Single (Stockton Beavers #1) (15 page)

Chapter Twenty-Four

Luke

"And would you look at this folks. Stockton's own Luke Singleton decided to shake things up in what turned out to be the Beavers' fifth rainout of the season. The weather hasn't been kind to Beaver fans this year, but Single sure put on a show for the hometown crowd last night. This woman even jumped out of the stands to get in on the action. Brenda, have you ever seen a tarp used like that before?"

"No, Phil. I haven't. But it sure looks like fun!"

"Well, folks if you thought about heading out to Beaver Field this weekend—don't. All three games against the Clearwater Clash are already sold out. How loud do you think the boo-birds are going to be when David Nichols jogs out of the bullpen?"

"Deafening, Phil. The amount of buzz surrounding these three games is pretty incredible. Here's hoping that Mr. Beaver's son can hit one out of the park off of Nichols. Phil, don't you agree? Winning is the best revenge."

I turn off the TV and rub my eyes after getting little, if any, sleep. After Roberta went to bed, I pulled up the video of when I got hit, watching it for the very first time. And once I started, I just couldn't stop. I watched it again and again, reliving the slap of the ball smacking against my neck, and the blazing shot of pain that followed soon after, before everything went black. But no matter how many times I watched it, I still couldn't comprehend how Nichols could just stand on the mound as I lay on the ground, unconscious, unresponsive, unable to breathe. Is the guy even human?

Roberta yawns her way into the kitchen and heads directly for the coffeepot. "What are you doing up so early?"

"Watching you on the morning news."

Her shoulders stiffen, while her hand remains motionless over the sink. "I was on the news?"

"Yeah, we both were."

She turns the water on. "Did they mention my name?"

"Nah." I absently stroke my goatee. "You were just some anonymous woman who got in on all the fun."

"But could you tell it was me?" she asks, still not turning around.

"I guess. They did zoom in on us at the end."

She moves over to the refrigerator and peers inside, hiding her face from me. "Yeah, but for how long?"

"I don't know, a couple of seconds. Why?" I hold the door open for her. "Don't tell me you're camera shy."

She looks up at me, her eyes flashing with anger. "Are they so hard up for news around here that they'll put anything on TV?"

I chuckle. "It doesn't take much to make the news in Stockton. They need something to talk about besides the weather."

"Yeah, because there's no better visual than a woman in a wet T-shirt, right?" she grumbles.

I let go of the door as she backs away. "Hey, don't get mad at me. I had nothing to do with it."

She shoves her hand into the bag of coffee, dumping at least three scoops too many into the filter. "You certainly did have something to do with it. I wouldn't have run out there, if not to save your butt."

I take my phone out of my pocket and wiggle it at her. "Well, it didn't work because my manager already sent me a text that, although he's fining me $250 for the stunt I pulled, I'm still playing today."

She whirls around. "What?"

"My bright idea didn't work," I respond glumly. "I guess it all comes down to ticket sales. I'm what everybody's coming to see this weekend. If they don't put me out there, they'll never get the fans back."

Forcefully punching the on button, she stands there, thoughtfully chewing her lip. The inviting aroma of freshly brewed coffee begins to permeate the kitchen, but I move over to the counter and rummage a tea bag out of one of Mom's floral canisters, removing two mugs from the shelf in front of me.

"Chamomile…really?" she asks.

After filling my mug at the sink, I place it in the microwave, hit ninety seconds, and wait. "I'm in desperate need of a pregame nap."

"You can't let it get to you. You're stronger than you think you are."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah." She reaches for my hand. "Don't let him win, Luke. You've been through so much for it not to count for something."

I meet her eyes. "You really want me to step in there against him?"

She releases a shuddering sigh. "No, of course not. But I don't wanna see you back down either. You're the better man, Luke. You're worth more than a hundred Davids."

My lip quirks up. "You talk about him as if you know him."

The microwave goes off and she drops my hand, turning back to her coffee. But not quick enough to hide the glimpse of pure terror that just washed over her face.

"Not so fast." I tug on the back of her top.

"C'mon, Luke," she sighs. "Let me go."

I slide my hand down to her waist and pull her flush against me, nuzzling her hair. "What is it?"

"Nothing," she says flatly.

"It's funny how you know basically everything there is to know about me, and I still know hardly anything about you," I whisper. "It doesn't have to be that way. You can open up to me, Roberta."

She shakes her head adamantly against my chest. "No, that's where you're wrong, Luke. I can't."

"Why? I won't betray your confidence.
I won't
."

"That's not it," she replies, her body tense.

"Listen, if you're regretting what almost happened between us last night…" I manfully clear my throat. "It's okay. I just want you to know I'm here for you. As a friend, whatever. It doesn't matter."

She turns in my arms. "I don't regret it, but…"

I tremble when her hands come to rest on my chest, their warmth hitting me through my plain white tee. "But…?"

She ducks her head, but I tilt her chin up, needing her to look at me.

"Luke, years ago…" She hesitates. "I was m—"

The house phone rings on the wall, interrupting her. Shaking, she backs out of my arms. "I'll—" she starts, combing her hands through her hair. "I'll get it." And before I can stop her, she moves across the room from me and picks up the phone.

"Hello?" Her eyes nearly pop out of her head as she grips her stomach. "How did you…?"

Whatever color that was left in her face vanishes, and realizing that I'm watching her, she turns her back to me.

"I don't care. Don't you ever call here again."

She slams the phone down, startling me, then reaches out and holds on to the wall.

An awkward few seconds go by without either of us saying a word.

I swallow, deciding to tease her, not knowing what else to do. "What? You're getting calls here now?"

"Stupid telemarketer," she replies in a low voice. "I think…I think I'm gonna go wake your mom now."

"Roberta," I murmur. "Wait… We're not done here."

But she's already gone.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Roberta

I get up and go to the door again. Peering through the curtain, I scan the street, searching for any cars that don't belong to the neighbors.

Sit down, Bobbie Jo. He's not out there. He's at the game.

Chewing on my thumbnail, I open the Beavers' Twitter feed.

T7: The Clash go down in order. Clearwater leads 4-3. Hoffman, Singleton, Reardon due up for Stockton.

The stage is set. According to every report I've read online, that rubber arm of his has been eating up the late innings whenever the Clash have the lead. He's going to come in to the game. I know it. And as if reading my mind, a new tweet rolls in.

B7: Nichols takes the mound.

I can't stay on the couch. I stalk around the living room, holding my hand against my forehead. I think I'm going to be sick. And I know it's not just the thought of pitching in front of a sold-out crowd that's pumping David up tonight. Right now, he's hurling his warm-up tosses at the catcher, adding an extra pop to his already intimidating fastball. It's personal now. Luke's not just random target practice to him anymore. He's the guy his ex-wife's shacked up with.

If only I didn't take a turn on the slip 'n slide… If only I didn't end up on TV… If only he hadn't been in Stockton to see it and start asking questions…

All the "if onlys" in the world aren't going to change anything. He found me. He knows I'm staying at Luke Singleton's house. The hows and whys of what I'm doing here don't matter to him. I'm with another man, a man who's not him. In his twisted mind, that's all that matters.

Crash
!

My head darts toward the stairs.

"Luuuuukey! Where are you?"

Without another thought, I run up the steps. My heart starts pounding.
Please don't tell me
… I barge into the bedroom at the end of the hall, only to find Luke's mom leaning halfway out the window. I gasp, rushing toward her. "Mrs. S.! What are you doing?"

"I wanna fly with your pretty butterflies," she moans. "They said they'll take me to Lukey."

"My butterflies? Mrs. S., there aren't any butterflies out there."

"Yes, there are! I've seen them, the blue and green ones."

My heart lurches. There are blue and green butterflies on the cover of my journal. I've written in it in front of her plenty of times, but up until now I never thought she noticed it. But then there was that offhand comment she made last night at Beaver Field, the one about David hitting Luke…
and me
. Oh God, has she read what I've written inside?

"I'll get the butterflies for you." I bargain with her. "I know where they are, but you have to step away from the window."

I expect her to thrash against me, resisting any attempt to pull her out of harm's way, but instead, she limply collapses into me, sobbing. I steal a glance over her head, and the screen's lying on the ground below.
What if I was too late? What if she jumped before I could get up here
? I hug her to me as she cries her heart out, trembling.

In order to pacify her, I rock back and forth with her in my arms, humming gently. Of all times for her to do something like this…it's like she somehow knows her son's in danger and she's trying to get to him any way she can, all thanks to me. I clutch her tiny body to me and smooth her hair away from her face. "It's okay, Mrs. S. I've got you."

She hiccups, trying to catch her breath. "But Lukey…"

I lower us onto the foot of the bed and reluctantly reach for my phone. "Let's see how he's doing, okay?"

She buries her face in my shoulder, almost like she's afraid to find out. Gathering my courage, I turn it on.

B7: Hoffman K looking. *PITCHING CHANGE* Nichols out. Juarez in. Singleton due up next.

Tossing my phone aside, I let out a yelp of joy and Luke's mom stares up at me. Covering my mouth, I rub her back, too overwhelmed to speak. David's not going to pitch to Luke. He's safe.

"Is Lukey all right?" she asks, her eyes shining up at me.

"Yes." I nod, smiling at her. "He's fine."

She snuggles up against me. "Good. I knew your butterflies would get to him in time."

Alzheimer's patients tend to grow more childlike in their behavior. Some family members find it incredibly hard to deal with, but right now I don't think I've ever witnessed such a genuine feeling of contentment in anyone before. Without rhyme or reason, she trusts me. Like somehow, someway, she knows I'd never lie to her about her son, that we both care about him, each in our own way.

That's what motherhood is—a lifelong bond between mother and child that defies explanation. Her love for Luke rises above everything, even her illness. It's powerful, eternal.

My eyes start to well up because I'll never get to fully experience what that's like. Any chance I had of having a child of my own has passed. And being in this room, with Luke's mom clinging to me, I do something I haven't done in a long time. I have an ugly cry and just let it all out. Tears are streaming down my face. My nose is running. My breath's coming out in jagged spurts. And Luke's mom doesn't even pick up her head this time, she just holds on to me, as I hold on to her.

"What is it, dearie?" she whispers once I begin to quiet. "Why are you so sad?"

Do I dare tell her? It'd be so nice to get it off my chest and have someone listen to me.

I blink up at the ceiling, trying to piece the words together. "I was a mom, too."

"It's dark out." She shivers. "Why aren't you home with your kids?"

I wipe my eyes with my sleeve. "Well, I still consider myself a mom, even though I never actually gave birth. One of my babies was stillborn, and the other…"

Twisting up her face, she thumps her fist on the bed. "What? Why?"

"Well." I exhale deeply. "You were right when you said, 'He hit her too," because my husband at the time used to beat me up whenever he got mad. My baby was stillborn because he kicked me in the stomach."

She lifts her eyes to mine. "No man has the right to hit a woman."

I nod, swallowing back my tears. "That's why I divorced him. But he never really accepted that it was over. He's done stuff, terrible stuff, and I'm afraid, Mrs. S. I'm afraid of what he's gonna do next."

She kisses the top of my head. "Don't worry. My Lukey will protect you."

I let out a shaky laugh. "I know he'd try, Mrs. S., but if you only knew who my ex-husband is…"

"Lukey's not afraid of anybody," she shushes me, pushing my head down onto her shoulder and stroking my hair. "He doesn't back down from a fight. I bandaged his cuts. I iced his bruises. I know."

My mind is bombarded with a barrage of images, the clip of him getting hit, the scar on his neck, the fear in his eyes before he left for the stadium. He's already taken David on—and lost. I can't let him do it again, not for my sake.

"But if he hurts you…or Luke…" I gasp for air. "I could never forgive myself."

"Have faith in my son," she says, her voice suddenly strong and sure. "He never lets anyone down. He won't let you down either."

I glance up at her, and she smiles at me, her eyes the most lucid I've ever seen them. It's like she's still right here with me, cognizant and aware. Until she pats my cheek and crawls behind me, getting back under the covers.

"I'm going to bed now. Can you close the window?" she sighs, shutting her eyes, thoroughly exhausted from our conversation.

I immediately feel the loss of her, even though we're still in the same room together. I'm so affected by it that I can't imagine how tough these moments must be on Luke. Alzheimer's patients are here one minute, gone the next. It wreaks havoc on your heart like nothing else can, especially when it involves the love of a parent.

Sliding the window down, I flip the lever on top, locking it, and stare out into the night. David's in town for the next two days, and I'm not taking any chances.