Chapter 12
Renleigh
How did I get here?
I’ve heard people utter those hypothetical words, and I used to scratch my head and wonder how they could be so obtuse.
I get it now.
I have always been a driven, focused, independent woman.
And I can’t fathom for the life of me how I landed my ass back in my hometown and put myself into a situationship with, of all the men in the world, a ballplayer.
And not just any ballplayer. I went and picked up a number one draft pick.
A guy whose face has already been in the media.
A lot. A guy who is going to be in the media a whole lot more.
A guy who, by his own accord, is only passing through.
And fuck if I don’t kind of like him.
The good news, at least from this warped perspective, is I don’t have time to mentally work through that mess right now.
I’ve just learned that my mother isn’t simply visiting.
She’s staying. As in . . . moving in. And yeah, it’s her house still and all—half of it—but does she really need to be in her old bedroom?
The one I’ve made myself comfortable in? FOR TWO YEARS!
“Renleigh, this doesn’t have to happen today,” my mom says, though her actions contradict her words as she hangs a collection of pantsuits on the right side of the closet.
I glare at her as I grab a handful of my clothes—all mismatched sweatshirts and over-sized T-shirts—and carry them to the spare room I once shared with my sister.
Now, it’s the place where my father’s card collection is stored, along with every other abandoned trinket this household has ever seen.
The purple floral wallpaper remains; it’s yellowed a lot, and the seams are peeling.
“No time like the present,” I utter, my tone clearly unamused.
My mom sighs behind me, but I leave her with her self-righteous thoughts and close the door with my foot as I enter my new room.
A puff of dust kicks off the nearby dresser as I drop my clothes on the sitting chair in the corner.
I wave my hand through the air, coughing my way to the window so I can crack it open.
This space is the very definition of musty.
And I’m sure there are ghosts in here—fragments of every life decision I’ve ever made.
I didn’t want to get into the history of my parents’ bizarre arrangement with Hunter during our drive home.
It was bad enough that my mom insisted on stepping into the caretaker role without me around.
Then she dropped her little bomb about moving in, and my brain simply shut down.
I may have channeled that frustration toward Hunter, and I’m only now reflecting on my behavior.
I sit on the edge of the mattress and stare at the specks of dust floating through the beam of sunlight. My phone buzzes at my hip, so I fish it from my side pocket and see my sister’s incoming call. I pinch the bridge of my nose and press the phone to my ear.
“I’m surprised I can get cell service in the guest room. It feels kind of like a scene in one of those horror movies where they send the bad children to starve.”
My sister snort-laughs at my tasteless joke.
“You’re being dramatic,” she says.
I pat the folded bedspread, and more dust puffs into the air.
“Am I?”
My sister is quiet for a few seconds, which pretty much answers my question.
I know she hates what’s happening as much as I do, but the brunt of it is happening more directly to me.
Regardless, I am glad I have her to commiserate with.
Just like I’m glad she agrees that I shouldn’t pack up and head back to school right away.
My mom’s been impulsive about her relationship with Dad before.
This could very well turn into a pit stop . . . again.
“I can’t believe you’re giving her the room without a fight,” my sister finally says.
I shake my head and utter, “Yeah,” because my move surprises me a bit, too. I’m usually more stubborn than this. But my dad seems so happy to have her here. And he’s doing so well. I don’t want to be the downer. At least not this time.
Lindsey and I have always been embarrassed by our parents’ arrangement. They never told us they got divorced the first time our mom left, when we were eleven and thirteen and Mom went to Boston to work for a congresswoman.
Now that I’m an adult, I think she probably also moved to Boston to be with another man—Collin.
They both worked at the same crisis communications firm, and Collin represented this exciting life that was nothing like that of a small-town high school baseball coach’s wife.
My mom was only in Boston—aka with Collin—for two years.
She was back home with us when I started high school.
She left again a few times, usually for work.
Six months in Chicago was followed up by a year in Northern California.
She was just settling back in Sweetwater again when my dad had his first stroke.
She stayed for the first one, which wasn’t as severe.
Then, conveniently, the Houston opportunity showed up around the time Dad had his second stroke.
And she was gone again, leaving him to do the hard stuff alone.
“Do you think Dad’s a sucker?” It’s a blunt question, and it tastes bad on my tongue, but I have to ask it. And Lindsey’s the only one I can say it to.
“Sometimes,” she says, her response equally honest.
My sister and I make plans for her to come over for dinner next Monday, along with the boys.
That’s another bone of contention, and one my sister harbors more than I do since she’s the one with children.
Our mom has missed out on a lot of grandparenting time.
Of course, spending more time with the kids was supposedly one of Mom’s primary reasons for moving back home.
We’ll see how she handles two boys wrapped around her legs the moment they enter the house. Assuming they remember who she is.
“How was camping?” Lindsey finally broaches the real reason she’s called.
I suck in my lips as my cheeks burn.
“It was good. I had fun.”
She dismisses my curt answer with a hard laugh.
“Bitch, I need details. Did you?” She lets the open-ended question linger between us for a few long seconds, and I consider not answering. A non-answer is really a yes, though, so I may as well rip the Band-Aid off.
“We did.”
She squeals, and I hold the phone away from my ear until her shriek has subsided.
“I want to know everything. Girl, it’s been years since I’ve had strange dick. And a ballplayer, you lucky bitch. Is he big? Are the abs legit? Is he into wild shit or like, boring missionary style?”
“Oh my God, Lindsey. I’m not telling you any of that.” I flatten my palm over my face and giggle softly at the memory of Hunter pulling my sweatshirt up my body. “Okay, okay. I’ll give you one thing. Brace yourself.”
“I’m braced,” my sister pants jokingly.
“As skillful as Hunter Reddick is on the mound, he's ten times as good between my legs. And I mean all of him. His mouth. His hands. His . . .”
I trail off there, but Lindsey has zero boundaries and fills in the gap with a very loud, “Cock.”
“Yes, that too,” I admit.
I move my hand along my thigh, reaching for the memory of his hand trailing along that same path. The ache of him being inside me. The weight of his body, and the strength in his hands as he positioned me wherever he wanted. The way I let him. Gah!
My sister ends our call when she overhears the sudden knock at my door. I clear my throat as I toss my phone to the bed and open the door to my mother.
“I was going through my clothes, and I thought maybe you’d like a few of these things.
You know, for when . . . just whenever.” She hands me three garments wrapped in plastic, one of them a pale pink pantsuit that I can’t imagine ever putting on my body.
I blink at it a few times, then hook the hangers on my thumb.
“Thanks. Maybe.”
Probably not.
I move to the closet and slide the broken door open a few inches, just enough to push the hangers through the crack. They slide in, between the door and the stack of boxes inside. I turn back around to meet my mom’s gaze and pursed lips.
“If you don’t want them, you could just say so,” she says, folding her arms over her chest.
I chew at the tip of my tongue, imagining the version where I say exactly that and throw the garments back at her.
“I might want them,” I lie instead. It feels gross. “I don’t know, I just have a lot of work to do in here. I need to clear out some old stuff. I should really get to it.”
I step toward her, toward the door, but she doesn’t budge. She’s comfortable, standing with one foot in my room, her body leaning against the jam, her face full of judgement. As if that’s the way this should go. Her judging me. Ha!
“Anything else?” I hold on to the edge of the door, giving her one more context clue.
Please leave now.
“Yes. One thing,” she says.
I exhale, and she does the same, partly to mock me, I’m sure. Our eyes meet.
“Remember that there are two of us in this relationship,” she says.
I shake with a single silent laugh.
“I don’t mean me and you, though that truth works between us as well. I mean me and your dad. There are two people making decisions about this relationship, Renleigh. It’s not always me deciding to stay or go.”
She hits me with a hard stare that feels invasive, and I find myself wrapping my free arm around my midriff to ward off her invasion.
What is that cryptic shit supposed to mean?
And duh, I know there are two of them. I know he takes her back.
And fine, maybe I should assign some of the blame his way and let him hear my piece, too.
But what can I say/ I’m a daddy’s girl. I’m always going to pick his side, even when he won’t.
She backs out of my room after several seconds pass without a reaction from me, and I shut my door again the moment she’s cleared the doorway.
My body is buzzing with frustration, and the pent-up anger borders on hurt.
My eyes burn while I force myself not to cry.
Instead, I pour every ounce of my focus into hauling boxes of worthless memorabilia, along with grade school report cards and childhood toys from my old closet, and into the garage so I have enough room to live here as a grown-up.
On my final return trip from the garage, I catch a glimpse of my father practicing his balance in the center of his makeshift room.
His walker is right there, the grips within inches of his fingers so he can catch himself.
His body quivers from the exertion of his muscles as he stands for several seconds at a time without help, and it makes my chest hurt.
I want to celebrate this moment. I want to congratulate him and urge him to keep going.
He’s working so hard. But I’m afraid he’s doing it for false promises, and that’s what’s killing me.
I know it in my gut. He thinks if he can just get back to normal, if he can walk on his own, climb the stairs to his old bedroom—where she is—that this time, she’ll stay.
In the gambling world, they call that throwing good money after bad.
I shut my eyes and draw in a deep breath, forcing myself to leave this moment alone. I can let him have this. I can suspend my jaded heart for his sake, at least for one day. It’s not hurting him. If anything, it’s driving him to get stronger.
I manage to make it back to my room without opening my big mouth, but the burn in my chest is still searing.
And Hunter Reddick is calling me.
From the road.
I stare at his name in my phone, every nerve ending in my body lighting up with the memory of his touch. He’s an escape. And maybe I deserve to be happy, too. At least for a little while.
“Hey,” I murmur, holding the phone close to my ear, cupping the device as if it will somehow shelter this conversation and keep it a secret.
“Oh, hey. I didn’t think you’d pick up. How are you?” He sounds genuinely surprised.
I can hear the rush of people filling a stadium in the background. Nashville always draws a good crowd. Hunter’s not pitching tonight, but he will tomorrow. Tonight, though . . . tonight he’s free. Just a flight away.
“I’m coming to Nashville.” I don’t wait for his invitation. My phone is on speaker a second after the words leave my lips and I’m searching for a flight.
“Oh, wow. Really? Are you . . .”
“I get in at nine,” I say, pacing my room now that I’ve pressed purchase and used all my points for this last-second trip.
“Okay, you’re flying, then. Do you need somewhere to stay?” His shy, roundabout way of asking is sweet. But I’m not in the mood for sweet.
“I’m staying with you. And we are fucking. Text me the hotel info.”
I end the call before he finishes his excited acceptance, and a few seconds later the device in my hand buzzes with his hotel address, followed by a wide-eyed emoji and a sly grinning avatar that I think is supposed to be him.
I dump a pair of jeans, a sweatshirt, three pair of panties and a clean bra into a duffle bag and zip it up, not looking back after leaving my room. I’ll buy whatever else I need when I get there.
It’s time to throw some good money after bad.