by A. J. Pine
“So,” she said. “I’ve got two tablets of NyQuil if you want to sleep until Sunday, two Tylenol tablets, and two Advil—depending on your standard, over-the-counter pain reliever preference—and two daytime cold and flu capsules, which will probably be better for you to take in the morning once you’re up and about. First we should take your temperature to see how bad things really are, though.”
He swallowed hard. “Not really necessary. I’m ready to admit I have one.”
She laughed. “Even when you’re knocked down, Walker Everett, you’re still pretty damn charming, you know? But I think the fever is pretty high. I want to make sure I shouldn’t call a doctor or something.”
“Fine,” he relented.
Violet rolled her eyes but refrained from reprimanding him. “Open your mouth.”
He held out his hand, beckoning for the thermometer.
“You’re right,” she said. “You’re a grown man. I’m sorry. But depending on what it says when you wake up, you should probably see a doctor. I could call and make you an appointment.”
He laughed. “Well, the last time I saw a doctor for a fever was when I was a kid, and I’m pretty sure my pediatrician, Dr. Peterson, retired and moved to Palm Springs.”
She pursed her lips. “Fine. Let’s just see what it says, and if necessary I’ll stay the night…”
He raised a brow. She backhanded him softly on the shoulder.
“To make sure your fever doesn’t spike any higher. If it’s not any better in the morning, we’ll find whatever doctor is open on a Saturday, even if we have to go to the ER. I’m not heading back to Santa Barbara without knowing you’re okay. Okay?”
He groaned. “Okay, but no ER. It’s a fever, not an emergency.”
He rose up and balanced on the backs of his elbows, then grabbed the thermometer and stuck it under his tongue. It only took seconds for it to flash red and beep. He took it out of his mouth and looked at it.
“Is one-oh-three bad?” he asked.
She huffed out a laugh. “It’s not great. Lucky for you, I’ve brought the pharmacy to your bedroom. Let me know what ails you most, and we’ll pick the right combo of meds. And if you want to say to hell with all the chemicals and go the Chastain family natural route, I’ve got this.”
She handed him the mug. He wrapped his hands around it and breathed in the steam rising from the rim. The warm ceramic felt good in his palms as a shiver ran through his body.
“My senses are a little off,” he said. “What is it?” He pressed his lips to the rim and tilted the mug slowly to take a sip.
“Just some English tea, which is really great for the throat and pushing those fluids. And also a splash of whiskey.”
With surprising force, especially with how weak he felt, he swore and threw the mug at the wall opposite her. Tea and whiskey sprayed across the sheet and comforter before the mug crashed into several pieces below the windowsill, the rest of the concoction spreading across the wood floor.
Violet screamed and jumped back from the bed.
“Shit!” he yelled. Then he held up his hands, trying to tell her he wouldn’t hurt her, but she stood there, frozen, her hand over her mouth.
Christ, what the hell had he done? The look on her face was the same look he’d seen on his thirteen-year-old self in his fever dream after his father had hit him hard enough to rattle his teeth. Complete and utter horror.
Sober or not, this was who Walker was in Oak Bluff—a man still poisoned by his past. He’d thought he could hide it from her until their time ran out, but he was a damned fool. It’d only be a matter of time before something triggered him with his brothers, too. Or even Jenna. How long would they have to walk on eggshells for him? How long until he did irreparable damage to them like he’d just done to Violet.
Walker wasn’t leaving Oak Bluff for himself. He was leaving for all of them.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and planted his bare feet on the ground. He scrubbed a hand over his beard then looked her straight in the eye. “You should go.”
Her hand fell to her side, and her mouth hung open. It took several seconds for her to formulate words. “Wait…what?”
“Go, Violet. Leave. Whatever the French word is for getting the hell out of my apartment.”
Her breath caught in her throat. “I thought your sarcasm was cute before, but I take it back. You’re a real asshole when you’re sick. You scare the hell out of me like that, and I don’t even get to ask why?”
He let out a bitter laugh. “Sick has nothing to do with it. This is me, Violet. The real me, and explanation or no, I’m not someone you want in your life, not for the short- or long-term.” He picked up the two NyQuil tablets and held them in his palm. “I take the blue pill, go to sleep, then wake up and everything is like it used to be, right? Isn’t that how it goes?”
She shook her head. “This isn’t the fucking Matrix, Walker. You don’t get to treat me like this, throw me out, and then erase what happened.” She swiped at a tear under her eye—a tear he’d put there. “Who am I kidding, though, right? This is your bedroom, in your apartment, in your town. I’m just the outsider who never really belonged in your life. You’re free to kick me out and do whatever the hell you want.”
He couldn’t do this with her. Not now. Probably not ever.
“Get out, Violet. I’m begging you. Get the hell out and don’t look back. I should have given you this advice on the day we met. I never asked for you to kiss me to make your ex jealous, and I sure as hell didn’t ask for your help tonight. So do yourself the biggest goddamn favor and pretend like we never met, and I’ll get back to my life before you turned it upside down. Now!” She flinched, and her whole body trembled. Each word he spat at her tore him apart from the inside out, but he had to make her leave him. For good.
“Go to hell, Walker.” Her voice shook, but she held her ground.
He lifted the glass of water in a gesture of cheers. “Already there, but appreciate the sentiment.”
She swallowed hard, and he knew she was holding back the tears. Good. He didn’t deserve them. He didn’t deserve her.
“Fine,” she said. “In that case, here’s your final French lesson: Va te faire foutre. I’ll even translate. Go fuck yourself.”
Then she spun on her heel and stormed out of the bedroom, down the hall, through the kitchen, and out the back door. Only when she’d made it down the steps and around the front of the antiques shop did she stop, bracing a hand on the hood of his beat-up pickup truck. He knew because he watched her. He watched her breathe hard as she swiped her forearm under her eyes.
Then, she straightened as if she knew he was watching, her head held high as she sauntered back to the bed-and-breakfast and—likely—out of his life for good.
He stared down at the blue pills in his hand. He knew things couldn’t go back to the way they used to be, but for tonight, at least, he could sleep, impervious to the memories and dreams that would still be there to haunt him when he woke.
Chapter Eighteen
Violet’s car was gone by the time he woke from his fever haze on Saturday. And because all he wanted to do was forget the way he treated her, he did the only thing he could when the bottle wasn’t an option.
He worked.
The stable needed cleaning, and even though they had hired hands to help out with that sort of work, on the weekends it was only him, Luke, and Jack. So he took it upon himself to clean the stalls.
He tied the horses up outside, then started with the pitchfork, shoveling out any soiled bedding he found and loading it into a wheelbarrow. After that he swept the stalls, then killed the time waiting for the floor to dry by working out the horses one at a time.
It had been months since he’d rode and years since he’d done it sober. He’d forgotten how much he loved being in the saddle. But the arena wasn’t cutting it. So he led Cleo, their oldest and most trustworthy horse, outside the fence and rode her through the field and up to the vineyard
.
From the top of the hill he had a bird’s-eye view of Oak Bluff—the small residential area, the main street, the ocean beyond. Everything seemed so small and insignificant when he had enough distance. It was when he was in the thick of it that things got to be too much.
He squinted hard at the park adjacent to the small elementary school on the outskirts of town. It looked like there was one person there either pitching or hitting. The bright blue baseball cap was almost certainly Dodgers, and if he didn’t know any better, he’d say the meeting Jack claimed he had on a Saturday morning involved nothing more than a baseball glove and a basket of balls.
Walker decided to confirm his suspicions, tapping Cleo’s flanks with his heels and directing her down the hill and toward the edge of town.
He tied the horse to the school’s signpost. Then he pulled an apple from the saddlebag and gave her a treat.
He was full of sweat and dirt and about sixteen years of repression that was slowly seeping from every pore. He could use a little release.
“How’s that meeting working out for you?” he yelled over the chain-link fence to his oldest brother.
Jack threw strike after strike over home plate, each ball hitting the backstop with a force that made Walker pity any catcher who used to play with his brother.
“I needed to think,” Jack called back when he ran out of balls. Walker opened the trunk of Jack’s SUV, which sat parked along the curb, knowing he’d find Owen’s bat. It was too small for him, but it would do.
He swung the bat over his shoulder and strode through the dugout and onto the infield.
Jack went to work collecting the baseballs, setting himself up for another round.
“You wanna tell me what happened with Violet?” Jack asked. “Olivia said she was shook up about something last night. Said she wouldn’t talk about it, but Olivia swore Violet was at your place after you left the karaoke bar.”
Walker brushed the dust off of home plate and readied himself for his brother’s first pitch.
“She was at my place,” Walker admitted. “And no, I don’t want to get into it.”
Jack adjusted his Dodgers cap and wound up for the pitch.
Strike one.
A fastball right over the plate.
“Might be good to remind you I didn’t have a full-ride baseball scholarship,” Walker called to Jack.
Jack rolled his shoulders. “Might be good to remind you that I’m not taking it easy on you just because you’re an amateur.”
Walker took a couple practice swings before setting up again. “Noted.” This time he anticipated the fastball and swung, tipping it over the right foul line.
“I’m a shit listener, but you want to tell me what’s got your panties all twisted?”
Jack shook his head. “You don’t talk. I don’t talk.”
Walker shrugged and toed the plate, setting himself up again. “Works for me.”
His brother threw another strike. Then another. Soon they found a sort of rhythm.
Pitch. Hit (or sometimes only clip). Repeat.
The farther Walker’s hits went, the harder and faster the pitch Jack would throw until finally Walker lobbed one over the right-field fence.
“Amateur my ass,” Walker mumbled. It felt good to show up the superstar for once. So much so that he let his guard down, which was apparently a mistake.
Jack narrowed his eyes, wound up, and let fly a curveball that nailed Walker right in the hip.
Walker threw the bat and stormed toward his brother.
“What the hell is your problem, asshole?” he asked, giving Jack a good shove on the chest.
Jack shook off his glove and shoved his youngest brother right back.
“My problem? My problem? Just blowing off some steam, little brother. Nothing personal.”
“It feels real personal,” Walker countered.
“Where do you go when you’re hiding out?” Jack asked.
Walker’s brows drew together. “I’m around every damned day. Maybe I like to keep to myself at night or on the weekends, but what the hell does that have to do with you nailing me in the hip?”
Jack let out a bitter laugh. “I don’t know. You almost kill yourself three months ago and now, even though I’m proud as hell you made it this far, you still seem a million miles away. How do I know you’re okay when I don’t see you for days at a stretch? After the storm the other day, I didn’t even know you were in town until Luke said you were picking him up at the bar.”
Walker scratched the back of his neck. “So if I’m off the grid for more than twenty-four hours I gotta be on a bender? Next time just bang on my door like the sheriff and accuse me point blank. Might actually work better than nailing me with an eighty-mile-an-hour curveball.”
They were in each other’s faces now.
“I didn’t invite you on the field,” Jack said. “You came at your own risk.”
Walker poked a finger into his brother’s chest. They had history that wasn’t going to be erased by a pat on the back for a hundred days of sobriety. He got that now. There was over a decade of hell to set straight. Maybe this was the start. “You finally want to give me what I asked for?”
There was a lot that Walker forgot because of the drinking—black spots in his memory that would never return, and for some of that he was probably grateful. But he remembered what it was like when Jack came back home after ten years. He remembered the guilt of watching Jack Senior raise a hand to his oldest brother and not being able to do a damned thing to protect him. That kind of guilt never left. So one night after Jack came home last year, Walker asked his brother to hit him—begged him to unleash some of the pain he’d borne for him and Luke. But Jack wouldn’t do it. Maybe now he would.
“Shit, Walker.” Jack backed away. “I thought we were done with that. Me hitting you isn’t going to solve anything.”
All the fight seemed to leave his brother, and Jack bent over, bracing his hands on his thighs and breathing heavily.
“You know I haven’t raised a hand to anyone since that asshole attacked Ava in high school. And even then it wasn’t the right thing to do—not putting another guy in the hospital, anyway.” Jack took another steadying breath. “I never wanted to be him—Jack Senior. And I don’t think you did, either. He pushed you onto the path you’ve been on, but so help me if I’m not doing my damnedest to change your direction. But you gotta find a way to get past this need to punish yourself for something that wasn’t your fault.”
Walker paced his little patch of infield before facing his brother again.
“I almost drank last night,” he finally said.
“What?” Jack asked.
“I said almost. I wasn’t on a bender. I was sick.”
Jack’s brows drew together. “Sick? You don’t get sick.”
Walker crossed his arms. “That’s what I said when Violet came over, but apparently the lack of alcohol killing off everything in its wake messed with my system or something.”
Jack cracked a half smile. “Okay. So, not a bender. Tell me what happened.”
Walker took off his sunglasses and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Pitch me some strikes,” he said. “Only strikes.” It was a little league field. They could talk from pitcher’s mound to home plate. Because standing here and talking was too intimate. He didn’t know how to do this, but the bat and ball might distract him enough and give him that needed distance.
Jack adjusted his cap and nodded.
Walker was at the plate again a few seconds later, bat raised over his shoulder. Then he knocked his brother’s strike clear into left field.
Jack wound up for the next pitch.
“There’s a small bottle of whiskey in the cabinet above my fridge.”
Walker had the good sense to duck as Jack’s pitch went wild, nailing the chain-link backstop behind where Walker’s head would have been if he’d been standing at full height.
Walker straightened and poin
ted at his brother with his nephew’s bat. “I don’t drink it. I just—test myself.”
Jack lifted his Dodgers cap and swiped his forearm against his brow. He opened his mouth to say something, likely to chew Walker out, but Walker shook his head like he was shaking off the pitch his brother wanted to throw.
“You pitch. I talk. Or this ain’t happening.”
Walker could see his brother’s jaw tighten all the way from home plate, but Jack kept his mouth shut.
“Anyway, by the time I got home last night, I was in bad shape,” he called to his brother. “Fever and everything. Violet just sorta showed up after we got back from the bar and took care of things.”
Jack pitched another strike. This time was a swing and a miss.
“She got me meds and made me tea.”
“Shit,” Jack said. He knew what was coming next.
Walker nodded. “Nice little shot of whiskey in the mug—her home remedy. And why would she think anything of it when I had my own damned bottle?”
“You didn’t drink?” Jack asked, still not satisfied that Walker hadn’t gone and chucked his hundred days out the window.
Walker let out a bitter laugh. “Threw the damned thing against the wall and scared the shit out of her before telling her to leave. And you know what? If I hadn’t felt like I’d been run over by a truck and could have made it to the kitchen, I might have downed the whole bottle just to obliterate the sight of Violet looking at me like I was some monster—like she realized she was finally seeing the real me.”
Jack threw another strike. Again, a swing and a miss. Because Walker couldn’t see the ball anymore. Just Violet—her eyes brimming with angry tears after he was such an inexplicable ass.
“She didn’t say anything,” Jack said, winding up to pitch again. “But you gotta figure out a way to make this right, Walker. Not only for her but for yourself. You know, all this time I haven’t been worried about whether or not getting involved with Violet was good for your sobriety. I’ve been worrying about how you’ll handle it when she leaves. We’re all gonna miss the hell out of her. So what does that mean for you?”