Delaney James was wearing Chanel the night her husband told her he didn't love her anymore.
In an instant, her picture-perfect Manhattan life-complete with a brownstone on the Upper East Side, a blossoming career as a fashion journalist, and a devas...
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By the time we get back to the house, I'm emotionally exhausted.
I slip out of my heels, leaving them in a pile by the front door instead of putting them away where Hercules can't reach them, and make my way into the kitchen. Every step feels heavier than the last. Hercules prances circles around my legs, bumping my hand with his nose before licking my fingertips in an attempt to get my attention, but all I can manage is a distracted pat on his head.
"I'm gonna take him for a walk," Greyson says as he clips the leash onto Hercules' collar. "You wanna come?"
I shake my head. "No. I'll stay here."
"Okay." He presses a quick kiss to my forehead. "We'll be back in a few minutes."
I set my purse on the counter and open the refrigerator for a bottle of water. Before I can close the door, I catch Greyson watching me from the entryway. He doesn't say anything, but he doesn't have to. Ever since he came back from the restroom at Jenkins, he's known something has been off. He just doesn't know why.
I wish I could tell him nothing's wrong.
I wish I could forget Kutter ever opened his mouth.
Most of all, I wish I understood what happened between the last conversation Greyson and I had about baseball and the one Kutter thought we'd already had.
The last time Greyson talked about coaching, he told me he wasn't ready. Coaching would be too hard when his heart still wanted to be out on the field but his body wouldn't allow it. I believed him because I know he's still grieving his career. Even now, whenever baseball comes up, I can still see how much of him never wanted to walk away from it.
So why interview with the Cubs? And if he wanted it enough to interview...
Why turn it down?
The front door clicks shut behind them, leaving the house impossibly quiet. I stare down at the bottle of water in my hand without opening it.
Ever since Kutter mentioned Chicago, all I've wanted was to get Greyson alone so I could ask him what happened. Now that the opportunity is only a few minutes away, I find myself wishing I could delay it just a little longer.
Not because I'm afraid we'll argue.
Because I'm afraid of the answer.
My heart begins to beat harder against my ribs, and before long, I recognize the familiar sensation spreading through my chest. Heat creeps up the back of my neck, my breathing grows shallow, and the bottle nearly slips from my damp hands.
No.
Not now.
I close my eyes and try to remember the grounding exercise Greyson walked me through the night I had a panic attack on my front porch.
