Chapter 14
Spring Training
[Cadence]
Back in October, I left Sterling Falls the night of the wedding.
I couldn’t spend another night with my sister because, duh, new husband.
The newlyweds planned to take a few days during the week after their wedding for a short honeymoon, and Knox and Halle had volunteered to watch Adara for them.
Once more, I’d been a failure to my sister.
I also didn’t have the energy to face Ford again.
After our dance, we kept our distance the remainder of the night by mingling with his family and enjoying his girls.
When the disc jockey played a Cadence song, his three daughters and I danced, danced, danced while I lip-synced my own tune.
His daughters were a riot, and they knew the words as well as I did.
Another reason I needed to leave Sterling Falls: the number of text messages blowing up my phone.
Where are you?
Is your bed cold?
Are you alone?
Fucking Evan. As if it wasn’t enough he broke my heart, he had to string along the pieces. In text messages, tone and inflection are difficult to interpret, but there was no questioning Evan’s cadence. His angry voice rang through my head.
He had no right. We were over.
Last fall, my tour had been a godsend. Evan couldn’t get to me. There were planes to catch and busses to ride, plus rehearsals, parties, and of course, the concert performances. In the mix was my manager and his demands which I was patiently ignoring.
My attorney told me to play nice for a little longer.
Papers needed to be drawn. Injunctions made.
Jerry wasn’t going to be happy, but I’d been complacent for too long.
My songs were my songs, and he’d manipulated the system and me.
My loyalty rested with my fans. I wouldn’t disappoint them by canceling a world tour or hashing out my history during one, but I was done being a darlin’ behind the scenes.
Jerry Septor was a music-managing god at one time.
He worked production magic, harvested talent, and recognized a sure thing when he saw one.
He’d told me I was all three—a magically talented sure-fire success.
He’d done a lot for me as I grew in the industry, but he’d also done his share of secret sales and backdoor deals at my expense.
Roughly seven years ago, I hired a new assistant.
Lana Barclay learned quickly, had a better attitude, and knew the right people in the industry. She’d been heaven sent.
I’d wait, as Maggie recommended.
Still, time moved slowly. I’d been in the studio, but I couldn’t embark on what I wanted to do. Yet. I’d missed Thanksgiving and Christmas, as I always did, with my sister and her new family, opting for my traditional Friendsgiving and then spending the winter holiday with Jerry and company.
By January, I was coming out of my skin.
+ + +
By mid-February, football season was over, and baseball was headlining the sports channels.
Not that I cared about sports, but I found myself looking for stories about Ford Sylver.
Since October, I’d thought of Ford and his three little darlings constantly, wondering what they were doing, how they were doing.
That kiss played on repeat in my head. His mouth against mine.
His fingers in my hair. The instant attraction to him in a way I couldn’t explain to myself.
Months of distance did little to settle my thoughts, but time had been my friend.
With Ford’s divorce no longer so fresh, I was curious if the ghosts in his eyes were less. I wondered if we could be friends.
I’d been in California laying low when the news app on my phone mentioned the upcoming spring training season for the Chicago Anchors and fourteen other teams that made up that league in Arizona.
While hundreds of miles away from me, I felt close enough, and bold enough to reach out to Ford after all this time.
Me: Hey you.
To my surprise, a response came quickly.
Cowboy: Who’s this?
Me: I’m offended you don’t recognize our secret greeting.
Cowboy: Because ‘hey you’ is so original?
Me: Seeing as you lost my number before, I thought I’d ship it right to your phone.
Cowboy: Who says I want your number?
Me: I’ve got you in my favorites as Cowboy. You can put me under TQ.
He could also put me under Songbird, but I wasn’t certain he’d thought of that night as often as I did.
Cowboy: For totally quintessential?
Cowboy: Terribly quirky.
Cowboy: Talented quacker.
I could almost hear Ford laughing across the miles. Or maybe he was doing that endearing jaw clench, fighting back a smile that would crook up the corner of his lips.
Me: Talented quacker? *duck emoji*
Cowboy: I was running out of Q words. I’m too tired to think.
Me: I was thinking more along the lines of Tequila Queen but being five-times essential works. Quirky is never a bad thing. Quack, quack, quack.
Cowboy: Tequila Queen. Why would that be? My memory escapes me.
Me: Ha.
Had he really forgotten me? We all had blackout moments in our history but had the memory of me really escaped him?
Was that kiss forgettable for him? Maybe reaching out hadn’t been the best idea.
I didn’t have a reason to speak to him. Strangely, though, I’ve missed him.
His mannerisms with his girls. His edgy expression. The way he claimed me with only a kiss.
Cowboy: Still there TQ?
Me: Why are you tired?
Cowboy: Long practices. Juggling three girls.
Me: Goodness. I realize you’re a talented center fielder so catching is your thing but juggling little girls? Mad skills. *baseball emoji* *smiley face tongue out emoji*
Cowboy: Haha.
If he wasn’t laughing before, I’d hoped he was laughing now.
Me: Good to hear you still have a sense of humor.
Cowboy: Still? I’m always funny.
Now I laughed. I couldn’t remember Ford really yucking it up at our siblings’ wedding.
Me: With your brother and my sister married, that doesn’t make us anything weird like in-law siblings, does it?
Cowboy: Sometimes I think you’re just weird. *smiley face emoji*
Me: Talentedly quacky. *smiley face emoji* *duck emoji*
Cowboy: JK.
Me: See, you totally get the initial thing.
Cowboy: Speaking of girls. I’ve got to get them to bed. Our first game is tomorrow.
Me: No doubt you’re eager to be greeted by adoring fans cheering for you from the stands.
Cowboy: Just a sea of nameless faces. *shrugging emoji*
My breath catches at the seemingly blasé tone in his text.
Because there’s something in those few sparse words that is indicative of loneliness which he tries to cover up.
I know all too well what it’s like to look out over thousands of strangers, wishing only one of them was a familiar face; that one of them was present for me in a way no one else has ever been.
Someone there for Caitlin Calloway, a woman who has been successful, not turned into a brand.
Certainly, my parents would never be there.
I glance at the time on my phone—it’s only seven—and then reach for my laptop.
Me: Break a leg. They probably don’t say that in baseball. You couldn’t run the bases if you did.
Cowboy: Totally weird. *smiley face emoji* And I thought you didn’t know anything about baseball.
Me: Never said that.
My screen lights up and then dims. Three dots appear as if he’s typing, then disappear.
As I type away on my laptop, another text comes through.
Cowboy: Thanks for reaching out.
The response sounds like I was checking in with a grandmother or something.
Me: Now that was just weird. But get some sleep. And knock one out of the ballpark. << See baseball reference.
Cowboy: Thanks.
Cowboy: Oh, and Tequila Queen. Never said I lost your number.
Cowboy: Night.
Me: Night, cowboy.
I could question why he never called me then, but I don’t. Instead, I smile to myself and stomp my feet on the floor like a giddy girl, because his statement suggests he remembers me. Or thought of me. Or at the very least, didn’t forget me.