Chapter 21
Henry was hot and sticky . . .
—Gertrude Chandler Warner, The Boxcar Children
Clint touched the empty place next to him. He wasn’t surprised that Dancy had gone back to the caboose, but he wished she
hadn’t so they could pick up where they’d left off. Sunshine spilled through the windows, and last night’s storm was only
a memory. He couldn’t believe he’d slept so long. As he splashed water on his face and brushed his teeth, he remembered the
sounds she’d made, the feel of her skin under his hands. He remembered how perfect it felt to kiss that luxurious mouth. Now
he wanted to make her breakfast and do it all over again.
He raked a hand through his hair without bothering to comb it and went downstairs. Watch didn’t run to greet him, so Dancy
hadn’t come back yet. He hoped she wasn’t still caught up in that pity key crap.
He slipped into the old Tevas he’d abandoned by the front door and went to get her.
Last night might have been the best night of his life.
Being with Dancy had felt so right. Yes, it was bound to be complicated, and now wasn’t a good time for complexity.
He had to drive back to Chicago in a week to get ready for training camp, and sooner or later Dancy was returning to LA.
Then what? Being nothing more than each other’s booty call didn’t seem right, and Dancy’s forever friend idea sounded good in theory, but how was that going to work if they couldn’t keep their hands off each other?
Watch didn’t bark when Clint approached the caboose. Inside, it was deathly quiet. His chest tightened as he went into the
bedroom.
The bed was neatly made with a kid’s book propped on the pillow next to an ugly ragdoll. He opened the wardrobe door and saw
what he’d already figured out. Dancy’s clothes were gone. She’d run.
He stalked out of the caboose and back across the driveway. That woman was a train wreck. Instead of hanging around so they
could discuss things like a couple of adults, she’d taken off.
He stormed into the house and retrieved his phone. Sure enough, she’d texted him.
Your car is at Erin’s house. Keys under the mat. Good luck this season. Leave me alone.
He stared at the message. She was running away, kissing him off. Just because they’d had mind-blowing sex didn’t mean she
needed to disappear like a scared rabbit.
He was pissed. Without stopping for coffee, he headed to the gym so he could take out his anger on something productive. Unfortunately, he got sloppy and nearly threw out his back. Which proved his point about distractions.
He closed himself in the sauna before he did more damage. With a towel wrapped around his waist, he sat in the middle of the
slatted bench and breathed in the heat. As sweat rolled down his neck, he waited for the scent of cedar and eucalyptus to
calm him. Instead, something ugly poked at the edges of his brain, something he couldn’t quite grasp. Until it finally hit
him.
Not once last night had he reached for a condom. Not once had he asked her about birth control. Blame it on the storm. Blame
it on Dancy making him crazy, but for the first time in his life he’d failed to have the most basic conversation any sensible
adult had with a sex partner. And with Dancy, of all people. Dancy, who desperately wanted a child.
He remembered how she’d insisted they didn’t talk. What if last night hadn’t been as impulsive as he’d believed? What if . . . ?
The ugly thought took hold and wouldn’t budge. What if she’d planned the whole thing?
The Nissan Rogue SUV Dancy had rented held the road well, the cruise control worked, and between wearing a face mask, a ball
cap, and no makeup, she hadn’t been recognized at the rest stops and dog-friendly hotels where they spent their two nights
on the road.
Watch was proving to be a good traveling companion, and she was seeing America the Beautiful—cornfields and prairie, mountains and desert—from the ground instead of the air.
One mile gave way to another. She listened to farm reports, sermons, news, and music.
Better to think about the way Roth had played her instead of what had happened with Clint.
Yes, she should have seen through Roth’s act, but she hadn’t.
She was tough. She was sober. She wouldn’t let herself slide back into that dark underbelly of isolation and alcohol. Leaving
her beloved caboose behind and going back home was a victory for self-discipline and maturity.
She crossed the Nevada border into California. No more forgetting to shower. No more looking for answers in a bottle of vodka.
She was fine. Good.
Four hours from home, the radio station began playing the haunting opening strains of “Ocean Eyes,” followed by that sweet,
ethereal voice:
Falling into those ocean eyes . . .
Thirteen-year-old Billie Eilish was singing the song her seventeen-year-old brother Finneas had written.
Falling into those ocean eyes . . .
That’s when it finally happened. A pair of teenagers who didn’t know shit about mature love managed to do what two thousand
miles of highway hadn’t been able to accomplish. They ripped Dancy’s heart out and made her cry.
Clint was overwhelmed by the noise. Even though the Stars were headquartered in the suburbs west of the city, the noise never
stopped: commuter trains and freight trains, trucks and buses, motorcycles and helicopters. Sirens went off day and night,
and the grounds at Stars headquarters buzzed with lawn mowers, leaf blowers, and tree trimmers. People were everywhere, and
now they owned him.
He had to adjust. In a couple of days, he’d meet with his coaches, catch up with old teammates, and take the rookies out to dinner. He’d see his family. Talk to the press. Do everything he should.
But he didn’t want to do any of it. He couldn’t. Not with a shrieking buzz saw taking over his brain.
Dancy made it home late at night and dumped everything she’d packed on the foyer floor, then stepped over the mess to stumble
upstairs and climb into bed. With a troubled heart and the broken white lines of the highway playing on the backs of her eyelids,
she fell into a fitful sleep.
The next morning she bumped into a chair she’d forgotten existed on her way downstairs to let Watch out into her overgrown
courtyard garden. She hadn’t remembered to call a gardener. When Watch was done, she wobbled back to bed. She’d lost her baby,
her career, and the man she loved. Didn’t she deserve to spend a day or two in bed?
Yes, she did.
Her path forward was clear. Don’t look back, and—especially—don’t think about Clint. Focus only on how to move ahead from
her dead career.
Starting tomorrow.
Or maybe the day after.
She pulled the sheet over her head and closed her eyes.
Watch gave a low growl. She pulled her head out and glared at him. “What?”
He glared back.
“Don’t judge.”
He curled his lip at her.
“Damn it, Watch!”
A full-on sneer.
“Shit.” She dragged herself out of bed. “I’m not taking a shower!”
She took a shower and dressed in jeans that were a little tight at the waist and a T-shirt printed with a photo of James Earl
Jones. While Watch explored the house, she made coffee, texted Erin that she’d arrived safely, and rummaged through the freezer
until she found half a frozen bagel. She stuck it in the toaster and gazed at the kitchen’s white stucco walls.
The house had once belonged to a 1930s film star, and the orange-and-blue Mexican tilework, along with the beamed ceiling,
were original. Subsequent owners had managed to update it without destroying its Southern California charm, and Dancy had
continued to give the house the respect it deserved.
Furnishing it had been the perfect distraction during the early days of her divorce while she was trying to get pregnant.
She’d chosen antique Navaho rugs to complement the warm terra-cotta floors and furniture upholstered in natural fabrics with
hints of soft blue and burnt orange. She’d created a Pinterest board for the nursery. One more memory she had to release.
The bagel popped up in the toaster, startling Watch, who’d curled at her feet. “Scared of a toaster,” she grumbled, “but you
get all judgy with me.”
He didn’t take offense, but that was a dog for you.
She settled at the yellow-painted wooden table in the dining nook.
As she sipped her coffee, she gazed through the square panes of the big, arched window into the overgrown courtyard that made up most of her small backyard.
A pair of monarchs flew near the butterfly weed, and a lemon tree shaded the terra-cotta pots of dying succulents. She missed her caboose.
The bagel formed a hard lump in her stomach. The caboose was behind her. This was her real life.
She finished her coffee and called Roth, not surprised when he didn’t pick up. She left another blistering message, then phoned
Valerie Evers, his partner at Hard Heart Productions. She and Valerie hadn’t been close friends, but they’d been friends,
going out for drinks and seeing a few shows together. Dancy had always respected Valerie’s intelligence and dedication. She
didn’t answer either, giving Dancy a good excuse to go back to bed, but Watch needed a walk.
This wasn’t Lake Isabella, and no ball cap and mask would keep her from being recognized. Still, instead of following her
normal LA routine of hair, makeup, and a carefully chosen athleisure outfit, she went out as she was, accessorizing her James
Earl Jones T-shirt only with sunglasses and her purloined “Simply the Best” ball cap.
She leashed Watch and locked the door. She’d barely stepped onto the front sidewalk before a gray-haired woman leading a beautifully
groomed doodle paused to stare at her. By the time the walk was over, she’d been surreptitiously photographed by a couple
of hipsters coming out of a coffee shop and a twentysomething carrying a yoga mat. Both photos would be on the internet by
the end of the day. She didn’t care.