From the Start (31 page)

“Well, thanks, I guess.”

“I’ve got some recommendations for replacements.”

He rubbed his fingers over his bad knee, trying to massage away the pulsing. “I don’t know. Not sure there’s much point to the foundation. It never really got going.”

“I don’t think you should just drop it, though.”

“That’s ironic, coming from you.”

The comment raced out before he could stop it, and clearly it landed on target, because Lilah lurched to her feet, hurt and irritation in her expression. “That’s not fair, Colt.” She paced in front of him for several angry seconds. “You know what, that’s the other reason I came. Ray has been practically begging me to set a wedding date, but I’ve been dragging my feet, and this week I finally realized why. You and I . . . we’ve never had closure.”

“Not sure closure is possible.”

She stopped and drilled him with a stare, voice notching up. “It might be if you’d let it. But it’s like you’re comfortable in broody, moody Colton-land.”

“Nice rhyme—”

“I’m not joking here, and I’m tired of this. I’m sick of feeling guilty.”

“You thought coming here to yell at me might alleviate that?”

Her impatience spilled into a scowl. “Don’t do this. Don’t turn off and refuse to hear me.”

The sound of movement from inside drifted outdoors. Great, they’d woken others up. “I do hear you, Lilah. And I’m sorry you’ve felt guilty, okay? I don’t blame you for the injuries or my retirement or any of that.”

“But you obviously blame me for what happened with us. And that’s not fair. I tried, Colt. I put my heart out there over and over, but you never let me in.”

Now he stood. “Are you kidding? I was going to propose. I loved you.”

“Because you
knew
me. But you never let me know you that same way. There was a wall you never allowed me past. It’s not that I needed every detail of the decades before we met or diary-like monologues of your every thought. But I needed . . . something.”

And the months and months of showering her with attention, affection, that wasn’t something? “Did it ever occur to you that maybe it’s painful for me to talk about my past?”

“Of course it did. But that’s what people who care about each other do . . . they share their pain. They walk through it together.” She folded her arms, voice lowering but fervent tone intact. “You can’t have a marriage or a real relationship if one person insists on walking alone.”

“I didn’t—”

“You did.” She tucked her hair behind her ears, something new landing in her gaze—clarity, resolve. “I realize there’s no point in trying to convince you. If you don’t want to take responsibility for your part in what went wrong, I can’t make you. Maybe I just needed to say the words.”

“Well, you said them.” He heard the rigidity of his own tone, felt the stubbornness tightening through him.
You’re handling this wrong. It’s just like she said. You’re refusing to hear her.

But even if he wanted to correct course now, it was too late. Because Lilah had already returned to her car and slammed the door.

“You are a hard man to track down, Colton Greene.”

Kate’s footsteps rattled on the bleachers as she climbed toward the press box that overlooked the Maple Valley High School football field. A pink sunset highlighted the web of peeling paint that wrapped around the makeshift building—no more than a rickety wooden box, really.

But it’s where Colton had apparently decided to hide out for the evening. She could see his form—at least, she assumed that was him—sitting behind the press box’s open window.

Wind flapping her hair around her face, she stood on her tiptoes to look in the window. “I’ve been trying to call you all day.”

He held up his phone. “Left it here last night.”

“So I finally learned from Rae. But she said you came out here looking for it two hours ago.” And it wasn’t all Raegan had said. Once she’d recapped the conversation she’d overheard between Colton and Lilah this morning, Kate had understood why they hadn’t seen him all day. “Can I come in?”

His nod was absent an accompanying smile, but it was a nod all the same. “Door’s locked. You’ll have to come in the same way I did.” He stood and held one hand through the window.

She stepped onto the closest bleacher, placed her palm in his, climbed through the window, and hobbled off the counter bordering the window. It was a small space—back wall plastered with game schedules and calendars with curled pages and front wall mostly windows that peered over a sleeping field.

“Decent place to kill a couple hours, I guess. Little cold, though.”

Colton walked to the corner where a narrow space heater stood. He flicked it on. “Should help.”

Colton pushed a ratty swivel chair toward her, its padding spilling out through ripped fabric. Once she sat, he unfolded a metal chair and lowered next to her.

The musty scent of old wood melded with the smell of stale popcorn—which made sense, considering the crackling of old kernels under her chair as she turned it to face Colton. “So.”

Chin down, eyes on the field sprawling in front of them, he echoed her. “So.”

“So Lilah went home.”

He didn’t say anything.

“Raegan told me.”

“How much did she overhear this morning?”

“Not much.”

He finally met her eyes. “So basically everything?”

“Basically yes.”

The space heater’s warmth began to fill the space, wrapping around her like a blanket and humming in tune with the wind. The first stars of the night were just beginning to peek through the sky’s pastel canvas outside the shed’s window.

“Rough day.”

She offered what she hoped was a sympathetic half smile. “Well, I for one had an interesting day.”

Something like relief washed over him, probably at the change in subject. “Tell me.”

During their phone calls of the past week, she’d so many times heard him say a variation of those same words that, like magic, seemed to erase the miles between Maple Valley and Chicago. Just how many hours had they spent on the phone?
“You know Seth’s friend Bear? It started with him serving me breakfast. Oh, and the worst coffee I’ve ever tasted.”

His lips almost reached a grin. “I wondered where you were this morning.”

“Eh, woke up early.”
Escaped the house like a coward.
“Then I spent the rest of the morning and a good chunk of the afternoon with Megan.”

“The scary barista?”

“She’s not scary, Colt, she’s just . . . prickly.” She traced the cold metal of the microphone sitting atop the counter. “And also pregnant.”

His eyes widened. “Whoa.”

“Yeah. She had a momentary lapse in judgment with an old boyfriend a month or so ago. She’s pretty upset. And I honestly don’t think she has a single person here in town to talk to.”

“Except you.”

“I think she’s still deciding whether or not she can stand me. But yeah, I’m probably the closest she’s got—weirdly enough.”

Cold air stretched through the window, arguing with blasts of warmth from the space heater. “I don’t think it’s that weird. You’re a good listener, Rosie. Easy to talk to.”

The space between them pulled taut, a delicate tension that dared her to ignore the resolution she’d come to this morning at Bear’s.
Distance.
Just friends.
After all, Lilah was gone now. Maybe the hope that had staked its claim yesterday at the hospital—wow, was it really just yesterday she’d still been in Chicago?—still had a place.

No.
It just didn’t make sense. Maple Valley was a bubble on its way to popping for both of them.

“So you had a wretched day. What do you usually do when you have a wretched day? What’s your antidote? You once said
your old social worker was awesome at cheering you up. What’d she do besides have you throw figurines at barns?”

His shoulders lifted just a bit. “Norah? We’d throw a football around.”

Of course. Kate looked around the shadowed space, glance landing on the ball in the corner. “Jackpot. Let’s go, Greene.”

Without waiting for him to agree, she grabbed the ball, climbed onto the counter and out the window, football under her arm and bleachers clattering as soon as she touched down. Minutes later, she reached the field, Colton not far behind.

“Never thought I’d see the day when you’d willingly offer to toss around a football.” He zipped up his hoodie as they walked to the center of the field. “We had to coerce you into it that Sunday afternoon.”

“Actually, I should probably give you a little warning.” Clouds rumbled overhead.
Please, God, not more rain.
Any more and the Blaine River’s banks wouldn’t hold its rushing waters any longer.

“Warn away.” He took the football from her and tossed it into the air, the first hint of playfulness she’d seen in him tonight.

“When I was about seven years old, Beckett begged me to come outside and play Frisbee with him. I was writing at the time, because that’s what I always did. Filled Mead Five-Star notebook after notebook with stories about pioneers and—”

He caught the ball. “Why pioneers?”

“Not relevant to the story.”

“Yeah, but—”

“’Cause I thought going west in a covered wagon sounded cool or something. I don’t know.”

“Apparently the thought of Donner Pass didn’t bother you too much.”

She rolled her eyes. “So I tried to tell Beckett to go find Logan or Rae to play with him, but he insisted.”

“Snake bites. Getting stuck in muddy rivers. Buffalo stampedes. All dangers along the Oregon Trail.”

She pulled the football out of Colton’s hands as if the act might shut him up. “He sends the Frisbee sailing at me. I catch it just fine, but when I throw it back it hits him in the face and knocks out one of his teeth.”

Colton burst into laughter. “Was it a baby tooth at least?”

“Yeah, but that didn’t stop my siblings from harassing me about it.”

The sun’s last hold on the sky had waned as she told her story, now lost to ever-darkening clouds. He pulled the football back from her. “Don’t know why they harassed you. Not your fault. Beckett should’ve caught it.”

“He was four.”

“Well, then, for the sake of safety, do you know how to throw a football?”

“Um, with my arm?”

“There’s technique, Kate.”

“I’m okay winging it.”

“Me and my teeth aren’t. I’ll teach you.”

“Colt—”

“Hey, this was your idea, Rosie. Now, first thing you need to do is grip the ball.” He reached for her right arm. “Don’t palm it. And don’t hold it too tightly. Your thumb and index finger should make an L.” He placed the ball in her hand. “Index finger goes over a seam, ring finger over the laces.” He fiddled with her finger placement. “Good.”

“And now I throw it.” She held her arm back, but he rounded behind her and stopped her arm before she could let go of the ball.

“Not so fast. Gotta get the rest of you ready.” He placed his hands on both her shoulders and nudged the back of her left
knee with his foot. “You want to face ninety degrees from your target and point your left foot toward the target.”

“I don’t even know what my target is.” Only that his closeness had the same effect of that space heater back in the press box.

“Hold the football up by your ear.” He moved her right hand. “Wind back.” He covered her hand on the ball with his. “And then you’ll throw in a half-circle motion and release the ball midway through.” He moved her arm forward . . . then back . . . then forward.

“And my other arm?” He was enjoying this, wasn’t he?

“Move it the other direction with your palm facing away. Like this.” One hand still on her throwing arm, he used the other to pull her left hand back. “I’m just showing you the basics. It changes if you’re throwing a Hail Mary or a short bullet pass or throwing while you’re getting tackled.”

Still in his grip, she moved her right arm in sync with her left, tilting her body just like he’d showed her, his movements matching hers . . .

And she released the ball.

Not quite a perfect spiral. But not a bad toss either. She turned, Colton standing so close behind her she almost knocked into him. As if on instinct, he reached to steady her, hands on her waist and laughter echoing around her.

Until, in a heady instant, he went silent—eyes searching hers and hands dropping to his side, even as he kept the space between them tight. And then, softly, “I can’t remember it, Kate.”

Distance.
She ignored her conscience, refused to step back. “What?”

“My parents’ death. I know what happened. I know the gruesome facts. I know, for some reason, I wasn’t in the car. I can remember the hundred days before it, and I can remember everything after—every awful appointment with every
well-intentioned therapist, drilling me with questions as if finally getting me to remember might solve all my problems. But it never worked.”

The words tumbled from him, as if desperate for release. With the sun now tucked away under dusk’s covers, only faint moonlight slanted in to outline the contours of his face, eyes that chose that moment to meet hers.

“And that’s why I screw up every relationship in my life. Lilah said I wouldn’t let her in, and she’s exactly right. I wouldn’t let her in because I don’t
want
to remember. It’s as if there’s only a thin layer of ice between me and the memory, and if someone gets too close to me, the ice will crack and I’ll . . .”