My body is still wound tight when Blane appears at my shoulder with his camera raised in question.“Mind if I get a couple close shots?Coach with his team?”
“Make it quick.I want to get these boys home before Thanksgiving.”
“Sure thing.”He moves me like a prop, arranges the team, then shoots Grace a pleased grin.
The two of them fall into an easy rhythm that simmers under my skin more than I want to admit.And by the time it’s done, I call an end to practice, still strung too tight to be of any use.Grace thanks the boys, her smile stunning enough to cause a flutter low in my gut.
“My memory’s running low.”Blane flips through his shots.“I’ve got some space left, but I’ll have to go back to Meri’s and unload these before my camera chokes.”
I stack the cones, letting the repetitive motion do its work.I’m dropping the last one into the crate when my phone buzzes.
Unknown number.I almost ignore it until the preview flashes.
Erica.
Fuck.
I don’t need to read the texts to know this is Marcos’s doing.I haven’t heard from her in nearly a year.He mentions her, and boom, I get a text from her.
Rickie: Mad, happy thanksgiving.I wish I was there.
Rickie: Miss you.
Rickie: I really want to see you.
Rickie: Could you send me some money?
Rickie: Need help.You’re the only one I can count on.
The words blur, and it’s as if no time has passed.Her texts read as if she’s conveniently forgotten how we left things—I made it clear I didn’t want to hear from her unless she was sober.
It was a hard thing to do even though it was different circumstances, but the past reared its ugly head.I was brought back to a time when I turned my back on my dad, and look how that turned out.
More memories rise like smoke.Her tears.The lies.The barrage of texts that came in waves, multiple times a day, each one pulling me under.The way she’d look at me right before asking for money or after she’d stolen from me and denied it.All that wreckage I spent years cleaning up.
There’s no way Erica’s coming to Winslow Grove.
A cold wire of tension winds around my throat until footsteps behind me yank me back.
Grace.
“Everything okay?”
I shove the phone into my pocket too fast.“Fine.”
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
A short, brittle laugh escapes me.If only she knew.“Just technology doing what it does best.”
“Or maybe it just reveals what we don’t want to see.”Her quiet insight moves through me, sharp yet gentle and too accurate to sit with comfortably.
I lock my knees, bracing for questions, but silence lingers, and eventually, my body eases.She doesn’t push, though she’s probably filing it away for later.Grace sees everything, and I dread the day she finally opens that file.
Right now, I need to get through tomorrow—the anniversary of my dad’s death—and hold it together through until the memorial the following weekend, past the grief that still ambushes me when I least expect it, and past whatever Erica’s reappearance is about to stir up.
Blane’s voice cuts across the gym.“Grace, come here.Still want to grab those golden hour shots before we lose it?”
She hesitates.Her eyes move to Blane, then back to me, and for one foolish second, my want is so sharp it almost has a sound—stay, just a little longer—even if it’s selfish and reckless and not what’s best for either of us.