Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 94687 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94687 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
What happened wasn’t your fault, Virgil had said yesterday in the dugout—not that I believed him. But if it wasn’t, did that mean there was some other force working against me? Was it fate? The universe? God? Whatever it was, it was powerful enough that it had taken me down at the top of my game. It had beaten the unbeatable. Sunk the unsinkable. And it continued to work against me even now—the sleepless nights. The tireless media. The assholes in every corner bar and barber shop. I’d never be able to escape it. Why would she want to take that on?
And Chip. Jesus Christ. That poor kid had been through enough. There was no way I could handle him knowing who I was, and there was no way for me to act like everything was normal. I couldn’t face him. I didn’t want to. Staying out of his life had been the right decision the first time around, hadn’t it? That’s why leaving now was the right choice too.
But goddamn, it hurt like hell thinking I’d never see April smile at me again. Or hear her laugh. Or kiss her lips or smell her skin or put my hands in her hair. And I’d never forget the way she looked at me—like I’d ripped her heart out and crushed it—before I walked out the door.
I knew how she felt.
My heart was crushed too.
Twenty-Three
April
How had I not seen this coming?
Devastated, I stood crying at the front door, waiting for my tears to run dry, but they refused. Eventually I turned off all the lights, locked the door, and dragged myself upstairs.
If you’ve never cried after a breakup while brushing your teeth, let me tell you—it’s horrible. You’re watching yourself in the mirror, blubbering with a mouth full of foamy toothpaste, thinking that this is the worst you’ve ever looked and it’s no wonder he doesn’t want you.
I put on my pajamas and curled up in my bed, going over the last ten days again and again in my head. What had I missed? Where had I gone wrong?
At first, I was convinced it had come out of nowhere, but the more I sifted through the events of the previous week—or at least the last twenty-four hours—the more I could see that it hadn’t.
The restaurant debacle. The nightmare. The news story. Losing his coaching offer. Discovering Chip—his lefty—was his son.
Admittedly, it was a lot.
But he didn’t have to run away! And he wouldn’t have, not if he felt for me what I felt for him.
That was the sad truth of it. He hadn’t felt what I felt. He hadn’t imagined a future for us, not really. He’d just been playing with an idea. Playing with my heart. He’d told me right from the start he wasn’t interested in a serious relationship, hadn’t he? Nothing that would lead to love, marriage, a family.
And I’d been so blinded by the idea of him wanting me, by the seductive notion that I was enough to change his mind, to break through his walls, to show him his best was yet to come . . . well, it wasn’t the first time I’d been irresponsible with Tyler Shaw.
But it would be the last.
I’d taken a risk opening my heart to him, and when it was time for him to take a risk for me, he’d bolted.
I deserved more.
The truth of it was right there in front of me, and yet . . . I cried for him all night.
In the morning, I texted my sisters.
Hey. Sorry for the 6 a.m. text, but I need a hug. Anyone who can come over for coffee this morning is encouraged to bring tissues.
Within minutes, responses were coming in.
Meg: OMG I will be there as soon as I can.
Frannie: Shoot! I’m at work already! Are you okay?
Me: I don’t know.
Chloe: OMW.
Sylvia: I have to get Whitney from her sleepover at 8 and then I’ll come over!
Forty-five minutes later, I was sitting across from Meg and Chloe at my kitchen table, telling them the entire story. When I got to the part about the letter and the photograph, they both gasped.
“Can we see it?” Chloe asked.
Nodding, I got up from my chair and went over to the kitchen counter where I’d placed the envelope, letter and picture tucked back inside. I placed it on the table in front of them, then went and poured myself another cup of coffee.
A second later I heard one of them gasp. “Oh my God! It’s Tyler in high school! But with your skin!” Meg exclaimed.
“And Dad’s ears!” added Chloe.
I would have smiled if I could. “Yep.”
They were silent as they read the letter, and I made my way back to the table. I studied their faces as they read—Meg’s brow furrowed and serious, Chloe’s jaw hanging open in disbelief.