I try to compose myself. “It’s just… it just sounds weird to hear you call me Rinn.”
“Why?” Now just the hint of a smirk curves one side of his gorgeous mouth. Dammit, those lips… “Can’t I call you Rinn?”
“Of course you can,” I say hastily. “It’s just that I’m not even sure I’ve ever heard you say my actual name before, let alone my nickname. So… it’s just weird, is all. Not bad weird, just weird.”
His eyes lock on mine. The side of his mouth curves just the tiniest bit more. “Well, then,” he says, his voice dropping low, deliciously intimate. “Goodbye, Marinda.”
Holy guacamole… It feels like the temperature inside the car just went up ten degrees. With just two words, it’s almost like he just reached under my clothes and caressed me. My face flushes hot, my lips parting in surprise.
“Goodbye!” I squeak, and open the door, practically stumbling out onto the sidewalk. When I look back, he’s got a smug little smirk on his face, like he knows exactly what he just did to me. I close the car door without another word and turn toward the building, trying as hard as I can to walk slowly and try not to trip over my own feet.
Oh. My. God.
I may be in serious trouble here.
About an hour after Jake drops me off, I’m sitting at my desk when I get a text from Collin.
Srsly? a jock? thought you were more of a feminist than to date a dude whose whole dating pool is mainly cheerleaders with fake tits.
I actually laugh out loud. Wow, I guess Jake really got to him. Smiling to myself as I look forward to telling him how well his little game worked, I text Collin back:
Hope you have a great life, Collin. Say hi to Nikki and her boobs for me.
Then I block his number.
Then I do a little victory dance in my chair, because I’m classy that way.
Two days later, I’m packing up to leave the office for the day when Kate calls me.
“Oh my God!” she yells into the phone when I answer. “I just saw in the Springville Scene that the quarterback for the Rockets is the new spokesperson for Give A Wish! Are you super psyched? Are you going to get to work with him?”
Kate probably knows even less about sports than I do. But she’s a big fan of athletes.
“Kate, do you even know who the quarterback for the Rockets is?” I laugh.
“Of course!” she says indignantly. “His name is Jake Ryan.”
“Ryland,” I correct her.
“Whatever.”
“And I know you wouldn’t be able to pick him out of a lineup,” I tease.
“How do you know?” She’s indignant.
“Because you’ve already met him.”
“What? When?”
I laugh again. “How about we meet for drinks at Gulliver’s and I’ll tell you.”
An hour later, she’s sitting across from me, so excited she’s leaning forward and practically bouncing on her stool.
“Are you serious? He’s the guy from Centro?”
“Yeah. Crazy coincidence, huh?”
“Wow. He was some serious eye candy.” She takes a sip of her beer. “Jake Ryland. Jake’s a total hot guy name. A guy who’s sexy as hell and knows it. And boy, did his mama name him right.”
I don’t say anything. Because for once, I kind of agree with her.
“But, wait.” She tilts her head. “You practically ripped his face off that night at the club. It’s gotta be pretty hard for you to spend so much time with a guy you hate.”
“Actually,” I admit, “He’s not that bad. I mean, yeah, he’s totally full of himself. And I’m sure he’s a total man slut. But once you get him in a more… neutral setting, he’s not quite such a testosterone cocktail, you know?” I smile to myself. “I mean, he’s probably trying to be on his best behavior with me since my whole job is to help him look like less of a douche, but he can be nice one on one.”
She’s eyeing me now, her lips quirking into a grin. “Huh.”
“What?”
“You like him!”
“I do not!” I say hotly, my face beginning to flush. “God, Kate, just because I said he’s not completely objectionable. That doesn’t necessarily mean I want to have sex with him!”
“No, not necessarily,” she teases, her grin growing wider. “But you do.”
“Ugh, you’re ridiculous.” I shake my head and give her a disgusted look. She’s not convinced.
“Whatever, Rinn. You know you can’t hide anything from me. You have a crush on Jake Ryland!”
“I don’t have a crush!” I insist lamely. “I just think… he’s nicer than I expected him to be.”
“Look, don’t apologize for it. Who wouldn’t get weak-kneed around a guy who looks like that? Besides,” she says, picking up her glass and raising it to me. “He’s a definite step up from Collin.”
The next afternoon, Jake is scheduled to have his next individual visit with a sick child. This time, we’re going to Southshore Hospital, on the edge of the city near the western suburbs. We’re going to visit a little girl named Caitlynn who has leukemia, and who is apparently a big Springville Rockets fan.
Jake shows up in my office about an hour before we’re supposed to leave so that I can do a better job of preparing him for the visit than I did last time. He’s dressed in a crisp pair of khakis and a white button down shirt with sleeves he’s rolled up to the elbows that shows off his tan. Even in such a simple look, he’s sexier than any man has a right to be, and I keep flashing back to how Kate teased me last night about having a crush on him.
I take him into the smaller conference room, the one that has couches instead of one large conference table. I figure it’ll be easier to put him at ease in this setting.
“Do you want anything to drink?” I ask.
“Just water’s good.” He lowers himself onto one of the couches and eases into it, spreading his arms across the back.
I go to the small fridge hidden in the lower cabinets, and grab two bottles for us, then sit down next to him at a comfortable distance.
“Okay,” I start. “So, the girl you’re going to meet today is named Caitlynn Jacobson. She’s ten, and apparently she loves the Rockets and is really excited to meet you . She has leukemia, diagnosed at late stage three, but the doctors haven’t given up hope yet.”
“They think she’s gonna pull through?”
“Well…” I try to put a positive spin on it. “The five-year survival rate for children with cancers of her type is close to seventy percent. She was diagnosed just over three years ago.”
“Five years,” he mutters. “Jesus.”
“Kids like this learn to take life one day at a time,” I say gently. “What we can do for them is to give them some moments of joy. Some special memories. Because many of them won’t get to grow up and do all the things we think about as being in a child’s future. So when you meet with her, you can focus on making it special, making her feel special.”
“What the hell should I talk to her about?” he asks, his brow wrinkling. “I mean, shit, how do I avoid talking about all the stuff she can’t do?”
“Remember, you’re there because she wants to meet you. She’s a sports fan, so engage her in that. We’re hoping she’ll be well enough to attend the Rockets’ season opener, so you can talk to her about that, and tell her you’ll be looking forward to seeing her at the stadium then.”
“Okay, I can do that.”
“And you can ask her questions about what other things she likes, just like any other kid.”
“What if she starts talking about dying?” He runs a hand roughly through his hair. “I pretty much completely fucked that up last time.”
A wave of sympathy washes over me. “Most people don’t know how to talk to a terminally ill person, Jake. Let alone a terminally ill child. Don’t beat yourself up over it.”
“Yeah.” His tone is flat as he looks down at the coffee table in front of us. He’s really nervous about this. I resist the u
rge to reach over and touch him, to try to reassure him it will go all right.
“You’ll be okay. I promise,” I say softly. “Just keep a few thing in mind.”
I take a deep breath and begin.
“Not all terminally ill children want to talk specifically about death, or about the process of dying,” I tell him. “When they realize that their future is limited, they adapt by shifting their focus to the more immediate future. Like the next holiday, or some important event. Which is why your talking to Caitlynn about the season opener is a good idea.”
I take a drink of water before continuing. “Sometimes, though, they will want to talk about the actual fact of dying. They’ll ask questions like, ‘Is it going to hurt?’ or ‘Will I be able to breathe?’ or ‘Am I going to go up to heaven?’ It’s not likely that Caitlynn will ask you those questions — usually, kids don’t ask them to someone they’ve just met — but you should be prepared for them, just in case.”
“So, what the hell do I say to a kid in response to a question like that?” Jake is tense, but he’s giving me his full attention.
“You can answer them in the most comforting way possible, without lying to them.” I give Jake a gentle smile. “Kids know when we lie to them. As I said to you before, they need to be able to feel that the adults in their lives can be trusted. Because they’re going through a really scary, hard thing. They need to feel like they’re not alone, like they can talk about the scary thoughts. Like they can get honest answers to the questions they have. If they sense that we’re hiding things from them — even if we think it’s to protect them — it can make them feel even more anxious, more isolated and alone.”
He nods. “Okay. Yeah. Of course that makes sense.”
“So,” I ask. “How do you feel? Do you have any questions about all of this? I know it’s a lot to think about.”
Jake’s eyes meet mine. He looks more serious than I’ve ever seen him.
“No. I think I’ve got it,” he says. “Let’s go do this.”
12
Jake
Listening to Rinn tell me about how to talk to terminally ill kids, and why, something kind of wakes up in my brain.
Ever since my manager, Bull, told me I was gonna have to do this gig with Give A Wish, I’ve been pissed off and fighting it. Spending my time trying to cheer up sick kids is the last fucking thing I want to do.
But not for any of the reasons anyone might think.
I don’t talk about my family or my past to reporters. I don’t let the team use any “feel good” stories about my childhood or my parents. I don’t want anyone prying into all that shit, especially to use it for publicity for the team.
So no one knows that I used to have a brother. Jamie.
Emphasis on the used to.
My kid brother Jamie was three years younger than me. From the moment he was born, he was like a miniature version of me in almost every way: same dark hair, same brown eyes, same build, and same love of any sport involving a ball. He was practically my shadow when we were little kids, always wanting to do the same things I did, go the same places I went. It used to drive me crazy. My parents would always try to get me to be nicer to him. “He just wants to be like you, Jake,” my mom would say. “You should be flattered.”
But I was too young to see his idolization of me as something to be flattered by. I just saw him as a pesky kid. Oh, sure, sometimes it was nice to have someone to do stuff with when my neighborhood friends weren’t around. And sometimes when my mom would force me to go out and play catch with him or something, I’d have more fun than I expected to. But most of the time, I just treated him like most guys treat their kid brothers: sort of like an irritating mosquito that never stops buzzing around you.
The summer when I was eleven, and Jamie was eight, was a long and boring one. A lot of my friends in the neighborhood were gone, either to spend the summer at camp, or with their grandparents, or crossing the country on vacation road trips with their families. My dad was never much one for taking trips, preferring to use his vacation time to do something productive, like paint the house. So, I was stuck at home, riding my bike aimlessly in endless loops around the neighborhood. I was desperate enough for entertainment that I’d finally decided Jamie was a better playmate than no playmate at all.
Unfortunately, I was also at an age where it was a little too tempting to take advantage of Jamie’s blind admiration and devotion to me. Sometimes, when I got really bored, I’d figure out little schemes to try to get him to do dumb things, like daring him to drink an entire spoonful of Tabasco sauce, or tying his tennis shoes together and flinging them up into a tree so he’d have to climb up and get them down. It was the same kind of thing that boys all over the world do to each other every day, without a second thought.
Only in Jamie’s case, it ended his life.
One day, we were tossing around a baseball in the front yard. Every time I’d throw the ball back to him, I’d make sure to aim a little farther, a little higher, to make him really work for it. Eventually, I was throwing it far enough that I knew he didn’t have a hope of catching it, and with each toss, he started to run after it, pumping his legs as fast as he could across the lawn, jumping over Mrs. Ames’s flower bed, trying desperately to catch one of the throws that I had no intention of letting him get.
Jamie was getting more and more frustrated, and just like me, frustration during a competition just made him even more determined. The gleam in his eye as he looked at me told me he knew exactly what I was doing, but that he was going to do everything he could to beat me eventually. With a grin, I fired the ball, as hard as I could, just high enough over his head that it tipped off the top of his glove as he leaped for it.
Jamie turned and sprinted after it, laser focused on the ball to the exclusion of anything else. I was having too much of a good time laughing at the fact that I’d bested him again to notice the car approaching from down the street. By the time I could register what was about to happen, it had already happened. Jamie was hit, and thrown into the air like a rag doll, only to come down hard on the pavement many feet away with a sickening thud.
As I ran out to the street in horror, the ball rolled off the curb on the opposite side and came to a rest next to Jamie’s prone body.
Jamie didn’t die right away. For three days, my mother stayed by his side in the hospital, hoping desperately that the internal bleeding and injuries he’d sustained wouldn’t kill him. Every day, my dad would bring me to visit him, which the hospital staff allowed because they must have known it didn’t look good.
Jamie wasn’t conscious much, but when he was I could hardly stand to look at him. “Jake? Where’s my ball, Jake?” he’d moan, and I’d bury my head in my dad’s shirt and try not to bawl my fucking eyes out. The moment I knew for sure he wasn’t going to live was when he looked at my mom and asked her, point blank. “Am I going to die, Mommy?”
“No, sweetheart, of course you’re not,” she said immediately, but the tears that sprang to her eyes told me she was lying. My father clutched my shoulders more tightly, a small, strangled sound emerging from his throat.
Jamie looked at her for a long moment. “Okay,” he said simply.
As Rinn and I drive to the hospital to meet Caitlynn, I look back now and think about what she told me this morning about what sick kids need from the adults around them. I wonder if Jamie knew he was going to die, even though my mom told him he wasn’t. The thought makes my throat close up, and I have to pretend to start coughing or I’m afraid I’m going to fucking cry.
“You okay?” she asks, turning to me.
“Yeah,” I choke, and pound on my chest. “Something went down the wrong pipe, I guess.”
I have no right not to be willing to face a kid who might by dying, I tell myself. I have a duty to that kid, as an adult. And also, a duty to my brother Jamie, who would still be alive today if it wasn’t for me.
We arrive at the hospital and I pull into the parking garage. Rinn�
��s wearing a slightly longer skirt today, one that comes down past her knees, so watching her get into and out of my car isn’t quite as exciting as it was last time, but it’s still pretty good. It’s dark gray and hugs her ass in all the right places, and she’s wearing a silky-looking red top that makes me want to slide my hands over her curves. She’s wearing a deep red lipstick that matches the blouse, and she’s got on those sexy as fuck librarian glasses she wears sometimes.
“You ready?” she asks me as we walk toward the elevators.
“Yeah, I’m good.” I mentally steel myself, order myself not to be a fucking pussy, and put my game face on.
When we get to Caitlynn’s room, the door is shut and a guy about forty years old is standing outside. He’s got a runner’s trim build and his prematurely balding hair is buzzed close to his head.
“Hi, I’m Jeff,” he greets us. “I’m Caitlynn’s dad. The nurse is in there right now with her. They’ll be done in a couple of minutes.”
“I’m Jake,” I say, and hold out my hand.
“I know,” he grins. “Caitlynn and I are huge fans. This is really great of you, by the way.”
“There’s no place else I’d rather be,” I reply, and actually, I kind of mean it.
We chat for a couple of minutes until the door opens and the nurse tells us we can enter. Inside, an attractive blond woman who must be Caitlynn’s mom greets us.
“Hi, I’m Margo,” she says. Both Rinn and I introduce ourselves.
“And this,” she motions to the bed, “is Caitlynn.”
The girl sitting upright in a Rockets jersey looks younger than ten to me. She has the same gaunt look Jacob had, but her eyes are bright and lively, intelligent-looking. She’s got long, chestnut-colored hair that falls glossy and straight past her shoulders. This surprises me, but Rinn tells me later that there’s an organization that makes wigs for sick kids, so I realize that’s probably why.
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