It sounded harsh, but many of those girls bonded with her. They liked her tough attitude and no-nonsense approach. Like she did for Jenise and me, she’d bring them special treats: magazines, books, makeup, snacks, a favorite candy bar and so on. Some of them told her it was the first time they’d been seen or heard by an adult, and later, when they were young women, many came back to visit her and share news about their lives. She’d stay late to talk with them, as if receiving a piece of love she had missed as a young girl—and in her marriage.
Sometimes, Jenise and I wished we were one of those girls, wondering if she loved them in ways she couldn’t love us. Did they give her hope or somehow fill her up in a way we couldn’t? Were they her second chance at parenting? Had she lost the validation or belief that she was a good mother and we loved her?
Mom used to share her stories from work with all of us at the dinner table. She was proud and excited when she helped a young woman understand how she might solve a problem differently, rather than the ways that landed them at Juvie. Her eyes were expressive and her body seemed filled with joy as we all sat listening. Eventually, that joy fell away when she had to quit her job; no longer able to trust her husband to take care of their children on the nights she worked.
Instead of the love and gratification she’d received from her work, she was relegated to picking up our father from the front lawn after he’d passed out; or pick him up after midnight from the bar even though she had to get up for work; or help him walk as he stumbled out of his truck. She undressed him and put him to bed at night, and wiped his ass when he’d made a mess of himself. She even went to the store to get his bottles of whiskey so he wouldn’t drive drunk to get them. Like a doctor prescribing painkillers, she doled out his shots and managed his life.
Late at night Dad’s friends often called Mom to get him from the bar. Jenise and I would ride with her when we were too young to be left alone. When we were older, we went to give her help.
“Going out?” Mom asked.
“Yeah, doing some charity work.” I fastened the last button on my jersey. “One of the guys on the Goliaths is picking me up. Jenise leave already?”
“One of the Goliaths players is taking you? Isn’t that a little unusual?” She ignored my question about Jenise.
I think it is, but I don’t know what to do with it yet.
“It’s because I was the person who submitted the cheer team plan. We started talking and I found out his dad was in the military and we hit it off.” I took a breath.
“Uh-huh. Is he single?”
“Is he single? That’s a weird question, Mom. Why?”
“Just curious."
“Yes, he’s single,” I gave in not wanting to be difficult.
“How old is he?”
“Almost twenty-five.”
“And you know his age because . . .”
“Because I follow the team. I look through the press guide like I've always done since God knows when, and it lists their birthdays. A twenty-five-year-old man isn’t interested in a seventeen-year-old-girl. He’s only trying to help us with our college applications.”
“No?” she probed.
“No, that’s disgusting.” But not “yuck” like I first thought when I talked with Tara.
“Don’t you think you have enough to do? You're already committed to some activity every day.”
Like my father, I self-medicated.
It was my way to keep the pain of my family's sadness from taking me down. Instead of using alcohol, I stuffed my schedule with as many activities as I could to avoid going home and face what waited for me when I turned the doorknob.
By not staying still, I didn't let anyone get close. I stayed numb and protected. More hurt? I wasn’t about to take any chances. I’d cried enough growing up.
My invisible suitcase was heavy and full of anxiety.
“I’ve got plenty of time in my schedule, Mom. It’s summer and those every day activities won't start until school starts.” I grabbed a carton of orange juice and started to pour myself a glass when a nervous punch hit my stomach. I hadn’t talked to Ryan about what to wear and I’d look silly if he wasn’t wearing some part of his uniform like I was. I redialed his number.
“I’m almost to your house. Everything okay?”
“Yeah, I’m just calling because . . . should I go in my cheer uniform or what? Are you wearing yours? You know, your baseball uniform. Not um, well, what are you wearing?”
“I’m in regular clothes. T-shirt and jeans,” he laughed.
“Okay, thanks. See you in a bit.”
“I’ve got to change.” I didn't wait for Mom's reaction and ran upstairs. I grabbed the T-shirt my father had been given at one of his military reunions and later gave to me. The message written on it read, “Thank you, veterans.”
The doorbell rang.
I yelled goodbye to Mom as I ran downstairs. I didn’t want her to have the chance to cross-examine Ryan and say something to embarrass me.
Chapter 8
Oak Trees and Buttery Scones
When I opened the door, Ryan stood in front of me like an oak tree bursting from his bark. He had on tight jeans and a T-shirt that was stretched to its limits across his trunk and limbs. I thought it might rip.
Ooh, this vision in front of me. His chest and pecs are beautiful. Those defined muscles in his arms—just right.
Admiring the living photograph standing there lulled me into a trance. For all I know, my jaw might’ve dropped to the ground.
Right then and there I fell in love with his chest. My daydreams spun like an old movie reel. I zoned out.
When Ryan spoke, my head jerked a little as he brought me back to the two of us standing at my door.
“Nicky?”
I lifted my stare from his chest to his blue eyes. They were dazzling. The size of his body and wonderful masculine voice made my throat close.
I couldn’t respond.
“Are you ready Ms. Young?”
How can I talk? Come on Nicky, snap out of it.
I shook my head, as if waking up.
I cleared my throat.
“Yeah, sorry, I’m, yeah, I’m ready,” I swallowed. “I was um, just trying to remember, hmm. It just, uh, it feels like I forgot . . . I don’t know, something. Have you ever felt that way?”
"Yes," he answered with a low dip in his voice.
As I stumbled over my words, I tried to cover up my nervousness. He looked so handsome standing in front of me. I was overcome like never before. He was close enough that I could’ve reached out and grabbed what I wanted. But what I wanted, I wasn’t sure of—yet.
Suddenly, it no longer felt as if I was going to do charity work. Some part of me was breaking off and taking flight. Hundreds of thoughts about this boy began racing and circling in my head.
“Have a good time,” Mom yelled.
“We will!” I shouted.
“Should I introduce myself?” Ryan took a step as if he were coming inside the house.
“She’s in her nightgown, maybe later.” I wanted to move away from him so I could catch my breath. I began to close the door and he put his hand over mine.
“I’ll get that. After you, Ms. Young.”
Damn, that big hand—it covers mine! Just walk and don’t collapse. Come on Nick, you can do it, one foot after the other. Don’t fall. Focus before you have to drag your body to the car because you were too weak to get up and walk.
I started to open the passenger door, but it was locked.
“Slow down, I’ll get the door for you." He laughed his one-syllable laugh, which was sexy and curious.
As I was settling into my seat, his phone rang. He closed the door, but I could hear bits of his conversation.
“No. No, I didn’t say I was doing anything with you today. Not, not tonight.” He paused a minute and began again. “Jesse, I’m busy." His voice got louder and more impatient. “I don’t have time." Another pause. "Right. All day.”
A minute passed.
Ryan's fingers drummed impatiently against the car's roof.
“I’m not changing my plans." Pause. "No, you’ll have to find someone else, and—" Three seconds. "No. No, I'm not." A pause. "None of your business." 1-2-3. "Charity work. You know how important it is to me so don't ask." Silence. "I have company." Another question. "Female." The voice on the other end got louder. "You don't know her." The woman began shouting. "Goodbye, Jesse. Talk to you later.”
He opened the door to the driver's side and settled in behind the wheel. His face was knotted.
“Everything okay?”
“Fine.” His lips pursed.
“Was that your girlfriend?”
“Who?"
"On the phone. Was that your girlfriend?" I repeated.
"No.”
“Oh, I thought . . . well, it’s none of my business. We don’t have to go today if you're running into a crunch. I understand if you have another commitment.”
“Everything’s fine. I’d let you know if I needed to reschedule. This is important to me, and I hope by the time we're done it will be for you, too.”
“Okay, so then can we stop and get coffee somewhere?” Please let’s get coffee.
“Sure we can. This is your neighborhood, so you tell me where to go. Direct me, Ms. Young. I depend on you to guide me in every way.”
Is he flirting?
“Make a U-turn and go back to West Portal,” I ordered him gently. “The bakery is just a few blocks from here. Nice Mustang, by the way. What year?”
“’67.” He looked in the rear and side view mirrors and turned toward the bakery. “She’s a classic. Are you into cars?”
“Not really, but I like Mustangs for some reason.” I ran my hands over the bucket seat.
“I like them, too. Kind of reminds me of you,” he added and pulled to the curb a few minutes later.
“I’ll run in so you don’t have to worry about fans surrounding you. I’ve got to have my coffee otherwise I'll get crabby. Do you want one?”
“I don’t want a crabby Nicky.”
“No, not a pretty sight,” I joked.
“I don’t know about that. Hold up, I’ll come in with you.”
It felt strange walking into the bakery with a Goliaths' baseball player. It was like he was my date. As much as I resisted those feelings, I had to admit—it felt nice to be with a boy.
“No, I’ll get these.” I put my hand up when he started to pay for the coffee and scones. “I was the one who wanted to stop. Besides, you’re driving and paying for the gas. It’s a fair trade.”
Ooh, that wry smile. I can’t even look at him when he wears that thing. I haven’t seen anything like it.
“I’m the one who asked you to wait so we could grab something together. I got it.”
You certainly do.
He reached for the coffees, but I grabbed them from the counter.
“You’re driving. Besides, aren’t you’re going to open the door for me? Slow down, isn’t that what you said? So you can’t have anything in your hands, anyway.”
Two can play at this.
“Now that you’re taken care of, I don’t have to worry about anything in my hands.” His laugh made me feel as if lightning hit my belly.
“Here you go.” I handed him his coffee after we once again settled into our seats.
He smiled and looked at me while he took a sip. "Delicious."
Please be quiet and don’t say anything. Ooh, your blue eyes are beautiful.
“They make good coffee." I blew into the cup. "Are you going to hold your cup while you drive, or use one of the cup holders?”
“Are you worried?”
“No." Sort of. "I was going to put your scone in there if you’re holding your coffee.”
“I’ll use the cup holder." He put his cup inside the hole. "I have precious cargo. I need to drive responsibly.”
“You’re pouring it on pretty thick, aren’t you?” I laughed nervously.
“Am I?” There was a subtle dare in his voice.
“You didn’t say you wanted a scone, but I ordered one for you.” I ignored his question purposefully.
“Oh, Nicky Young, how thoughtful of you.”
“I take it back, Mr. Sarcastic. I’m going to save it for later.” I teased back.
“You can feed me.”
“Here." I broke it into bite size pieces. "Now it won’t fall apart and get your car dirty." I tore the bag open. "You can grab what you want.”
His voice made that “sound” again and I was sure hot bubbles were alive inside me traveling everywhere.
“If you don’t want it now, you can save it for later and reheat it in the microwave; only for a few seconds, though. It’ll become soft and buttery, just like new.” There’s that look in his eyes again. God, he’s . . . "Sorry.” I looked away. “I told you to raise your hand when I talk too much.”
“You don’t need to apologize. Everything’s perfect. Soft and buttery I understand.”
"The scone? I don’t know about perfect, but it’s pretty good. West Portal is a good bakery, so now you know where to go around here.”
“Yeah, more than just pretty good,” he smiled. “Now there’s an idea.”
“What?” I pressed carefully. “What idea?”
“I think I would like to explore more around here.”
Heavy chest!
“You don’t drive crazy, do you?”
“No. I told you I have precious cargo. I’ll be careful.”
“It's sunny outside." I baited him for a joke.
"Yeah?"
"I didn’t think I needed to wear my boots this morning,” I laughed at my own joke.
He cracked up and we finally began a relaxed conversation the rest of the way to Yountville. We talked nonstop until the busy highway eased into rolling hills and the gorgeous vineyards of Napa Valley.
Chapter 9
Volunteering was Never this Fun
“Wow, this is a pretty setting,” I stepped out of the car.
The Veterans’ Hospital was a beautiful Spanish-style building made of white stucco, dramatic archways, and deep red tile roofs. Set against the Mayacamas Mountains, which divided Napa and Sonoma counties, it was surrounded by lush gardens and rows of manicured pine trees.
“Isn’t it? I love coming here.” Ryan looked at the landscape and then quickly scaled the building with a sweeping glance. “The serenity on the outside compared to what I sometimes find on the inside . . . just a warning, it can be a shock. And speaking of the inside, patience goes a long way here. I often listen to the same story three, four, and five times in the same visit by the same person.”
“I’m not impatient.” Except to get out of my house.
“I know you’re not.”
“No you don't. How could you?” I challenged.
“I’ve seen the way you handle yourself.”
“When?”
“While you’re waiting to perform, for one. You routinely go out of your way to show fans to their seats, answer their questions, and take kids to the play area. You’re always ready to help your friends . . . should I go on, Ms. Young?”
“How could you see and hear me do all that?” I suddenly felt jumbled and nervous.
“I have my ways. Just like you uh . . . have your ways when it comes to hearing pieces of conversation not meant for your ears.”
Oh, no! I'm completely embarrassed. Look away. Don't let him see your face on fire. How long has he been watching me?
"Were your ears burning?" He opened the door to the lobby for me and I walked through, a few steps ahead of him.
"Burning?" I looked over my shoulder.
"Oh, a certain day a few weeks ago, you were nearby when Kevin and I were talking and you might have . . . heard a few things." He looked directly into my eyes.
"I don't know what you're talking about." I walked into the lobby avoiding Ryan's eyes.
Let's drop this. Oh my God, h
e knows. He knows! How do I keep any kind of cool now that he just told me he knows?
"Mm-hmm."
The tone in his voice is killing me.
As soon as some of the patients saw Ryan, they walked or wheeled up to him immediately. The staff quickly introduced themselves and I was thanked many times for wearing my dad’s T-shirt. It was a natural conversation starter and gave me the chance to talk about his military service.
I watched Ryan work his way through the hospital. The manner in which he sat and listened to each person—never rushing them, looking away, or checking the time—it filled my heart with good feelings.
I knew then he was a special man.
“Is this your girlfriend, Ryan?” a staff member asked. "Don't think I've ever seen you bring a woman here. Come to think of it, you've always come alone, haven't you?"
Embarrassing!
He looked at me with a suggestive smile. I didn’t know what to do when he flashed it. Colleen had warned me to pay attention to that look. Was she right?
“This is Nicky Young. She's one of the ladies on the new cheer team,” Ryan said, introducing me.
“Oh, fabulous! Paul Billings.” He extended his hand. “Your team is a great addition to the Goliaths entertainment roster.”
“Thanks, Paul. You're a Goliaths' fan?”
"Ever since I met your friend here," he smiled. "Ryan is quite a fellow. Our vets sure appreciate him."
I'm beginning to think he's quite a fellow, too!
“That plan for a cheer team was all Nicky’s idea,” Ryan elaborated. “She put a business plan together and presented the entire package to management with her research. Pretty incredible for someone only seventeen, isn’t it?”
Thank you, I think so, too.
"Definitely! Welcome to The Yountville Veterans' Hospital," Paul answered. As he and Ryan continued talking, someone played a guitar and sang in the rec room.
I walked in and introduced myself. "Hi, I'm Nicky. I couldn't help but hear your beautiful voice and awesome guitar music. Do you mind if I join you?"
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