Chapter 13 #2
I roll my eyes. “I can’t, Wren. I’m not staying.” Turning him down is the right thing to do. I can’t safely work with William. He wanted to buy The Limelight, right? Then he can figure out how to run it .
“How’s Henrik doing?” Wren asks.
My chest tightens. “Not great. I mean, he still has good days, but they’re becoming less frequent.”
“I’m sorry.” Her expression softens. “And there’s nothing else that can be done?”
I shake my head. “There was a clinical trial that slowed down the tumor’s growth. It allowed him some extra time to settle his affairs, and I think he was grateful for that. But now…we’re just trying to make him as comfortable as we can.”
“He’s lucky to have you.”
“It’s the least I could do.” When he brought me on as his assistant during my sophomore year at Cornish, it was the lifeline I needed.
I already adored him after our years of summer symphony and the mentoring he so generously offered at Cornish.
We worked well together, even playing music together sometimes.
He and Pierre never had children and weren’t close with their families, so when Henrik’s health began to decline, I demanded to be part of his care team. And to my relief, Pierre agreed.
“It’s so sad. Such a brilliant, bighearted man. The world needs more like him.”
“Agreed.”
She takes a sip of water, then lasers me with a look of determination. “So. Denny and I want to help with Thunder Mountain.”
“No way. You guys are busy,” I say with a scowl. Between her coaching young girls in barrel racing and the ranch duties she shares with Denny, they don’t have time for this. Especially this time of year, when they’re moving cattle and getting ready for winter.
“Not taking no for an answer,” she counters. Stubborn cowgirl that she is.
“Let me get the lay of the land first.”
We carry our empty bowls to a bus tub near the entrance to the courtyard, then I follow her past the counter to the parking lot.
She pulls me into a tight hug. “I’ve missed you so much.”
I squeeze her back. “Missed you too.” I don’t have a friend like Wren or Emmie in Seattle. With time, I thought I would make some, but between Henrik and practicing and auditions, it hasn’t happened yet. Maybe when I finally land a permanent gig, I’ll meet the right people.
“Let us know about helping,” Wren whispers in my ear. “Promise?”
My heartstrings give a sharp tug. “Promise.”
When I get to my car, my phone chirps again. It’s another unknown number, but the area code isn’t local, though something about it is familiar.
“Hello?”
There’s no reply, but in the background is the faint rush of a freeway. Or maybe a river?
I peek at the screen to make sure we’re still connected. “Hello?”
The line disconnects. With a huff, I shove my phone back in my purse. It was probably a telemarketer and now I’ll be subject to a crap-ton more like it.
Though when I pull away from the curb, a tendril of unease wraps around my gut. Because it hits me where I’ve seen that area code before.
After a stop at Thunder Mountain to help Gus feed and muck stalls, I drive to Will and Theo’s, feeling utterly drained, so I roll down the windows and let the wind fill my ears. The cool air tastes of dry pine and sage and nothing like the concrete and soggy grass of Seattle.
When I pull up to the house, Ollie woofs softly from behind the door.
William’s hatchback is here but not Theo’s Subaru—I’ve missed him again.
It’s not on purpose, but it means I’m going to need to put some effort into getting him to carve out time for us.
I know he won’t want to talk, and that’s okay. I just…miss him.
A column of woodsmoke curls out of the chimney and the house emits a warm glow in the darkness. It’s so quiet out here, with the breeze in the treetops blending with the gentle chorus from the crickets, but it’s not lonely. It’s peaceful.
I carry my violin through the gate and trudge up the steps. The door opens, and to my surprise, Ollie doesn’t charge, she just sits, wagging her tail, her eyes on William. The cloud of warmth from inside the house sends a flush of gooseflesh down my back.
“Hey,” Will says. His blue eyes look indigo in the low light. There’s a dishtowel over one shoulder and what looks like flour on his cheek. I catch a whiff of whatever he’s been cooking, and I can’t help the soft sigh escaping my lips.
“Hungry?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. He holds the door open and steps back to let me in. From the woodstove comes a crackle, and inside the little grate, orange flames flicker.
“What are you making?” It’s buttery and tangy with rich undertones, like a hearty broth.
A powerful craving tears through me. It’s like my lunch date with Wren earlier.
Is it just the added comfort of eating with people I love that’s kickstarted my hunger?
Or is it the heavy emotional labor this visit is requiring?
“Chicken pot pie.”
My stomach gives a painful gurgle. I glance at Ollie, who is still sitting, wagging, waiting, then back at William. “You cook, QB?”
The instant the old nickname rolls off my tongue, I wish I could take it back because his lips tighten into a line and he glances away.
Shit, now I’ve made this awkward.
“What did you do to Ollie?” I ask, grasping at anything that will get this conversation back on track.
Ollie looks longingly at Will, a whine working up her throat.
“I’m teaching her manners,” Will says. “Can I release her?”
“Goodness, yes.”
Will says, “okay,” and Ollie crashes into me, tail wagging.
I pet her head while she sniffs my knees. “How’d you teach her to sit like that?”
Will squats down and pets Ollie, who leans over to swipe a lick up his neck. “She’s wicked smart. ”
“Impressive.”
He glances up at me, his eyes turning serious. “I want you to feel comfortable here, Charlotte.”
The deep timbre of my full name on his tongue makes my chest tighten. Everyone has always called me Charlie, except for Will. He once told me why, but I resist reliving that moment. Will I ever stop feeling so fucking fragile around him?
“Thank you,” I manage.
Will stands. “Dinner’s ready, but if you need a minute?—”
I glance at the table. It’s not fancy, but he’s taken care to make it welcoming. Dread gnaws at the edges of my throat. For an instant, I thought this could be a casual thing. Just two people sharing a meal at the end of a long day, nothing more. Just as fast, my walls go back up.
“I’ll just put this away.” I lift my violin case.
I use the trip down the hall to settle the nerves jangling beneath my skin.
When I get to my room, I set my violin upright in the closet.
I’m turning away to visit the bathroom when I spot the cardboard box on my bed.
Inside is a stack of distinctive padded envelopes and packages.
On top is a torn piece of notebook paper with “PLEASE” scrawled in William’s handwriting.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and count to five but it doesn’t quiet the roar thickening in my throat.
So I hug the box and march it down the hall.
When I spin into the kitchen, William is setting a salad bowl on the table. He glances up, his eyes flashing with apprehension.
“I’m not doing this.” I drop the box to the couch. It bounces, sending several packages tumbling. Ollie trots over to investigate.
William rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry, I just thought…”
“You thought wrong.”
“Fuck, Charlotte, would it kill you to help me out, just a little?”
I grimace because yeah, it might. “You bought the club, Will! Did it not occur to you that screening talent would be part of the job?”
“Of course I knew. ”
“Listen to them yourself.”
He closes his eyes for an instant. When he opens them again, his gaze is earnest. “I can’t.”
I’m so caught up in releasing my pent-up frustration on him that it takes me a beat to parse the meaning behind his reply. He didn’t say I don’t know how , or you have a better ear …but I can’t.
“Why?”
A tense expression hardens the planes of his handsome face. “I…certain sounds…make it worse.”
I cross the distance to the table, drawn by William’s hushed tone and his inability to look at me. Like he’s…ashamed? “Makes what worse?”
His cheeks flush. He swallows, but the bob of his Adam’s apple looks painful. “The headaches.”
Cold fear prickles the back of my neck. My thoughts spiral. Is Will sick? Please don’t let it be that. Not now, when two of the most important people in my life are fighting to survive.
What if I lost William? I rub my forehead, trying to compose my thoughts. “Explain. Now.” I’ve forced the harsh words past my lips so they rip loose like a demand, but I can’t help it.
The stark vulnerability in his eyes makes my breath catch. “It’s why I quit playing ball.”
The colors of the room swirl in my periphery, like I’m trapped in a tunnel. I sink into one of the chairs. There’s so much to unpack from this, but I need to pull on this thread first.
“Music causes you…pain,” I manage.
“Some kinds do, yeah,” he says in a soft voice.
A hot ache splashes like a burn across my chest. This hurts worse than breaking his heart.
Music is the one thing in my life I’ve always been able to count on. When everything else went to shit, music was my safe space. It gave me hope, patched up the cracks in my heart, and gave me the strength to rebuild my life. And now, he’s telling me that I can’t ever share it with him again ?
Why did he buy The Limelight, knowing full well that running it would be hazardous to his health?
I blink back the hot sting at the edge of my eyes. “An injury?”
“A lot of mild concussions that added up over time.”
This is why he’s not playing for the NFL. “They forced you out?”
He shakes his head, his jaw set. “I chose to leave.”
My emotions erupt like a lightning storm inside me.
I’m angry on his behalf—that the sport he so loved and for which he had so much talent only betrayed him in the end.
And I’m sad for him because making that choice must have been the hardest thing he’s ever done…
and I didn’t even know . Did he have to make it alone?
Were Zach and Sofie and the Huttons there for him?
Did they grieve with him? Support him with their love and kindness?
Was he terrified to walk away? To start his life over without football?
The tears I tried to stuff down well up so fast I can’t hold them back. I swipe them away, frustrated with myself. He’s the one who lost something. He’s the one who should be crying, not me. “I’m sorry that happened to you.” My voice breaks.
He steps closer and squats down so we’re eye to eye.
“I’m grateful I got to play for as long as I did, and with such talented athletes and coaches.
I got to travel, and earn a college degree, and push myself harder than I thought possible.
Football gave me a path forward when my life seemed pretty dark.
I wasn’t ready for it to end, but I couldn’t risk staying even one more day. ”
“But you loved football.”
“I did.” He wipes my tears with his thumbs, the thick, calloused pads rough on my hot skin. The kindness in his touch brings back so many painful, beautiful memories of us that my chest tightens trying to keep it all inside. “But at the end of the day, it’s only a job. It doesn’t make a life.”
I gulp down a breath. He sounds so…okay with it all…but there must have been pain, even anger. Did Zach coach him through it? “Is there anything you can do? ”
“Besides avoiding three-hundred pound linebackers pounding me into the turf?” He gives me a good-natured shrug.
“I did some neuroplasticity exercises with a specialist, but I don’t know how much they really helped.
Spending time outside and trying not to get too stressed out has probably helped just as much. ”
“And avoiding music.” A sharp ache twists inside my chattering heart.
“Not all of it,” he corrects.
“I’ll help.” How can I refuse him now?
His eyes tense with a look I can’t read. “Not out of pity. Please. Do it because you want to.”
Here’s that pride I remember. It shouldn’t hurt this much that I can’t comfort him, but there’s a flicker of heat unfurling at the base of my core. I know what it means, but I’m not ready to face it. “I want to.”
He stands and offers me his hands. I stare at them while my emotions crest inside me like a storm surge. When I slip my fingers into his and let him pull me to my feet, a wave of hot prickles rolls down my spine. Old feelings clash with a warning not to let this change anything between us.
But I think it’s too late for that.