“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.
Chapter 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 her 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?