Chapter 5
Kenzie
You know who has two thumbs and doesn’t need an arrogant MLB player in her life anymore?
That’s right—this girl! Or at least that’s what I keep telling myself every thirty seconds when I want to start crying again.
The last six days have been rougher than I expected.
I’m used to being alone in Trevor’s huge house for long stretches of time—that’s why he initially hired me after all, to take care of Banks while he’s gone—but it felt eerily quiet this time.
Listening to Mallory, I kept off of news sites and social media for the last few days. None of my fifty-three friends on my private Instagram even knew about the drama. Who could believe that quiet, rule-following Kenzie from their accounting program had been engaged to an MLB pitcher anyway?
Since I don’t usually leave the house except for my daily walks—which I skipped this week—I didn’t have to worry about running into anyone.
The only person who saw me was Veronica, Trevor’s housecleaner who comes every Friday.
She squeezed me tight and whispered, “Mijita,” while stroking my unruly hair.
After her efficient cleaning, the state of the house became rebelliously chaotic.
Normally, I keep things tidy, a holdover from living in the small farmhouse with my parents, but this week, I let slovenliness rule.
Have pieces of scrap paper from doing hand calculations—the best way to do math, in my opinion?
Crumple and let them lie. Have various blankets, fuzzy socks, and sweatshirts you abandoned because you get flushed when another crying fit hijacks your day?
Toss those suckers wherever. And I really wanted to leave the discarded chocolate chip cookie dough containers laying around after I polished them off, but I didn’t want Banks to get sick from licking my leftovers.
He’s the only one who’s eaten well the last few days.
Outside of Mallory’s sushi, I’ve been subsisting on ice cream and handfuls of cereal straight out of the box.
Like a gremlin. If it was the offseason, Trevor would have his personal chef preparing macro-conscious meals.
But since the team nutritionist feeds them so well at the clubhouse, Rebecca is on hiatus.
Man, I could really use her garlic chicken right now.
When my shoulders shake with another sudden crying fit, Banks meows in protest.
“Sorry, Banksy,” I say, stroking his soft fur and taking deep breaths to calm myself.
I’ve also taken to carrying Trevor’s cat around the house. Having his little ribs expanding against me helps me feel more grounded. Banks must sense I need the extra cuddles, because he’s been surprisingly compliant with the gratuitous physical contact.
“What should we have for dinner tonight?”
Banks simply stares at me. He looks like a distinguished gentleman in his blue bowtie collar. Meanwhile, I’m crushing my unintentional Adam Sandler cosplay.
I open the fridge, debating if I should open another ice cream container or just polish off the Cinnamon Toast Crunch while standing over the sink, when the garage door rumbles.
My hand flicks open the nearest drawer, and I grab the first thing my fingers touch.
I tossed my phone aside hours ago, so I can’t call 911, but maybe I can get a jump on this intruder.
Banks’s paws cling to me, but since his previous owner ruthlessly declawed him, he doesn’t poke holes in my oversized sweatshirt. I press one protective hand over his back, holding him snugly against me as I slip behind where the door to the garage opens to a small enclave.
Extending my weapon, I wait. Banks makes a low growl in anticipation.
We make quite a team, Banks and I.
Except, it’s not a ninja cloaked in black who slips through the door. When Trevor enters the house, a duffel bag slung over his large shoulders, I sag.
“Oh, it’s just you.”
Trevor eyes me for a solid six seconds, mouth parted like he’s deciding what to say. Finally, he gestures toward my haphazardly chosen weapon.
“Were you planning on whisking me to death?”
I glance at the metal whisk in my still outstretched hand and decide to own it. “These little wires could do a lot of damage.”
To accentuate my point, I bounce the whisk against the side of my head a few times. Mortification streaks through me when a few pieces of Cinnamon Toast Crunch fall out of my disheveled hair. Banks stirs like he wants to chase the clattering cereal while Trevor’s chest expands with a slow breath.
His soulful gaze takes me in.
“I’m fine,” I tell him, my voice squeaking.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Those”—I use the whisk to gesture to his hazel eyes—“are calling me pathetic.”
It should be impossible, but his expression softens even more. “They aren’t.”
“What are you doing home anyway? Shouldn’t you be playing baseball in Atlanta?”
With that traitor of a teammate, my mind supplies. I try to cross my arms defiantly, but it’s a challenge while also holding Banks and a whisk. I settle on fisting the whisk’s handle and placing it on my hip. Trevor’s gaze drinks me in again, hesitation apparent in his features.
“We had an afternoon game today.”
My forehead wrinkles as I try to run through my mental calendar. I don’t actually remember what day it is. It’s been a blur of distracting myself with pro bono cases and burning through the entirety of Marvel’s Cinematic Universe.
Trevor’s jaw ticks as he takes a cautious step forward.
“I’m fine,” I say again, convincing no one.
He nods, stopping when the tips of his shoes touch my toes. I’m wearing one fuzzy pink sock, my sweatshirt is stained with dried ice cream and leftover coffee, and I haven’t showered in days.
I’m not fine.
“Everything hurts,” I admit in a murmur.
I have a heated blanket I use because I get chilly sitting at my laptop for long stints of time, but even that hasn’t kept me warm over the last few days.
“I’m going to hug you, okay? Would that be alright? You look like you really need a hug.” His focused gaze slides over my face.
I shrug because, honestly, I don’t know if anything will help at this point.
These last few days, I realized that I don’t have much of a life. I’ve never had any close friends, just cordial classmates. My parents always loved me so much, and there was so much for the three of us to do on the farm that I never noticed I was missing anything.
After moving here, I threw myself into building a business and taking care of Banks.
When Trevor first adopted him from Fur-Ever Homes, he’d been recovering from being abandoned on the streets and not being able to defend himself from other stray cats.
He’d been incredibly skittish and healing from losing his ear and breaking his leg in a scuffle.
Trevor and I also became fast friends turned cordial roommates.
While he was gone, Trevor texted me every day, but he usually does that for updates on Banks when he’s traveling.
I also FaceTimed with my parents, who were very sympathetic about the breakup.
I even thought about asking them to fly out, but I know they’d never be able to leave during planting season.
Other than that, it’s been me, my furry best friend, malnutrition, and pausing way too long on that blink-and-you-miss-it clip of Paul Rudd cleaning a wound on his chiseled torso.
Maybe Trevor’s eyes are right.
I am pathetic.
“Kenzie?” Trevor’s low voice brings me back to the room. “Can I hug you?”
“Sure,” I say with a what the heck tone.
It can’t get worse, right?
Trevor reaches for Banks, giving him a kiss on the head before setting him on the ground. A tendon in his neck jumps as he takes a slow inhale, pausing. I’m about to ask if I stink when his warm hand slips beneath my hair, cradling my neck as I’m pulled into his steady chest.
The sensation is so comforting tears spring to my eyes.
The whisk clatters to the ground when I give up on any pretenses of having it together and bury my face into the crook of his neck, gripping the sides of his shirt like a lifeline.
Trevor’s other arm wraps around my back, binding us together in a way that shouldn’t be this soul satiating.
I don’t cry like I’d expected myself to.
I just try to pair my erratic breathing to Trevor’s slow cadence.
He’s inconceivably warm and smells like our shared laundry soap with a hint of something else.
Sun-warmed pine straw? It reminds me of summers running through the forest that stretched beyond the fields.
Has Trevor always smelled this good?
“I think I need to get out more,” I say, not moving, though I should really let my poor roommate go. Trevor probably didn’t expect this level of hot mess when he got home from work. I should pull back, apologize, and go on a quick cleaning bender.
Instead, I listen to Trevor’s steady heartbeat as he says, “Yeah?”
“I don’t mean outside, as in working in the garden. I mean, in life. I love being at home, but I think maybe I should have spent my college years going out instead of puzzling with my parents on the weekends.”
“But you love puzzling.”
It’s become our tradition to keep a puzzle on the dining room table, taking a few minutes to work on it each day. Sometimes, I’ll finish it or Trevor will, and then we start another. It’s like an ongoing chess game, but for puzzles.
“I know, but—”
A harsh exhale leaves my mouth because I can’t put into words how being dumped for not following directions makes me want to burn everything to the ground.
That’s why the house is a mess. I’ve always done the right thing, but now I want to…
I don’t know. Let loose maybe? Try new things? I’m not even sure where to start.
I lean back, catching Trevor’s gaze. “What do you do for fun?”
His dark brows knit together, forming a perfect crease in the middle. “What do you mean?”
“When you’re not spending every second of every day dedicated to baseball, what do you do?”
My roommate looks at me like he’s not sure where this is going, but he answers anyway. “I like to take the boat out.”
That’s right. I forgot Trevor likes to go deep sea fishing in his nonexistent free time.
He offered to take me when I first moved in, but I have a healthy fear of the ocean.
No need to volunteer as a shark appetizer.
Though I moved here to live by the ocean, I have no desire to go deep into it.
The sea’s splendor can easily be enjoyed from the safety of the sand with a surplus of SPF.
Also, I get carsick easily, so I’ll probably get seasick being that far away from land.
“Okay, let’s do that. I’m pretty sure sharks don’t like redheads anyway.”
Trevor’s low chuckle sends a weird tingling sensation down my spine. “Don’t you get seasick?”
He remembered that? I disentangle myself from his arms, trying to get my bearings since I’m feeling a little off kilter with my feet solidly on the hardwood. Banks weaves through my legs, and I pick him up as a fluffy shield—against what, I’m not sure.
“If it’s too much trouble…” I start.
“No trouble. It’s supposed to be nice tomorrow. Want to head out at ten?” He waits a beat before adding, “Wait. Can you make that work? I wouldn’t want to mess with your schedule. You’re probably slammed with the end of tax season so close.”
A memory flares in the back of my mind, of Aaron being annoyed that I’d prioritized finishing out client work on his day off weeks ago.
He’d wanted me to have lunch with him at noon, and I asked if we could eat at one instead so I could finish a filing.
In the end, I caved after Aaron reminded me that my job is more flexible than his.
It was fine. It would have been more enjoyable spending time with him without that task over my head, but since Aaron only gets one day off a week and usually only an hour of that day for me, I understood.
My head shakes for two seconds before I can manage an answer. “I finished the last of my pro bono cases today. I’m going to ask Cameron if he has any more, but my official tax season is done early this year.”
“Congratulations!” Trevor smiles. “That’s huge. We should celebrate.”
I wave a hand. “No. I really don’t feel like celebrating, I just want to…” That sticky sensation pricks down my forearms, and I huff in frustration. “I don’t know what I want to do.”
“Let’s try being on the water. That always clears my head.” Trevor moves past me into the kitchen and pulls an electrolyte replacement bottle out of the fridge. “We can pick up some seasickness medicine on the way to the marina.”
After gulping down the whole bottle, he gestures toward Banks. “Has he needed extra snuggles today?”
I glance at the sweet kitty pawing at a loose seam at my collar. “I have. He’s sort of been my emotional support animal the last few days.”
Trevor nods, a steely darkness clouding his gaze before he visibly brightens, looking more like my affable roommate than he has since he walked in the door. “I’m making grilled cheese. Want some?”
The rest of our evening passes amicably, just like it has for over a year.
Trevor makes mouthwatering grilled Gruyere-and-cheddar sandwiches with caramelized onions that we eat in the kitchen.
He completely ignores me when I tell him not to help me pick up the house.
And when Trevor starts to yawn, probably exhausted from six straight games and air travel, I tell him to get some sleep, and we head to our separate parts of the house.
After taking a much-needed shower, I pull Banks onto my lap and open my planner to one of the list pages in the back. A happy sigh escapes my mouth as my fingers smooth over the blank page. Is there anything more satisfying than creating and then crossing things off a list?
My heart beats frantically against my ribs as I write the title with my favorite glitter gel pen: Do It Scared.