CHAPTER 17 | Abby
?CHAPTER 17
Abby
I don’t know what I expected to happen after moving in here. I certainly couldn’t have expected I’d be able to go about my business, able to ignore all the complications in my life like they would disappear if I stopped thinking about them long enough. But I think I did. And now things keep getting more complicated. At least they do in my head. And that ... almost kiss. It sent my head spinning. And then I got scared and cursed myself for even thinking about him like that so quickly after ending my relationship with Sam.
I must admit, though, having someone care about me, it feels like a dream. It feels real. But so did Sam at the beginning and look where that got me.
It’s been a week of freedom. Sam is scheduled to return next Saturday. As much as I try to keep my mind from racing back to those “what if” moments, it’s impossible to avoid them completely. I’ve been trying to fully enjoy my newfound freedom, especially having a personal bodyguard, who, I have to admit, isn’t exactly difficult to look at.
I yelp a little when Dallas knocks lightly on the frame of the open bathroom door. The warm washcloth hits him in the chest as he rounds the corner, but he catches it quickly, leaving a damp spot on his white tee.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I just wanted to say goodnight and thank you for tonight. It was nice to have some company.” He hangs in the doorway, an arm holding the frame above his head. It’s an effort not to watch his bicep flex with the pressure. When I realize I’ve stopped breathing, I quickly shake my head, take the washcloth from his outstretched hand, and fix my gaze back on the mirror in front of me.
What feels like a minute is probably only a few seconds, but it’s long enough of a pause to make things awkward. “Sorry. Um ... You’re welcome. Thank you, too. It was seriously the most peace I’ve felt in a long time.”
He hangs his head, but a soft smile settles on his face. The stubble along his jaw is evident in this lighting.
“Abby?” he asks, tipping his head up.
“Yeah?” I respond, avoiding eye contact. My legs feel like jelly right now.
“You’ve wiped the same spot on your face like ten times now. I think it’s clean.”
“Uh, yeah, I know. I just don’t want to break out,” I lie, wiping again before moving on.
He taps the door frame a few times before dropping his arms. “Okay, well, goodnight.”
“Night,” I say, hoping he doesn’t hear how shaky my breath is, how loudly my insides are screaming right now.
***
I t’s been twelve hours since we almost kissed and my insides still feel like they’re doing flips. The cold bench beneath me is a bit of a shock to the system when I sit down. An empty baseball field stares back at me. The warm sun kisses my skin every time it peeks out from behind a cloud. I’ve been to one other practice before, but to be honest, I was not paying any attention. I was so focused on studying for finals that my head was buried in my computer the whole time. Now that the school year is over, I’ve got more freedom than I know what to do with.
It's been one week since everything changed. And it’s one more week until everything might change again. I shouldn’t get used to this, even if I want to.
The field remains empty for the first twenty minutes while everyone changes in the locker room. I try and fail to keep myself from imagining what might be under the T-shirts and sweats Dallas wears all the time as he changes into his jersey. One by one, they file out from under the bleachers. I find myself searching for Dallas, scanning the names on the back of the white jerseys.
All the jersey numbers are yellow and outlined in black. I’ve always paid attention to whatever player sports the number four. That used to be my dad's number. He’d hung his college jersey in the basement. It was one of his many “trophies” from college, all displayed next to the rest of his baseball memorabilia.
So, when Dallas walks out, it’s almost like a spotlight points straight to him, and that yellow number four. I keep my eyes trained on him. He waves as he starts throwing balls to his team and I remember why I like baseball uniforms so much. His ass fits nicely in those white pants. It’s an effort not to frown when he puts on his catching gear, hiding the good view. Everyone huddles on the pitcher’s mound before taking their places on the field.
After the beginning of the first inning, Dallas jogs back to the dugout and shrugs off his catcher’s gear. “Like what you see?” he smirks with a hand gripping the chain link. “I saw you staring.” He winks but leaves quickly, not giving me a chance at a rebuttal.
Each inning is the same routine. Catch, take everything off, bat, put everything back on, catch again. By the end of the scrimmage, he’s sweating buckets. The clouds disappeared, the sun got hot, and there had been no wind.
I haven’t been to a baseball game since Dad died, but it feels good to watch.
“Have fun?” Dallas asks, sitting down next to me on the bleachers. No more jersey. Just a soaked, white T-shirt, white pants, and a black belt hugging his hips. Eyes up, Abby.
“I did,” I say, training my eyes on anything but him.
“Good.” He pauses, running a hand through his damp hair. “The first game is in two weeks, so we’ve got some time to practice. We could use a good tune-up on a few things.”
“Really? I thought you guys looked pretty good out there.”
“Did we now?” He smirks.
I smack him on the arm. “You know what I mean.” I can't help but smile. I meant both, but I won't tell him that.
Back at home, Dallas jumps in the shower, and Logan disappears into his room. Realizing how hungry I am, I search the fridge for something to snack on but decide it’s close enough to dinner that I should just make us all some food. After scouring the pantry and fridge, I gather the ingredients for fajitas, and get to work. I think the smell draws them out of their rooms because they both take a seat on the barstools as I’m sauteing the onions and peppers.
“You cook?” Logan asks, brows raised with a smile.
“I like to think I can.” I smile back. They both take a long breath in, seeming to savor the smell of the frying vegetables.
“If it tastes as good as it smells, you can cook whenever you want,” Logan says, folding his hands on the counter.
“Grab the plates?” I ask no one in particular. Dallas jumps up, grabs three plates from the cabinet, and adds forks to the stack. Logan gives him a weird look.
“What? Sometimes tortillas don’t stay together.”
“ Or, you just load them up too full and can't close them, so you turn it into a salad.”
“Okay, I didn’t ask to be attacked in my own home,” Dallas chuckles.
“Dinner’s ready.” I move to the side and pull the tortillas out of the oven.
Logan beams. “Damn, you even warmed the tortillas up?” He points at me before grabbing a plate. “Okay, you can stay.”
I laugh and grab a plate to dish up my homemade food.
“Dude, this is delicious,” Logan mumbles through a mouthful of food.
“Has no one taught you any manners?” Dallas laughs. Logan shrugs before shoving another full bite into his mouth.
The praise is nice compared to what I had gotten used to with Sam. He never really complained about my cooking, but very few compliments followed after the first few times I cooked for him. So, hearing them so excited about such a simple meal warms my heart.
The boys finish quickly while I take my time with each bite. They focus on a basketball game they’ve put on TV and talk to the players as if they can hear their every word. As I sit here, listening and watching, I find myself smiling and laughing with them. A shake of my head when their team screws up. Loud whoops and hollers fill the room when they score. It’s natural. Easy.
I watch as I clean up dinner, put the dishes in the dishwasher, place the leftovers in the fridge, and wipe down the counters. They remind me of my dad. He used to talk to the TV like that, too. I think most dads do. I think he would like Dallas. I think they would get along. Especially about baseball. I think Dad would go to every game, hell, he’d probably go to every practice, too.
I wonder if Dallas’s dad goes to his games. Or if he used to go before all hell broke loose. He’s always been supportive of my writing dreams. I can’t imagine he’d be different with his kids, but who knows? People can surprise you sometimes. And did he learn to play baseball from his father? Or talk to the TV from him? His father has always been kind to me. I think he got that from his dad. Maybe his mom gave him his sense of humor, and his good looks. There’s still so much I don’t know about him. But I want to.
And as I think about Dallas’s family, I find myself wishing I could talk to mine. Wishing my dad was still alive, and wishing my mom could understand me a little better. Wishing we got along at all. I wish Cameron and I were closer in age so that we could share our life experiences with each other a little more without feeling like we’re living in two different worlds.
I join the boys on the couch and let them yell and cheer. And when their team wins, I cheer and watch them jump up with fists in the air and smiles on their faces. This is what joy looks like. This is what life is supposed to be like.
But just as quickly as the happiness comes, impending doom slowly settles on my chest. With Sam returning in a week, the weight of all the what-ifs slowly overtakes my mind, body, and every move I make. I can’t sleep, and when I do, I wake up from nightmares. The screaming in my dreams doesn’t transfer to real life. I only know because no one comes to check on me in the middle of the night.
I wake up so hot that I’m drowning in sweat. My racing heart tears through my chest and my ears. And when I finally calm down enough, I find myself wishing I could curl up next to something solid, someone steady to ground me and tell me everything will be okay even though nothing about the future is promised. So, I push my back against the wall of my bedroom, draw my knees to my chest, and lower my forehead to my knees, hugging them so tightly I think I might break.
By Wednesday, sleeplessness has turned into a painful routine. After tossing and turning until midnight, I’ve had enough. This isn’t working. The inside of my head is like a pinball machine, everything bouncing around all at once, bright lights flashing like warning signals, all the noises too much. There’s no way to calm down long enough to fall asleep if the thoughts won't drain past the bumpers. The hum of the ceiling fan above me usually lulls me to sleep, but tonight, it’s just another noise keeping me awake.
I get up for some water without bothering to turn on any lights. The darkness and quiet of the kitchen are serene. Enough to help me relax a little, but not enough. Not for sleep.
An idea flashes in my mind, a crazy one, but it hovers ever so slightly before I shove it away. Hard. Nope. Not a chance. No way in hell.
But the thought lingers. And I squeeze my eyes shut before feather-light feet carry me to the door. His door.
It’s cracked just enough to see the bright flicker of his TV in the dark room. The slight creak of the door forces me to pause in my tracks, breath held tightly in place, making me rethink whatever the hell it is I’m about to do. A bare-chested Dallas sleeps soundly on top of his comforter, the view alone giving me heart palpitations. I think hard and fast about my next move. My heart screams at me to continue, but my gut says turn around. I take one last look, savoring the sight of him, before turning to close the door. But it’s too late.
“Abby?” he asks, voice gravelly. He squints, straining to look across the dimly lit room. “Are you okay?” He props himself up on his elbows.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Sorry. I can’t sleep. My mind is racing a mile a minute.”
He takes a breath, pauses to process, and rubs his eyes. “Um, do you want to talk about it?”
I look between Dallas and my bedroom door. “No. I don’t know. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I came in here. Goodnight.” I start to turn around again but Dallas moves to sit on the edge of his bed.
“Wait.” He stands, and as if he read my mind, he pulls back the covers. “Take the bed. I’ll take the floor.”
My body won't move. But still, Dallas picks up a pillow, grabs a spare blanket, and creates his makeshift bed on the floor. When I still haven’t moved, he nods toward the empty bed. “Come here,” he says calmly.
I take a deep breath and force my feet to move. Slipping them in under the still warm comforter, his scent—I can’t quite place it—engulfs me, my nerves instantly slowing to a quiescent place.
Dallas shuffles on the floor momentarily before clicking the TV off. The now silent room seems to amplify my still tossing and turning body. Laying on my back has never been my favorite position but try anyway and immediately hate it. I try both of my sides, but something doesn’t feel right. I go wide like a starfish on my stomach before pulling a knee closer to my chest. I groan internally before trying my side again.
I’m not sure how long I spend changing positions, but I’m still staring at the wall when the mattress dips behind me.
Dallas places a soft hand on my exposed arm. “Can I?”
I don’t need more context to understand his question. “Please,” I practically beg.
He slips under the covers and slides an arm around my stomach, pulling us tightly together. The warmth of his bare chest is a pleasant welcome against my cool skin. I’ve never been warm-bodied. Dallas feels like a furnace comparatively. Us, like this, something within me takes hold deep in my soul. The raging voices in my head are now a mere whisper. My fiery nerves dissipate into a low smolder. And most of all, I no longer feel like screaming. My head, my body, they’re calm, quiet, steady. With Dallas behind me, sleep takes me faster than it has in a very long time.
When I wake in the morning, Dallas is still asleep. A comforting hand rests on my forearm to let me know he’s still there. Even relaxed, I can still see each muscle, toned and sculpted from years of baseball. Pulling my eyes from his body is a task.
Last night’s sleep was single-handedly the best sleep I have ever gotten. I’m refreshed, my mind at ease. A smile creeps up my face at the thought.
As I try to slip from his delicate touch, he stirs. He takes a deep breath and rubs his face. “Abby?” he asks, peeking with one eye open. “Morning. You sleep okay?”
Sitting on the edge of the bed, I chuckle, letting my smile grow apparent. “I haven’t slept that well in a very long time.”
He reaches out to rest his hand on mine, our fingers slowly twisting together into a comforting grip, but I pause as I realize what I’m doing. “Sorry.” I slip my hand out of his, the cold air a stark contrast to his warm touch, and then curse myself for letting go. “You know, I do have to say, you are an absolute furnace at night,” I say, quickly changing the subject.
He laughs. “Yeah, sorry. I think it’s genetic.” He starts getting up. “Why don’t I make us some breakfast? I’ve got practice today but other than that, it’ll probably be a pretty chill day.”
***
I n the few days following , Dallas and I have fallen into a welcome habit. We start in our own beds, but I always end up making the slow trek into his room. I can’t sleep unless I’m next to him now. I’m trying to give myself some grace. I’ve craved for someone to care about me as soft and delicate as he has for such a long time. I’ve become infatuated with the little things he does. How he makes his coffee. The way he runs his fingers through his hair. The way his eyes squint ever so slightly when he’s really listening to someone talk. And to my surprise, I’m wishing for more. More conversation, more touch, more lust. On one hand, it terrifies me. On the other, at random times during the day, I find myself happy like the sort of calm peace you feel when you tip your head to the sky and the sun warms your face after a long winter.
Dread hits me hard on Friday. Not only is Sam coming home tomorrow, but it’s also my birthday. I haven’t celebrated since Dad died. It just hasn’t been the same. Sam also didn’t help the situation. We celebrated my birthday the first year we were together with dinner, but by this time the following year, he’d completely changed into the asshole he is now. Just another piece of myself I’ve lost over the years. It’s also the reason I avoid telling anyone when my birthday is. Meredith has accepted the fact that I refuse to fully celebrate it. At the same time, she also refuses to ignore it. So, when my phone rings this morning, I hesitantly pick it up. I jut out of Dallas’ room and answer with a tired “Hello?”
“Happy Birthday!” she yells as I pull the phone away from my ear. “You know I can’t just leave you alone about this.”
“Good morning to you, too, and thank you.”
“Dude, it’s almost noon. Did you just wake up?” She laughs on the other end.
Dallas walks out of the bedroom, still shirtless, scratching the back of his head. A river of warmth runs the length of my body as I watch him approach me. I turn on my heels before my cheeks glow pink. He kisses the top of my head, the river now pooling at my core, before he moves to the kitchen. I can’t hide my smile when he holds the half-full pot of coffee up to ask if I want any. I nod and move to the couch.
“We watched a couple of movies last night and went to bed late. I guess it’s only fitting that we sleep in.” I accept the warm mug with a smile. Dallas scrunches his brows together to ask who I’m talking to. I mouth Meredith’s name, and he sits back content with the answer to drink his coffee.
“I’m sorry, we? Who’s we? Like you and Dallas? Ooooh!” she cheers.
“Not like that,” I try to defend though, secretly, I think I do wish it were like that. I quiet my voice a little as I start to explain. “We were just having a relaxing night in bed.” As soon as that final word comes out of my mouth, I know I messed up.
Her next words are quick. “Bed? Abby, are you sleeping with him?” She squeals on the other end, a clear indication of her excitement.
“Mer, no. Absolutely not. We watched a couple of movies, then went to bed. That’s it.”
Dallas shoots me a confused look though I think I catch a hint of ache flash in his eyes. I wave a hand loosely in the air, trying desperately to dismiss the comment. He takes another sip of coffee before disappearing into his room to dress for practice.
I watch his door close before replying. “Hey, I’m going to go.”
“Oh, come on. I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just joking,” Meredith whines.
“I know. You’re good. We’re good. I’ve just got some things to do.” As Meredith and I say our goodbyes, I get dressed and prepare to leave, hoping for the usual invitation to tag along. After the last few days, I’ve been itching to spend as much time with him as possible.
I hear Dallas’ door open and busy myself with my phone, pretending I’m just hanging out as if the blatant change of clothes wasn’t a dead giveaway. “You ready to go?” he asks.
“You want me to come with?” I ask, trying to play it cool even though on the inside, I feel like a giddy schoolgirl.
“Of course. I need my good luck charm if I’m going to get anything done today or Coach might bench me,” he snickers.
I’ve been labeled a lot of things in my life, but never that. I’ll gladly take “good luck charm” as a label any day.