom of the oven or the dust on the living room shelf . . .
But none of my mental scolding worked.
Less than five minutes later, I locked my front door and headed to Cougar Mountain.
“Willa!” Georgia waved me over to the covered pavilion at the base of the mountain. A row of empty picnic tables lined the inside of the old wooden structure.
“Hey.” A quick glance at the rocky peak was all it took for my head to feel woozy.
“So glad you changed your mind! The guys should be down any minute for lunch.” She pointed to the assembly of sandwiches, chips, and fruit. “They’ll be happy to see you.”
I wasn’t as sure. Although my last interaction with Patrick had felt . . . well, like the beginning of an understanding, that didn’t mean I had the right to spoil his day off with my adventure-phobic self.
“Oh! I could use your help, actually.” She slid her iPad from her bag and tapped on the photo icon. “Will you help me choose an engagement pic for our invitation? They’re due to the printer on Tuesday.”
Georgia’s enthusiasm washed away my insecurities about showing up unannounced, and I smiled as I took the iPad from her.
“These are gorgeous. Wow.” I clicked through the pictures, each one exquisite. The shots were taken several months ago, up at our family cabin near the Cascades. My thumb paused, hovering over the arrow. A picture of Weston and Georgia, foreheads pressed together, eyes closed in peaceful reverence, was centered on the screen.
She stared at the image. “That’s my favorite, I think.”
My heart squeezed, remembering my favorite wedding picture of Chad and me. It was strikingly similar to this shot. “It’s gorgeous.”
“Do you think it’s right for the invitation?”
I glanced up from the screen. “I think it’s perfect.”
Her smile was contagious. “I hoped you’d say that. Weston says he loves them all, and Nan is no help when it comes to this kind of thing, and my . . .”
She stopped herself from saying more, but I could guess her next words. Georgia’s mom had never been very involved in her life, and the wedding had proved no different.
I placed my hand on her shoulder. “All these details will come together. You’ve already figured out the most important part of that day.”
“You’re right. I would marry Weston in a back alley if it meant spending the rest of my life with him.”
The hope in her voice warmed me. I wanted nothing less than forever for them.
We heard their voices long before we could make out their words. Patrick and Weston were headed our way. Hiking gear circled their waists and they had climbing shoes on their feet.
All girl talk ceased the moment they entered the pavilion, and I became absorbed in the stacking of paper plates.
“No way! Is Willa really here or am I suffering from altitude hallucinations?” Weston clamped a hand to my arm and then searched the perimeter. “And without Vannie? Where’s the cake? We need to commemorate this event.”
Any sort of triumph I’d felt earlier had completely diminished under his sarcasm.
I put on my good-sport smile and set the napkins on the table, splaying them into something that looked like a warped seashell. It was also a safe place to stare as Patrick moved closer to me.
“Hey.” His voice was like a lightning rod through my nervous system. “That’s some fancy napkin art you’ve got going on there.”
Warily, I peeked up at him through my eyelashes. “I try.”
Georgia looped her arms around Weston’s neck. “So how was the climb?”
“Incredible.” Weston held her waist. “You have to go up with me after lunch. The view is unreal.” And then he kissed her, as if Patrick and I weren’t standing two feet from them listening to their smooching lip noises.
Patrick hitched his thumb at the couple and rolled his eyes. I choked out a laugh—not sure which was funnier, a grown man’s eye roll over a kiss or our shared discomfort playing the third wheel.
With one giant side step, we left the lovebirds to do what they did best.
I held out a plate to him. “You must be starving.”
He took the plate but didn’t attempt to fill it. “Not quite yet, actually. My adrenaline is still pumping.”
“Ah.” Though I couldn’t relate to the kind of adventure-adrenaline Patrick thrived on, I’d spent many a night watching monitor screens and listening for the sound of a sick child. My adrenal glands hadn’t quite recovered.
“You ever rock climb?” Patrick asked me.
“Willa—rock climb?” Weston decided this was the perfect moment to join the conversation. He laughed and straddled the bench seat. “Never. I broke my leg the summer of my sophomore year and had to bribe her with twenty bucks to get my sketch pad from my top bunk.”
Patrick looked at me. “Please tell me you did it.”
I gave a sassy shrug. “I needed the money.”
Patrick’s laugh made my cheeks tingle. “Good girl.”
Something about those two words, his praise for something as ridiculous as climbing a five-rung ladder, made me wish I could hear them again.
“Well,” Weston continued. “She hasn’t climbed anything that high since. Her fear of heights has definitely increased with age.”
I tossed a chip at him, and Georgia laughed as she handed out the sandwiches.
For the next hour, we talked and laughed like old friends. Like a group of high school seniors who had skipped seventh period to go to the park.
When all the lunch trash was cleared away, Georgia announced she was ready to see the view. Patrick stood, unclipped his harness, and handed it off to her. She stepped into the leg holes, tightened the cinches, and then secured the waistband around her hips. Weston double-checked the hold.
A cold rush of blood drained from my head and filled my belly. Just watching the preparation made me queasy.
Hand in hand, they set off for the rock face.
Patrick plunked down on top of an empty picnic table across from me while I took my time rolling up the chip bag and tucking it inside the basket.
/> “So, we’ve established that you hate heights.” He clasped his hands loosely in between his knees.
“Ha. Yes. Thanks to Weston.”
Patrick laughed. “So what do you love?”
My hand paused on the edge of the wicker basket. “My daughter.”
“That’s like saying ‘God is love’ for every answer in Sunday school class. I mean, what do you love to do—for fun?”
I wiped my palms on the back of my jeans and made my way to the splintery table opposite Patrick. Following his lead, I sat on the tabletop and planted my feet on the bench.
“Hmm. For fun.” The words sat heavy on my tongue.
“There’s no wrong answer,” he teased.
“Maybe not wrong, but I guarantee my answers will pale in comparison to yours.” I gestured toward him.
One lone dimple dented his left cheek. “Wasn’t aware this was a competition.”
“I doubt you want to discuss my affection for label makers or my affinity for Post-it Notes? My fun list isn’t exactly a walk on the wild side.” I scraped the soles of my shoes against the wood grain.
“If I wanted to discuss sharpshooting or fire breathing, I would have opened with that.” He fixed his gaze on mine. “I was simply hoping to learn something about you. And actually”—his smile grew wide—“since you mentioned it, I’m on the hunt for a good label maker.”
I laughed. “You are a terrible liar.”
Patrick drew an X over his chest with his pointer finger and switched his Scottish brogue to on. “I not be telling ye an untruth, lass.”
The rich sound of his accent made my heart swell. “Well, feel free to peruse my collection any time.”
He tipped his chin. “An invitation I’ll accept as long as you don’t leave me to fend for myself.”
Was he flirting with me? Was I flirting with him?
“Okay.” I pursed my lips and watched a family of ants gather around the crumbs next to the garbage can. “What about you? Were you born with adventure on the brain? Did you always know you wanted to travel the world?”
“Not even close.”
“When then? In high school?”
“My parents moved to Portland from Aberdeen, Scotland, in their midtwenties with big dreams and four young sons. My mum homeschooled each of us until the age of sixteen.” Patrick’s voice was reminiscent as he spoke. “Our father loves to joke that his love for medicine must have been a dominant gene, since each of us graduated college early and took our MCAT before our twentieth birthday—went to the same med school our father did, Oregon Health and Science University.” He shook his head, his laugh light, as if his prodigy-esque family were some kind of everyday normal.