“Thanks,” she said and huffed, trudging toward the golf cart with the stack in her hands. I ran after her and slipped my fingers underneath her cool hands.
“I got it.” Delilah’s flowery scent filled my nose. I moved forward another inch. She looked up at me, and I cataloged every feature of her face—from the top of her head down to her soft, pillowy lips, which I’d kill to see wrapped…
I coughed and stepped back, taking the Tupperware away from her. “Where would you like it?”
She pointed toward the golf cart. Two cardboard boxes sat on the back seat. “In this one.” She tapped the one on the left. I lowered the food into the box and turned to grab the ones left on the ground.
I piled them in my hands quickly and tucked them carefully in the remaining box. Delilah had a hand on her hip, and the other was rubbing her forehead. “Thanks,” she said quietly.
“Not a problem. Are you catering?” I still had my eye on the glassware containing the lasagna. During the season, I didn’t eat a lot of variety, and during the off-season, I mostly stuck to restaurants. I hadn’t had homemade lasagna since I was a kid, and I was pretty sure I could put away that entire pan in one sitting if Delilah gave it to me.
“Kind of.” She spun the keys around on her index finger and caught them in her hands. Her eyes kept flicking away from me, watching the horizon as if she was waiting for someone. And if I had to guess, whoever she was waiting for was someone she didn’t want to see. “I cook meals for people or families when someone is sick or having surgery. They can order for a few days or I deliver food weekly, depending on their needs.”
“Really?” I asked. “How can someone sign up for that?”
“By calling. It started out as a favor for a family friend in the area, and then one of their friends called. My number keeps being passed around, so it kind of grew. There’s not a formal system. Do you know someone?”
I bit the inside of my cheek. She’d be the first person I told besides my agent. “Yeah.” My voice sounded rough even to my own ears. “My mom.”
I wanted to claw at my throat and pull the words back, if only that would make them untrue.
Delilah’s eyes widened, and her lips pulled down into a frown. She stepped forward, reaching out toward my arm. My eyes tracked the movement. She stopped an inch away from me before she slowly dropped her arm to her side.
I wanted that hand back. I wanted her touch. I wanted to feel her fingers running over my skin, even on the arm where I couldn’t truly feel anything. I wanted to watch those delicate fingers run over every part of my body. I didn’t say anything though. I only stared at her hand, clenched in a fist, hanging at her side.
When my eyes met hers again, I immediately turned away, looking at the forest behind her house. I hated the pity I saw there. The worst fucking emotion in the world.
“Never mind.” I turned my back to her and walked toward the parking lot.
“Gunner,” she called. “Wait.”
I didn’t. In fact, I sped up a bit. Her feet pounded against the dirt-and-gravel path as she chased me. The hitch in her breath made me slow down, and she erased the few yards between us. The palm of her hand slid into mine and she squeezed. Hard.
I looked over my shoulder and down into her eyes.
“I’m sorry.” She closed her eyes and shook her head. “I didn’t mean to look at you that way. I hate when someone pities me, and I’ve gotten it a lot. That’s what it was, wasn’t it?”
Instead of answering her question, I asked one of my own. “Why would someone pity you?”
She grinned wryly as her thumb traced my knuckles. Luckily, she’d grabbed my unburned arm. I didn’t know how much she knew about her son’s favorite player, but I didn’t want another look of pity from her gorgeous amber eyes.
“You’d have to supply me with a lot of tequila before I confess my secrets to you, Gunner.”
“We could arrange that.”
Delilah swayed into me as laughter took over her entire body.
“Is Old Man Cal’s still open? We could head over there for a lunchtime boozefest.”
She shook her head. “Maybe some other time.”
I think I’m going to hold her to that.
“So, your mom?”
“Yeah.” I slipped my hand from hers and crossed my arms over my chest. “Ovarian cancer. Just found out. I want to make things as easy as possible for her, and I think she would appreciate some meals. Could I order some or could you teach me, so I could do it for her?”
“How about both?” Delilah flipped the keys around her finger again.
“Yeah,” I said. “Let’s start with the lasagna.”
She laughed. “I thought I saw you eyeing that.”
I held out my phone. “Put your number in my phone and I’ll text you. We can set something up for this week?”
“Sounds good, Gunner.” She handed my phone back to me, and I fired off a text message so she could save my number.
My fingers drummed on the steering wheel as the minutes ticked by, and I stared at the house I’d pulled in front of. A lamp was illuminating the front window, and the same lace curtains I remembered were drawn.
A few minutes ago I’d caught sight of a shadowy figure moving through the living room. She was home. I just had to walk up the sagging porch steps and knock on the door.
Declan’s window was dark, and only a small crack in the plaid curtains could be seen. I wondered if his room had changed at all and if the tacky-tack had lost its strength. Would his posters be on the floor? Still hanging? Would Ms. Young have changed his room?
We’d left for the field party from here. His bed had been unmade, and the bottle of vodka we’d each taken a shot from had been hidden in a false-bottom drawer he’d made for his desk.
Would that still be there?
I ripped my gaze away from his window, taking one last breath before I opened the truck door and stepped out, closing it behind me, never breaking eye contact with the house I’d spent just as much time at as my own.
The lawn was littered with leaves and a few pieces of trash. The garden Ms. Young had once been so proud of, and doted on as much as she did Declan, was nothing but dead branches and leaves now.
The railing on the left side of the porch was missing a couple of spindles, and the paint on the doorframe was curling and peeling.
Declan would hate this.
If he was where he should be—with me, in the majors—his mom would be living in her dream house with a huge garden filled with flowers, vegetables, and fruit. She’d probably have a greenhouse for the plants that didn’t survive well in the Texas heat. It’d always been her dream to garden and be completely farm to table.
When we’d come to Declan’s house after school, there hadn’t been pizza rolls or pop tarts waiting for us; there would be a veggie tray with homemade ranch dressing.
I pressed down on the doorbell but didn’t hear any sound. No one moved toward the door. I looked at the bell; the glowing light behind the white center wasn’t there. It was just another thing that had been broken.
I swear, Dec, I’ll make this right. Guilt consumed my gut, ravaging me from the inside out. I shouldn’t have waited so long to face my demons. And I had a long list of them. Stepping foot in this town and facing my best friend’s mom were just the top ones on the list.