7. Everett
Chapter 7
Everett
I 'm a workaholic. I know this. It's why I got to the stadium hours ago. My inbox has over thirty flagged emails, and my type A personality is threatening to give me a panic attack. I don't think I've ever in my entire adult life had more than one email flagged for more than a few hours because I get shit done. You can't build your empire on the things you're going to do. It's the things you've done that solidify your reputation. I've been here since five a.m. I have a perfectly good home office I could have worked in for the past twenty-four hours, yet no work was done. All I managed to do was cancel the two engagements I had planned on the East Coast and flag these damn emails for follow-up.
I slam my laptop shut and walk over to the wall of windows overlooking the baseball field. I know why I can't focus. I thought leaving the house would help, but leaving has done nothing but make me more anxious. It's my own damn fault. When we drove home from dinner at Connor's, I didn't say anything back. I always have the last word, but I didn't. I said nothing when having the last word mattered most. Instead of closing a door, I opened it. I opened it, knowing I'd never step through. Why? Because the view is everything. Some would call it masochism, taunting myself with dreams I'll never reach for, but I see it as the penance I deserve for the deviant, perverted thoughts that haunt me. I didn't say anything back for two reasons, the biggest being I was done hurting her. I've already apologized to her more times than I have any other person in my life. I don't have regrets, therefore, apologies aren't necessary, but every move I make with her anymore feels like a misstep. Probably because it is. The second reason is just another amoral strike against me because it's purely selfish. I didn't fucking say anything because I liked knowing she still wanted me. I like knowing she thinks about me the same way I think about her.
"Damn it." My cock starts to thicken, and I immediately shove my hand into my hair. I can't sleep, and I can't work, and I already know I can't fuck her out of my system. I tried that when I was in Boston. No one managed to hold my attention. Grabbing the duffle bag I packed with extra clothes, I change into my running attire. Exercising always brings clarity, and if it doesn't, at the very least, it will lead to exhaustion and maybe sleep.
R unning three miles around the perimeter of the stadium did the trick. I responded to ten of the thirty emails demanding my attention via voice-to-text. When I finished my laps, the team started showing up for morning practice, and to my surprise, Parker stayed in his lane. He kept whatever snide comments he may have had to himself. I can't be sure where all his anger is coming from. I thought it had to do with Cameron, but after dinner at Connor's this past weekend, I don't think that's it. If he wanted to be more than just friends or, worse yet, friends with benefits, he would have been different with her. While he hoarded her attention, no doubt intentionally, he wasn't intimate with her. At least not in the way he was at the wedding the last time I saw the two of them together. Then there's the fact that, at the end of the night, it was my car she left in. Again, another fucking detail that shouldn't matter. It shouldn't make me feel any type of way. If anything, I should be championing a union between them.
Either way, Parker's gone, the team's gone, and I got through a full practice with no issues. The stress I had for the past twenty-four hours has abated, and now I know the first task I need to tackle the second I get upstairs to my office: a cozy fucking couch. If being at the stadium is what it takes to put her out of my mind, I will live here for the summer until Connor reclaims his position.
No sooner than I toss my empty Gatorade bottle into the trash can in the concourse, I catch a glimpse of long red hair and an ass I'd know anywhere entering the team shop. And just like that, the resolve I had moments ago slips away. Connor and Mackenzie left for Florida, so I know she's not visiting Mackenzie, and the team is gone. The only people here are the concessions manager, the cleaning crew, and me. She has no reason to be here.
I pick up my stride as I make my way down the corridor until I reach the shop window, and I peek around the corner where the brick wall meets the glass, not wanting to give away my presence. But apparently, every plan I set is destined to go to shit because the second my eyes connect with her form, I'm storming into the shop.
"What the hell are you doing?"
She instantly grabs the shelf to steady herself as my question startles her.
"Everett, Jesus. You scared the crap out of me." She rolls her eyes and climbs another step. "What does it look like I'm doing? I'm stocking shelves."
"You're not about to stand on that box to reach the top shelf. Get down. I'll do it."
She laughs. "Is that why you stormed in here like I was robbing the place? You thought I was using this box for another six inches of height?" Reaching down, she flips open the top. "It's a box of hats, Ev. It wouldn't have held my weight. I set them here for easy access so I could put them away quicker," she says as if her intent was obvious.
"Why are you here, Cameron? It's the summer before you graduate. If you're serious about pursuing a degree in fashion, you should be looking for internships that align with your career goals." I meet her by the stool and steal the box of hats. "I can put all of this away, or better yet, the new shop attendant can put it away when they start training later this week. Go home. I'll let Connor know he doesn't need you to run errands for him this summer."
Her cheeks heat, and her blue eyes start to turn gray. "I won't be going anywhere, Everett. I work here."
"You most certainly do not. You don't need to work, but I'll talk to Holden if you insist on a summer hobby. I'm sure he'll let you work at Hayes Fields until school starts again. Go home. I've got this."
She steps off the stool and puts her hand on her hip, her attitude affecting me in ways it shouldn't. "I'll say it again, Everett, because apparently, you're determined to see and hear what you want instead of what's real. I work here, and I won't be leaving." She snatches the box of hats from my hands and adds, "As for getting a job that aligns with my degree, I got one. I designed this box of hats, along with every other team logo item in the shop, thank you very much. If you don't want me here because suddenly being around me is unbearable, then you can leave. You have no reason to come into this shop."
She turns on her heel and stomps off toward the cashier counter. "Cameron?—"
"Don't apologize. I'm done with all of them, Everett. Don't worry about the letter. I release you from whatever vow, oath, or pact you had with my father. I'm no longer your burden. As for being in your space, I'll leave, but I'm not quitting my job here. So you'll have to suffer through the summer knowing I'm down here."
"Cam—" I try again.
"Leave, Everett." Her back is still to me when her hands slam against the counter. "It's what you're good at, and we have nothing more to discuss."
I bite my tongue and resist the urge to walk up behind her, as I've done more times than I should. I can't help myself. I've always noticed Cameron Salt. However, I'm not sure that is saying much. Everyone notices her. It’s impossible not to. Just like the sun, she never stops shining. She loves to talk; she'll talk to anyone about anything, regardless of status. Cameron doesn't see those things even though she's always had it. She has a sense of humor and doesn't hold bitterness or resentment even when warranted. The woman is confident, and she goes after exactly what she wants. It's because I see all those things that I don't correct her. I want to tell her how very wrong she is, but I don't. What she's proposing is for the best. I need to let her go. Boston wasn't the answer. It didn't rid me of her in the way I'd hoped, and maybe that's because I knew she wasn't really gone. She was still in my life, still in my home, and therefore still in my head.
Unlike the last time we parted, I don't let her have the last word. Before I exit the shop, I stop and say, "Saying sorry isn't always an admission of guilt. Sometimes it's said just because the person cares."
I don't look back before I walk out. There's no point. I keep inserting my foot in my mouth when it comes to Cameron, which is something I never do. I wasn't going to apologize like she assumed. Tactfully backpedal? Yes. She wasn't wrong when she said I've already apologized too many times. Plus, I wasn't truly sorry. Nothing I said was untrue. It was my delivery that could have been better. Every interaction I have with her could be better. She's right. I shouldn't need to go into the team shop. However, her presence will be a nuisance. It's not unbearably horrible. In fact, it's the opposite, unbearably intoxicating. Knowing she's in the same vicinity as me and staying away will require strength I'm learning I no longer possess. I take the stairs two at a time, determined to get to my office and the bottle of gin that Connor left in a gift basket. I'm sure the basket was Mackenzie's idea, but the fact Connor allowed it means something. It's progress.
The tension that's riddled my body since I returned home barely gets a chance to ebb from the thought of all this madness when I open the door to my office and find long dark hair, slicked back and pulled into a high ponytail, with not a strand out of place. My ex-wife is standing at the window overlooking the field.
"Moira, what are you doing here?"
Moira has always been a beautiful woman, but somewhere along the line, that natural light, her inner beauty dimmed. For years, I tried to be everything she wanted. Her basic needs were always met. Every dream she had, I gave it to her. The problem was I wasn't the one she wanted to dream with. I knew our marriage wasn't conventional. We were forced together at a young age under duress. At the time, marrying her was the only way I could protect her. We were friends before our nuptials were the only answer, and I thought our friendship would grow into more with time. For a while, it seemed to, but as time passed, our love did not grow. I guess for that to happen, it would have needed to be there to begin with.
"Is that any way to greet me, Everett? What has got into you?"
I pinch the bridge of my nose and drop my head. Well, that's something. At least I know my crass responses aren't just reserved for Cameron. Apparently, they extend to Moira as well.
"It's been a long day." I head toward the desk and sit before reaching into the drawer where I stored the bottle of gin. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" I ask, gritting back the sarcasm as I search for a glass.
"I went to your office today when I heard you were home, but when I got there, Sheila said not only were you not in, but she didn't expect to see you all summer. When I walked down the hall to speak with your brother, he said I could find you here."
I find a sleeve of paper cups; not ideal for drinking gin, but they'll get the job done. Pulling a cup off the top, I raise it. "Would you like a drink?"
"No, I can't have carbs on my diet," She waves her hand dismissively.
"Gin doesn't have any carbs," I let my eyes rake down her body, one I know has zero flaws apart from her c-section scar from birthing our son, but even that doesn't count. That scar was an anchor for me in our marriage. Every time I saw it, I was reminded of the gift she gave me. I told myself she didn't have to love me. She gave me a son who did. Nothing about her figure has changed. I don't bother telling her she doesn't need to diet. She knows she doesn't, and the compliments I gave her only ended with her asking for a divorce. "You said you went to my office. You found me. What is it that you need?"
"Why do you assume I need something?"
I throw back the two fingers of gin I poured myself in one go. This is it. This must be the karma I earned myself speaking out of turn to Cameron all week.
"You don't?"
"I saw Cameron working in the team shop downstairs."
"So you came here to discuss Cameron?" I pour myself another drink.
She firmly presses her lips together, letting me know my responses are wearing on her, but her unannounced presence is doing the same for me.
"I'm making conversation, Everett. I care about Cameron, I practically raised her," she adds as she runs her fingers along the credenza opposite my desk.
"She came to live with us at seventeen. That hardly counts as raising her."
"You know what I mean, Everett." She stops in her tracks, her eyes finding mine before she adds, "We've known her since she was born."
If her eyes didn't say it, the accusation in her tone does. I'm trained to read between the lines. Cameron is still under my roof. Her father wasn't just my best friend. Damon was my business partner, and he died with a small fortune of his own, which Cameron inherited at twenty-one. She turned twenty-one a year ago. There isn't a good reason for her to still live with me. She doesn't need my money, nor does she need to live in my house, yet she's still there, and whether Moira is commenting on it indirectly or not, that means people notice. Knowing my name is circling the rumor mill is perturbing, but it's part of the territory living in a small town.
"Cameron is no longer your concern. Damon was my best friend, and you and I are no longer married." I don't bother addressing her insinuation.
"That's hardly fair?—"
"Why are you here, Moira?" Cameron is the last person I care to discuss with my ex-wife. She can speculate all she wants. I don't owe her anything.
"I went to your office to discuss the fundraiser this fall?—"
"You could have called or sent an email to?—"
"If you'd let me finish." She leans against the credenza. "Garrett said you wouldn't be in all summer because you'd be here. We were married for over twenty years, Everett. You don't take time off work. I was worried. The man I know eats, sleeps, and breathes Callahan passive or not, she knows what she was insinuating, and out of all the fucking people to believe a rumor or even give it breath… let's just say I'd expect more from her after everything we've been through.
"You know I tried, Everett. I never wanted to come between the two of you."
She did try, but Connor didn't handle our divorce well at all. The second he found out about it, I became enemy number one. Learning Moira's truth—our truth—helped, but the damage had already been done. I know what it's like to look up to someone and believe they hung the moon only to feel betrayed later. It fucking sucks. I hate that I made him feel that way by keeping our separation private. Moira asked me not to share it, and I respected her wishes. Had I known it would hurt our son as much as it has, I would have never agreed.
I've sacrificed a lot for the woman standing before me, and since our divorce, we've kept up appearances, maintained the charity, and still had family dinners at least once a month, until this year. She's the mother of my son. I'll always respect her, but her apology just now, if you could even call it that considering the word sorry wasn't spoken, felt empty. That, coupled with her accusatory tone since she arrived unannounced, has me changing my own.
"Moira, please get to whatever business it is that you want to discuss. I have work that I need to tend to."
"There he is," she says as if she knows me so well. I hate the condescension I hear. The mockery. It makes me look back on our marriage through a different lens. Was she always this patronizing, and that's why I busied myself? When I look at my brother Garrett's marriage, it's the definition of happy. The man can't wait to go home to his wife. Sure, I've always had a strong work ethic, but maybe I would have prioritized my time differently if I had the right woman on my arm. "I want to move the fundraiser to August," she says, reclaiming my focus.
"What? Why would we move it back to August? November makes more sense. August is back-to-school month. Donors' pockets are thin, coming off the heels of summer vacation spending without throwing in tuition costs. Plus, holding it in November gives people something to do indoors when the chance of cold, shitty weather is greater."
She pushes off the credenza and waves her hand. "Yes, I've thought of all that, but I don't think it will be the issue you believe it to be. Most of our donors have deep pockets. The details you brought up would be a moot point for them." Reaching into her Hermes bag, she pulls out her phone and scrolls. "Seventy-five percent of the funds we raise yearly come from the same thirty donors, all of whom we know are well-off and loyal to the cause."
"Yes, but it's the twenty-five percent who come and give what they can, sacrificing their last twenty-dollar bill for the name of the cause to which the event brings the most hope."
I throw back the last of the gin in my cup as I watch her process my words. Moira is smart. By the way her chest deflates, I can tell she was hoping I'd silently oblige like always. My words are most likely a reiteration of her thoughts, which I can tell is causing her some level of distress. I can't say that doesn't make me a little happy after her implied insinuations.
I expected her to give me a reason for the new date, but when her spine straightens and her eyes flash back up to mine, she says, "August fifth is the date the MacBeth fundraiser will be held this year." She puts her phone away and heads toward the door. Bracing herself on the frame, she turns back to me, words clearly on her tongue, but she says nothing and instead walks out.
Good riddance.