I press my lips together. “So you think you have a solid love relationship with the rest of my body?”
“Uh-huh. I love every,” he says, his fingertip touching the center of my lips, “fucking,” the pad of his finger trails down my chin, in between my breasts, “thing,” it descends across my stomach and landing between my thighs, “about you. And I’m certain your body loves me just as much.”
His palm sits on my pubic bone, his hand cupping my vagina. I shiver, flexing my hips for more contact. He laughs. “See? I’m right.”
“Maybe.”
“Whatever,” he says, rolling his eyes. “I just have to win over your brain now. I tried tonight to convince it I was more than an athlete. I even borrowed my broth—” He cringes.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“You borrowed your what?”
He looks at the ceiling.
“Talk, Landry.”
“I borrowed my brother’s kid. Or stepkid. Or whatever. I borrowed Hux,” he gulps.
“You did what?”
“I just wanted to show you, not tell you, that I’m not just a baseball player. That I’m not an athlete that only loves the game,” he gulps. “I have a family. A big ass one. And we are all pretty damn tight. They’re important to me. I balance that with the game, with my commitments. I do charity stuff with my mom—all kinds of things. I just, I wanted you to see that.”
My hand shakes as I touch his cheek. “I can’t believe you went to all this trouble.”
“I don’t know what this is between us. Not exactly,” he says, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I know it’s all happened pretty fast and I feel like I don’t know what would happen tomorrow if you didn’t want to see me.”
“I feel the same way about you. I just don’t know if it can work long-term.”
“I’m not saying it has to. Not yet. I just know that it really seems like, with you, it’s the right time, right place, right face.”
Bursting out laughing, I kiss his cheek. “Did you make up that rhyme?”
“I did. It was a good one, huh?”
“Something like that.” I stretch out on the sofa, my head in his lap. I’m not sure what this means, but there’s nowhere else I want to be right now than right here.
Danielle
HIS CACKLING GIGGLE STREAMS DOWN the hallway, and before I even turn the corner, I know it’s Rocky. Peeking around the bend, I see his bright-red hair flopping as he hoists a basketball in the hair. It rolls along the rim of the portable hoop before cascading down the side and into the net that keeps the balls from bouncing every which way.
“Almost!” I say. “Flick your wrist a little more.”
“What do you know about basketball?” he asks, his little button nose crinkling.
“Hey, now,” I giggle, ruffling his hair. “I grew up hearing all kinds of sports conversations.”
He shoots me a look that tells me he’s not quite convinced. “All right. But hey,” he says, his eyes sparkling again as he throws his little arm haphazardly across his buddy, Tommy’s, shoulders. “We were wondering if we could do balloons again? You know, the ones that twist like animals and stuff.”
“Yeah,” Tommy says, picking up Rocky’s enthusiasm. His head is bald now, but the nurses are saying he might be released soon. “I missed it last time. Can we do it again? Please?”
“I’ll do my best. Now it’s time for you guys to head to your rooms.”
“But before we go,” Rocky interjects, sticking a finger in the air, “one more question.”
“Make it quick,” I laugh.
“When is Lincoln coming back?”
Hearing his name makes my heart skip a beat. Rocky smiles wide and it’s a long moment before I realize he’s mirroring mine.
“I’m not sure, Rocky,” I admit. “But I think he’s planning on dropping by soon.”
“Yay!” Rocky shouts, before leading Tommy down the hall. “I told you he would be back! Just wait ’til he comes . . .”
The rest of the conversation is buried under the sound of sneakers squeaking against the tile and the racket of a medicine cart being wheeled down the hall. Glancing at the mail in my hand, I head back into my office.
The phone is ringing as I enter and I toss the envelopes on my desk and pick it up.
“Danielle Ashley,” I chirp.
“Hey, Danielle. It’s Gretchen.”
“How are the budget meetings going?”
A short laugh rips through the phone. It’s one of those laughs that isn’t a response to humor, but more of a cover-up for something else. Something less funny. “Shit,” she follows-up. “My God, the board wants to hack us down to nothing!”
“You’re joking.” Reaching blindly behind me, I find the armrest to my chair and slide it beneath me. “What are they doing?”
“What are they not doing is the real question,” she huffs. “If they get their way, our budget going forward will look like a third of what it does now.”
“A third?” I nearly shout. “We can barely operate as it is! They can’t be serious.”
“They’re serious, Danielle. Dead serious. I just . . . I’m at a loss for words.” She ends her statement on a sigh, the weight of her battle landing on me.
This department was completely overhauled by me and Gretchen, made into something truly special. Parents fight for their kids to come here because of the atmosphere. We keep the kids lively, engaged. We keep them from remembering they’re sick.
A lump swells in my throat. “What can we do?” I ask.
“I’m doing everything I can, Danielle. Just send good vibes and a prayer if you can.” Her voice nearly breaks. “We can’t lose the funding. I’ll do everything I can.”
“I know that,” I whisper.
“I’m going to go. I need to get some numbers together before we resume our meeting this afternoon. You’ll have some minutes in your email if you want to take a look. I sent them this morning.”
I nod, even though she can’t see me. Before I find my voice, she’s said her goodbye and the dial tone blares in my ear.
Letting myself fall back into my chair, I survey my office. It’s bright and playful, a testament to the kids that have been through our program. My gaze lands on a picture taken a couple of years ago, a young family with a little girl with pigtails. Her mother came to my office the day she was released and told me her daughter made little progress in the two other facilities she was in before here. Here, she rebounded and she could never thank the program enough. I get updates from her every six months or so.
Flicking the mouse, I wait for my computer to fire up. When it does, I see a number of emails. The one from Gretchen is bolded and shines at me, begging to be clicked. But another one sits right above it, the name staring me in the face. It’s that one I click on first.
Dear Ryan,
Your father and I will be leaving for St. Thomas in a couple of days. We’ll be staying through the Thanksgiving holiday and will, for the most part, be unavailable until the second week of December.
Joyce has offered for you to join her family for Thanksgiving dinner. I told her I would pass along the invitation.
We will be spending Christmas with the Spencer family in Aspen. I will leave your gift under the tree when we leave. Give Joyce a call and she can stick it in the mail.
Take care and talk soon.
Mom