Sidelines (Wounded Hearts #1) (33 page)

Chapter Thirty

The red-eye back to Santa Cruz should have wiped me out, but by the time the morning sun touches my face, I’m wound so tight someone should probably cut me off from any caffeine. I’m not sure if I’m fortunate or not to have no one to do so.

Just as that thought crosses my mind, my phone pings with a text.

Logan: Please call me when you get there.

Without stopping to consider if contacting him now is a good idea or not, I immediately hit his contact icon to dial him. He picks up on the second ring.

“You’re there already?”

“I’m home.”

A pause of silence worries me that he might have hung up, but when I hear him blow out a breath I nearly sigh in relief myself.

“Good. What are you going to do now?”

I hail a taxi and wait for it to approach the curb. “I’m going to his house.”

“Alone?”

I roll my eyes, knowing he can’t see me. “Well, I can’t say there is really anyone else to go with me.”

He hisses. “I knew I shouldn’t have let you go.”

My heart twists but reality sinks in as the taxi driver jumps out and pops the trunk to the car. He does a double take when he realizes who I am. A big grin covers his face and it’s then that resolve hits me with hurricane-force winds. Logan and I can’t be together while we continue to do what we do.

“I’ll be fine, Logan. I need to go.”

“Okay, but just keep me posted on what is going on. I’m worried about you.” The way he says that last statement makes it sound like it was hard for him to admit it out loud.

“I’ll be fine. Thank you for checking up on me, but I’m a big girl and can handle things from here.”

I hear him call my name as I pull the phone from my ear and cut the call. I’ve never had to say goodbye before, but I’m almost certain that wasn’t how you’re supposed to do it. However I’m reminded that now is not the time to be concerned with proper relationship etiquette when the taxi driver eagerly asks me where he’s taking me.

“1313 Sallsberry Lane, please.”

“Certainly, Miss Mooreland.”

***

I tip the driver handsomely when he hands me the handle to my suitcase. I feel bad because the poor guy attempted to ask me a million questions about which players he should look to pick for his fantasy team this year, but I couldn’t answer a single one whole-heartedly. When he had asked me about Drew, I answered him honestly and told him to make sure that Drew Lassiter is on his team this year. But when he asked me about Logan, I nearly lost my composure. A simple “absolutely” was all I could contribute.

I stand in front of the gate that leads to Walt’s front door, rooted to the sidewalk and unable to move a muscle. How many times had I walked to this gate, opened it and crossed the paved walkway, skipped up the concrete steps and barged right into the house like I owned the place? I guess, now I do.

“Doesn’t feel quite right, does it?”

Mr. Whitman, or Larry as he’s tried to get me to call him for years, steps up beside me and just stares at the house before us.

“I keep picturing myself walking in and finding him passed out, propped up in his recliner with spittle dripping down his chin and an empty Spartans mug on the table next to him. But I won’t find him like that, will I?”

Turning to the the African-American gentleman who had lived next door to Walt and Maggie since before the summer I came to live with them, he slowly shakes his head, his eyes never leaving the front door of the house. “I’m afraid not, child.”

He finally turns to me, his ashen skin wrinkling around his graying hair and his matching bushy moustache, and gives me a sad smile.

“It’s good to have you home, kiddo.” He lays a heavy hand on my shoulder and turns to shuffle on to his own house.

Swallowing, I gather all my willpower to open the gate. It squeals and creaks its protests in the early morning air. Just as I’m about to take the first steps onto my new property, Mr. Whitman calls out across the lawn, like he’s always done.

“Those Rattlers ready for our boys in red?” For as long as I’ve known Mr. Whitman and Walt, those two have been die-hard Spartan fans. To know that they would have been cheering against the love of my life in the upcoming season opener brings a smile to my face.

“Those Rattlers are gonna send your boys in red home cryin’ to their mommas.” I can’t help the jeering.

Larry feigns shock. “That’s blasphemy, girl. You hear me? Your father’d roll over in his grave to hear you talkin’ like that. ” He turns and starts mumbling to himself. “Talkin’ that way about our beloved Spartans. Our girl’s gone off and betrayed us, Walt ol’ boy.”

The reference to Walt being my father stings so much that I stop enjoy his jesting.

Taking a deep breath, I face the walkway and force myself up the steps. The moment I open the door, stale air assaults my nostrils. The early morning sun seeps in through the blinds in the living room, shining like a spotlight on the empty recliner. The mug I had just envisioned is nowhere to be seen, but a few dusty photo albums piled on the coffee table catch my attention.

Propping my suitcase up against the wall next to the door, I quietly make my way to the couch and lean over to see what could have drawn Walt’s attention. Four snapshots, boxed together on the open page, document my high school graduation. In each of the pictures, the faces are happy and bright, full of perfect smiles and obvious joy. My favorite, one I have a copy of that sits on my nightstand in my apartment, is of the three of us. Maggie in a lovely shade of powder blue, her silvery white hair pulled back in a low bun, and wispy tendrils flying in front of her cobalt blue eyes. Walt, standing at least a good foot taller than what I’d grown accustomed to these last few years, matching in his short-sleeved button up and a plain, navy blue tie. His hair a little fuller and his eyes with enough love to fuel the whole state of California. Younger me stands between them and I remember feeling like I’ve never belonged anywhere else but standing with the two of them.

They were my cornerstones, the very people I needed to push me and encourage me to make something of myself.

By the time I’d graduated college and fulfilled Maggie’s dream for me, she was gone.

And now, so is Walt.

The fact that I’ll never hear him cheer on his precious Spartans again, never call me “Allie Cat” or “kid,” never feel his frail arms wrap around me and tell me he’s proud of me, floods over me with a crash. And like the tide, I let the loneliness carry me out to sea, nearly drowning in it.

“Why?” The question hiccups out of me in between the sobs. The endless questions that I’ve been wanting to scream since the moment the hospital called start to burst from my lungs like a geyser of pain. “Why would you give me such wonderful, caring people and then take them both away? Neither of them were ready to meet their Maker, but you took them from me anyway? My time with them was so, so short. It wasn’t enough. I need them. I need them so much. I need Maggie to tell me what to do. I need Walt to tell me what to say. I…I need them.”

More sobs burst out, drawing the last of the oxygen from my lungs, completely draining me of anything I have left to give.

“They told me you love me and that you’d never forsake me. But if you did love me, you wouldn’t have done this. You wouldn’t have taken them from me and you wouldn’t have left me here to figure this all out on my own. Again.”

Why, God? Why?

***

I feel the sharp pain of hard wood on my knuckles when I rap them on the door to Mac’s office. I read somewhere that the other senses for a deaf or blind person are heightened to compensate for what their ears or eyes cannot contribute. I’m beginning to believe that when you go numb on the inside, every physical sensation is heightened to compensate for the lack of deeper emotional feeling.

“Come in,” Mac yells through the closed door. The moment I swing it open and step inside his office, I can tell that the five pounds of makeup I have plastered on isn’t doing its job of hiding the toll my life is taking on my body.

“Allie? What are you doing here?” Concern shrouds his eyes, but we’ve both known each other long enough to know that if asking me if I’m okay is only going to earn him an “I’m fine.”

“Turning in the rough draft of the article.”

“It’s done? Already?”

“Yep.” The sense of completion and pride I normally feel after an article is turned in is noticeably absent today. Crossing my arms, I brace myself for the blow back I know to expect.

“You’ve been back less than two days. How on earth did you manage to get that article, plus all the fune—” He clears his throat at the sharp look I send him.

“We’ve known each other a long time, yeah?” He nods and visibly swallows, nervous anxiety rolling off him. I must be giving off some seriously hostile vibes if he’s afraid I’m going off my rocker. I relax my stance and try to smooth out my voice. “Then you should know by now, I needed the distraction.”

Pity replaces the concern in his eyes and since I’ve kind of abandoned my normally cheery disposition, that pity makes me want to punch him. But just in the arm, though. Less damage, and I don’t think I’d feel so bad about it later.

“Allie.” He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, an exhaustion I haven’t seen in him before peeking through the pity and concern. “What can I help you with?”

“Nothing.” I shake my head, as I mentally go through the checklist of things I was told I’d need to accomplish for the memorial. “The funeral home and church are taking care of most of everything. I typed up an obituary that ran in the Gazette this morning.”

Mac bites down on his bottom lip, as if holding back a comment he knows will only infuriate me.

“We’re having the services at the Church of Christ in Santa Cruz tomorrow. He’ll be buried next to Mag—” Her name catches on my tongue and I have to inhale a lungful just to finish my thought. “Maggie afterward. Then we’ll wrap everything up with a dinner served in their honor at The Kitchen on 94th and Savoy afterward.”

“What can I contribute to the dinner?” Mac has, on numerous occasions, helped me organize company sponsored dinners for the homeless that come to The Kitchen. As a company we’ve fed countless people who just need a warm meal and place to rest.

“It’s mostly covered. We’re asking that any monetary donations be sent there for future meals.”

He nods and pulls out his phone. His thumbs fly across the screen and before he clicks the screen locked again, I know he’s made a handsome donation.  “Let me know if that doesn’t cover it.”

Smiling weakly, I thank him.

“No need, Al. What time do I need to be at the church?”

I don’t know why I didn’t think of Mac being there for me for the hardest day of my life. He was there for me when we buried Maggie, standing next to Danny and lending a friendly hand when I needed it. But the surprise hits me full-force anyway, knocking me off guard and sending a fresh wave of tears to assault my eyes again.

“You—” I don’t even get my protest out before Mac swallows me up in a hug.

“It’s okay, Allie. You know I wouldn’t miss that for anything.” He runs his hand over my shoulders and lets me hug him back. I let the tears fall, but force the weeps that want to accompany them at bay. If I’m going to lose it again, I might as well be at home in my sweats and not have to worry about scaring little children on the street with my horrendously puffy eyes and flaming red nose.

“We’ve been friends a long time, Al. Walt was like an uncle to me and I know you have to be devastated. I wish there was something more I could do for you.”

I almost—almost—ask him if calling a particular wide receiver would be inappropriate. These last two days back in Cali have felt less like home than Walker first did. I miss the quiet country, the warm smiles and the beautiful sunsets. I miss the nonstop chatter of the younger Lassiters and the easy-going playfulness of the eldest Lassiters. But more than anything I miss the peaceful reticence of Logan’s presence at the ranch.

And his hugs. Definitely those hugs.

“What is it?” Mac steps away and searches my eyes, trying to decipher my needs.

“Nothing. You being there will be great. You can make me laugh by making fun of me when I get up there and make a total fool of myself.”

He gives me a sad grin. “You won’t make a fool of yourself, Al. Just talk from the heart. Everyone knows that you and Walt had a unique bond. I can’t think of a better person to eulogize for him.”

Although his words bring a sense of pride to my heart, they don’t ease the pain of Walt’s absence. Or Logan’s.

“I need to go. I have to pick up my dress from the dry cleaners, and I’m going to swing by and help prep for tomorrow’s dinner.”

I go to turn, but Mac stops me by laying a hand on my arm.

“You need to rest, Allie. I’m sure the ladies at The Kitchen will understand.”

I can’t tell him that even if I do as he says, I won’t be able to sleep. I can’t take the pity in his eyes now as it is. So I just nod and push back the tears one more time.