by Emma Renshaw
“Were you the kid hitting balls out on the baseball field last night?” Gunner gave me a reassuring smile, letting me know it was okay that Tucker had approached him. He’d never met a professional athlete before, and I knew he would be talking about this for months.
“You saw me?” Tucker swayed slightly and landed against my side.
“Yeah, you’re good. Might need another pitcher though. Your mom threw a couple of balls in the dirt. I’m around for the next few months. I’ll go out there with you sometime. Y’all live close by?” Gunner grinned at me, and my boy’s eyes lit up like the Fourth of July.
“We live here. Yes, please. Please.” Tucker bounced on the balls of his feet, completely losing his cool-guy persona.
“We’ll get it done, kid. You’re the chef?” Gunner asked me.
“Yes, I am. Thank you so much. Tucker will love that. You don’t have to though,” I whispered so Tucker wouldn’t hear.
Gunner waved his hand. “It’ll be fun. I have a question for you though.”
“Sure.”
“Are you going to make any more of those cookies? Your mom had snickerdoodles at the front last night, said you made them. I, uh, I, uh, came back in the middle of the night and uh…they’re gone.”
I laughed. “You ate the whole plate?”
His cheeks warmed with color. “I don’t eat sweets during the season, so I might’ve gone one or two overboard.”
“One or two?”
Gunner ran a hand through his hair. His bicep flexed through his long-sleeved shirt as he tugged on the ends of his chocolate-colored hair. It was thick with a slight wave, long on top and a bit shorter on the sides. His scruffy, angular jaw framed plush lips. The eyes that stared at me when I went into Tuck’s room were a deep denim blue with lighter streaks throughout. They reminded me of the marbles Tuck used to carry around and sling all over the house.
“No more snickerdoodles today.” I crossed my arms over my stomach, hoping the buzzing sensation would stop, but it only picked up when his disappointed frown turned into a radiant smile as I kept talking. “Salted caramel cookies are on the menu today.”
Gunner groaned, rubbing his stomach. “Is breakfast as good as the cookies?”
“Mom makes the best French toast. Make it for him, Mom,” Tucker demanded.
“Would you like some?”
“Sounds great, but I’m waiting for my mom to meet me here. Mind waiting a bit until she arrives?”
“No problem. I’ll check on you in a bit.”
“You won’t regret it,” Mom piped up. She’d been standing behind me silently, which was unusual for her. “I always tell Delilah that she’ll snag a husband if she makes him her French toast. You’ll need to come by this afternoon and get one of her cookies for an afternoon delight.”
My cheeks heated and I turned around, staring openmouthed at Mom. She winked at me and walked away. Tuck was none the wiser about my mother’s meddling ways and the crazy innuendo she’d just dropped in front of a stranger. I slowly turned toward Gunner again. His mouth was tugged up on one side, and his eyes were dancing with mirth.
“Can’t wait to stop by,” Gunner said and winked.
4
Gunner
I stopped mid-rise from my chair when Mom walked into the restaurant and scanned the area looking for me. I squinted and ground my teeth together as I studied her. Her pink sweater hung off one shoulder, and her blouse was loose. Too loose. Same with her jeans.
It’d been a few months since I’d seen her—she’d had to cancel her last few trips to come watch me play—but there was a stark difference between the woman softly closing the door behind her and the one I remembered.
I stood fully and waved, pasting a smile on my face.
She’s too skinny. Has she been eating? Did she lose her job? Why didn’t she tell me? Is she sick? My mind raced from possibility to possibility.
“Hey, Mom.” I bent and kissed her cheek before wrapping her in a hug. Her head reached the center of my chest. She wrapped her arms around me securely and tried to rock me back and forth as she’d done since I was a kid, even after I was too big. But the hug didn’t hold the warmth I was used to. Her frame felt thin, bony, and cold.
“I’m so glad you’re home.”
I broke free from our hug, pulling out her chair for her. I didn’t respond. Since Dad died, I’d never lied to my mom. Sure, there were things I didn’t freely offer, but I didn’t lie to her. Ever. And she’d always done the same with me. She’d given me blunt honesty my entire life.
Is she hiding something now?
“Have you been here before?”
“Yes,” she said while browsing the menu in front of her. I snatched it out of her hand.
“I have an in here. A special breakfast is coming up for us.” I smiled, but it was forced. Before that morning, Mom had been the only person who was easy to smile with. Delilah and her kid were now on that list. Those few minutes had felt easy and light; I’d never felt that way immediately after meeting someone.
“You have an in? Of course, you do. You don’t come back home for ten years. Instead, you make your poor mother travel to all those cities across the United States, all those cities she’s always wanted to see, and yet you have an in! In a place where I live.”
“What can I say? I’m charming.” I shrugged.
She grinned and leaned across the table, shoving my shoulder. She knew why I’d never been able to come back here. This place had haunted my nightmares for the past decade. Traveling from ballpark to ballpark, I could pretend Declan was doing the same. I couldn’t do that here. His death and his goddamn fucking sacrifice were in my face every moment. My arm was a constant reminder that he’d chosen for me to live instead of him. I’d felt it with every breath I’d taken since crossing the county line.
“You’re something alright,” she muttered. “What’s this special breakfast?”
“French toast,” Delilah said, approaching the table. Her hands were behind her back, and she had a wicked gleam in her rich amber eyes. Her eyes were expressive and didn’t hide what she was thinking. I’d stood sixty feet, six inches away from some of the fiercest competitors and cockiest sons of guns in the world. A battle of wills always took place when a batter faced off with a pitcher. I looked each one in the eye, searching for a tell of what was coming.
If Delilah stood on that mound, I’d know what she was about to throw before she did.
“Delilah, this is my mom, Jenna. Mom, this is Delilah. She’s making us French toast.”
“Not just any ole French toast. French toast stuffed with a homemade berry jam. Berries that are grown right here in Hawk Valley, at the farm up the road. But first, just a little treat.”
Delilah placed a cookie on the plate in front of me and one on the plate in front of Mom. It had a thick candied coating on top and was sprinkled with salt. “Is this the cookie you promised? I thought it was going to be an afternoon delight.”
Mom sputtered and Delilah bit her lip, shaking her head. “Sure is.” Delilah smiled and lit up the entire space around her. I had trouble breaking eye contact. I took a bite of the cookie and groaned, unable to look away from her face. Pink filled her cheeks and she raised an eyebrow, proud of the reaction she’d gotten out of me.
“I’m going to have to start my season training a month early if you keep cooking like this.”
“I can always make you a green smoothie.”
I laughed and shook my head. “No, thanks. I’d rather enjoy some good food before it’s back to plain chicken breasts and steamed vegetables.”
“Two breakfast plates coming up. Let Maggie know if you need anything else.” Delilah pointed to a young waitress helping another table before walking back into the kitchen. I watched the sway of her hips with each step.
“So,” Mom drawled slowly. I turned my face toward her and watched her thin eyebrows rise and a smirk cross her lips. “Who’s your friend?” She clasped her hands and propped he
r chin on her knuckles. My eyes trailed over her arms down to her elbows, resting on the table. Her skin was pale and seemed paper-thin over her bones. Mom had always been thin, but not like this. This was different.
I met her eyes and swallowed past the rising lump in my throat. Her breath hitched and she looked at the table. I knew. I fucking knew right then that something wasn’t right. Hadn’t been right.
“What’s going on, Mom?”
She swept invisible lint off the blue checkered tablecloth and avoided eye contact with me. “I’d rather talk about your new friend. We have time for all the other stuff.”
“What other stuff?”
“Tell me about your friend, Gunner.”
“Cut the bullshit, Mom. Talk to me. Look at me. Please.”
Her eyes slowly rose from the table and connected with mine. Tears filled her bloodshot eyes, and she pursed her lips as a slow breath left her nose.
“I’m sick.”
I scrubbed a hand over my face, leaning forward. “What kind of sick?”
“Ovarian cancer.”
“How long?” I knew this would be the second punch in the gut. From the looks of her, this wasn’t new news. She’d been keeping this from me; I just didn’t know for how long. Was this why she hadn’t come to a game in months? I talked to her almost daily, and yet she’d never said a fucking word?
Is ovarian cancer treatable? What does this mean? I’ll find the best damn doctor this side of the fucking Mississippi.
“I found out a few months ago. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”
I shook my head, pinching the bridge of my nose. Air was struggling to fill my lungs. I felt like a hundred-mile-per-hour fastball had just hit me in the throat, knocking every one of my senses out of whack.
“Why didn’t you?”
Her hand shook as she grabbed the glass of water in front of her. “You were in your last few months of the season. I didn’t want to distract you from that. You’re a free agent. The biggest free agent on the market, I might add. You’d been performing so well, I wanted all the teams scouting you to see what I know is inside of you, how good you are. You’ve worked so hard, I didn’t want any of that to be thrown away. You’ve come back through so much.”
“That’s bullshit, Mom. You think I care about any of that more than I care about you? Baseball over you? I wouldn’t be where I am without you. What the hell? We’re supposed to be honest with each other.”
I unrolled the silverware, desperate for something to do with my hands. I threw the napkin over my lap and let the metal clang together as it fell to the table. I stared at the white plate in front of me, unable to get a hold of myself. I wanted to yell at her and demand answers, but she was sick. I also wanted to rewind to a few months ago, before any of this was happening. What the fuck was it with this town that everyone I loved died in it? I shook my head, forcibly removing those thoughts from my mind. She would not die. I refused to let that happen. I couldn’t save Dec, but I would save her.
What does all this mean?
What does it mean? Ovarian cancer?
Fuck.
“I’m sorry, honey. I thought I was doing the right thing.”
I gritted my teeth. Betrayal churned in my gut. We’d have to get back to that though.
“What’s happening? Who is your doctor? What are they saying?”
“It was caught early and is treatable. I’ve been undergoing chemo and will need radiation when it’s complete. Surgery is also being discussed, but will depend on how I respond to chemo.”
“Who is your doctor? Is this the best course of treatment?”
I pulled out my phone from my pocket to send a message to my agent. Find the best ovarian cancer doctor in Texas. I tucked it away again and looked at Mom.
“Yes, this was the best course of treatment. I did get a second opinion. I really like my doctor.”
“But are they good? I can give you the best. Dammit, Mom. Why didn’t you tell me? Isn’t time crucial with this type of stuff? We’re going to get you the very best doctor.”
Mom reached across the table and squeezed my arm. My heart rate slowed as I looked up and saw her in an entirely new light. I noticed the baggy clothes and thin frame.
But it was other stuff too.
Her hair wasn’t as thick. The bags under her eyes were dark and deep, as if she hadn’t been sleeping. She had kept my world spinning since my dad died. She’d kept me anchored after I’d lost Declan and nearly lost my baseball career in one fell swoop. She’d driven me to practices and forced me to push myself in rehab when I wanted to drown in my pain.
The woman across from me was the only fucking reason that I was entering free agency with rumors swirling around about one of the largest contracts to ever be issued in sports history. I already had more than enough money from sponsors in addition to the money I’d earned through the years.
My chest felt like it’d been cracked open and was bare. Vulnerable. And I hadn’t asked the one question I should’ve asked as soon as she told me.
“How are you feeling? Are you okay?”
“Is everything okay over here?” Delilah asked with two steaming plates in her hands. Mom pulled back, taking her hands from my arms. I sat back in my chair, coming back to Earth and remembering we were in the middle of a restaurant with people surrounding us.
“That smells delicious.” My mom had always been a master at deflecting a question she didn’t want to answer. Delilah looked at me and tilted her head. For just a moment, before this had all come crashing down on me, I’d thought it would be fun to spend time with Delilah during the off-season, but now? That was out of the question. I didn’t have time to flirt with the pretty girl, as much as I wanted to.
“We’re fine,” I answered. “Can’t wait to eat that though.”
I inclined my head toward the plates in her hands. She put them down in front of us, still searching my face. She didn’t know me nearly well enough to probe my feelings. Delilah cleared her throat before nodding and walking off.
We both took our first bites in silence. It was as good as promised. I knew Mom hadn’t forgotten my question, and I was giving her time to formulate her answer.
“I’m okay. Some days are better than others. This is why I asked you to come home though.”
I scoffed. “Figured. I want to meet your doctors. Tomorrow. All of them.”
I would make this right. No matter what it took, no matter what I had to give, I would make this right.
5
Delilah
“Would you like a ride?” I slowed the cart to a stop in front of Gunner’s cabin. His cabin was on the same trail as ours, and as I’d started up the cart, I’d seen him walking out the front door. His hands were shoved into the pockets of his jacket. It was the first morning the temperature had dropped drastically. At that time of year, it could be in the eighties or the twenties. It swung from day to day. Hell, even hour to hour. That was part of Texas life.
Gunner’s face was cast down toward the path. He hadn’t answered or even acknowledged that he’d heard me.
“Gunner?” His head popped up, surprise coloring his expression. Deep bags were underneath his eyes, and the shade of blue wasn’t quite as bright today. I frowned. “Would you like a ride?”
One hand came out of his pocket and ran through the messy, damp hair on top of his head. He must’ve just gotten out of the shower, put on some clothes, and left.
“You don’t have to do that,” he answered.
“I’m heading that way anyway. Are you getting breakfast?”
He shook his head. “No time. I’m meeting my mom for…something.”
“If you hop on, it’ll be faster. I have some breakfast burritos in the kitchen ready to go. I’ll grab you one really quick and you can head out.”
As he sighed, his entire body moved with the breath. “That’d be great.”
He walked around the front of the cart and slid on the bench seat beside me. The leather creaked
under his weight as he shifted into a comfortable position. I released the brake and stepped on the gas. Dirt kicked up around the tires, and pebbles hit the metal rims.
“Your cart is great. I haven’t ever seen anything like this.”
I looked at him out of the corner of my eye, and he hitched his lips up on one side. A fraction of the guy I’d met several days ago was back, but the vibrancy he’d oozed wasn’t at full capacity. Which was probably a good thing. If I had to be contained with that charisma on the bench seat, which all of a sudden felt way too small, I might melt into a pile of goo.
I chuckled, shaking my head. “It was my mom’s idea.”
Each member of the family—including my brother, who didn’t even live on our land —had their own special golf cart. One day Mom had asked me what my dream car was. I’d answered a vintage red convertible.
A few months later, this golf cart arrived. It was shaped like an old red convertible Mustang and looked more like an oversized children’s toy car than something we used for our family business. It even had a roof for rainy days. Eventually, all the golf carts at the inn would be customized.
“Does she have one too?”
“Yes, but it’s not a red convertible.”
“What is it?”
“A hot pink Barbie Hummer. Apparently, my mom wished they had those around when she was a kid, so my dad made sure she got one.”
Gunner laughed and grabbed the handle in front of him as I whipped around a curve and rocks hit the hood.
“Sorry.” I shrugged and smiled sheepishly. “Tuck and I are used to those sharp corners. Probably should’ve warned you.”
“If you throw me out of this thing, I guarantee my agent will be on your doorstep the very next morning.”
I chuckled and faced him for a second. “You’d do that to me? Rat me out to your agent?”