Completing the Pass Page 18

  “Thanks.” He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and tossed the crumpled paper cup into the waste basket.

  As he walked to his car, he thought back to the advice.

  Figure out what it is you need. Go get it.

  Take care of yourself.

  With those ringing endorsements in his ears, he called the one person who could help him.

  ***

  Carri watched as her mother tucked a blanket around her father’s shoulders. Maeve smiled around her arm as she made sure the blanket was secure around Herb’s arms. “He’s exhausted. That ballet class must have worn him out.”

  “It wore me out,” Carri admitted.

  “Tell me about it.” Maeve motioned for Carri to go on.

  “They sat us in chairs, and we did all these stretches. I wasn’t the only one who stayed with their, uh, dancer,” she said, looking toward her father to make sure he was asleep. “So we did a lot of stretching, bending, stuff like that. Then they had all sorts of exercises for us to work on. Even a scene from West Side Story.”

  “Oh, I love that musical!” Maeve whispered excitedly.

  “It was pretty fun. There was a script to memorize and everything. We were Jets,” she added with a grin. “One of the instructors said they found adding in speech and memorization of verbal lines adds to the muscle memory.”

  “It sounds wonderful.”

  “The instructors were all amazing, though. I don’t know how much will come from it, but he enjoyed it, even if he said he didn’t.”

  It had been a surreal experience, watching her father, along with nine other class members who varied in ages from—Carri guessed—their mid-forties to their nineties. Their levels of dementia or other degenerative diseases were also varied in how progressed they were. Herb, for now, was still very strong physically. But Carri had seen the potential future—with trembling hands and shaky, shuffling steps . . . and her heart had ached.

  But as each participant sat in their special chair and followed along with the graceful moves of the ballet instructors, she watched something light inside even the few who had stared blankly since they entered the room. The movements were jerkier, the positions less fluid than the duo of ballet dancers they were mimicking. But Carri could tell that with each passing moment, the hearts of the class members were lifting as if going on pointe themselves.

  “I talked to the director. She said the dancers from the academy rotate through instructing the class, and they all love doing it. It’s more popular than dealing with the four-year-olds.”

  “Probably not much difference,” Maeve said with a grin. “Except the lack of having to chase their pupils around.”

  Carri snorted into her hand and left the family room before she laughed out loud and woke her father up. Her mother followed closely behind. “He’s had a few really good days. Maybe . . . Maybe it’s passing. Maybe there was something that wasn’t connecting, but it is now. Could it be over?”

  Maeve looked at her sadly, and said exactly what Carri already knew and had let her mind forget for just a moment. “No, sweetheart. It’s not over. There’s no coming back from this. Not now. Not in your father’s lifetime. Maybe someday . . .”

  In silent agreement, they walked into the living room and sat on the couch. Maeve rubbed at one wrist, a habit Carri knew meant she was nervous or anxious about something.

  “Mom,” Carri said slowly, “there’s no help coming, is there? I mean, the insurance. There’s no hope with the appeal, is there? You weren’t even going to file one.”

  Her mother’s hands froze, then began rubbing faster over her wrist. “No,” she said quietly.

  “Is that . . .” Carri swallowed, trying to force down the resentment she knew was creeping up. “Is that a new development? Did you just find out?”

  Maeve said nothing, confirming the suspicion Carri had been mulling over the last few weeks.

  “Were you hoping to just play this off forever? Like I wouldn’t notice seven years had passed and I was still waiting for help to come so I could return to Utah?”

  Still, nothing.

  “Mom.” When Maeve wouldn’t look at her, Carri stood and rounded on her. “This . . . I don’t even know what to say anymore.”

  “We need the help, Carrington,” was all Maeve said.

  “But you didn’t even ask me. You didn’t sit down and tell me how hard it was to come to me, how you knew this was a tough situation, but could I consider moving home? Or help out some other way. No discussion. No honesty. You didn’t keep me in the loop at all, even when I asked repeatedly. Even when I downright offered to help you fight the insurance.”

  Nothing.

  “Mom!”

  “Hush,” Maeve snapped. “Your father is sleeping.”

  “Dad’s asleep, and I’ve been hitting the Snooze button on my life because you let me believe there was an end in sight. There was relief coming. You were just never going to tell me.”

  “Carri . . .”

  “You’ve seriously . . . Ugh!” Carri walked toward her room and shut the door quietly. Her father hadn’t asked for her anger. She wouldn’t wake him up just to feel better by slamming a door.

  Her phone vibrated in her pocket with a phone call, and she considered smothering it—or herself—with her pillow to shut the world out. But when she checked the readout, it wasn’t Jess. It was Josh.

  “Hey,” she said, fighting back tears. “Yeah. Your timing is perfect. I’ll be there soon.”

  ***

  She showed up, an hour later, holding a bottle of wine in one hand and a box of cookies in the other. “I’m a little confused,” she said slowly as Josh opened the door. “I thought you had to meet me in the lobby so I could get on the elevator. But when I stopped at that front desk, they said I could just . . . go on up. Doesn’t seem like very strict security.”

  “I added you to my list of people.” Josh took the box of cookies from her hand and put it on the kitchen counter. “You brought goodies.”

  “You said you needed to talk. I figured talking might involve refreshments.” She shrugged and set the wine down beside the cookies. “Okay, so . . . maybe not the best refreshments the night before a game. But you can have milk, and I’ll have the wine. I might need it,” she added on a mutter, and began to rummage through his kitchen drawers.

  “Why? What happened?” She kept rattling around. “I didn’t hide the corkscrew under the stack of spoons.”

  She shut the drawer with her hip and opened another one.

  “Carri. Carrington, Jesus, stop before you destroy my kitchen.” He reached around and hugged her close to him. Her posture was tense for a moment, then she melted against his hold. He smoothed her hair back and tucked his face into the crook of her neck. There, her scent was strong, and calming. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

  “I’m supposed to be over here comforting you. I suck at this.”

  But she trembled. Her bravado was stretched to its breaking point. One little twang and . . . snap.

  “Maybe by comforting you, you’re calming me.”

  “That makes no sense.”

  “Baby, tell me what’s wrong.”

  “Find the corkscrew and I will,” she countered. Without letting go, he reached behind him, opened the top drawer beside the fridge, and used touch alone to pull out the tool. “Oh,” she said, halfheartedly. “Of course.”

  “You would have found it, eventually. Now talk.”

  With a sigh, she snuggled back against him for a split second before stepping out of his embrace. “I talked to Jess.”

  “Jess is . . .” He searched quickly through his mental files. “Your friend from Utah.”

  “My friend and property manager. The one who keeps track of tenants and issues with the properties,” she explained when he lifted his brows.

  “Thanks.�
�� When she started eying the upper cabinets, he took his cue and went to the right one to bring down two wineglasses. He handed her one, then used the other to pour himself vegetable juice. “What?” he said when she gave him a sickened face. “It’s healthy. And look, the glass makes it fancy.”

  “You make me sad.” But she said it with a smile, and a healthy gulp of wine. Then she topped her glass off. “If you’re drinking veggie juice, you definitely deserve a cookie. Let’s take this to the couch.” Seemingly at home in his apartment, she walked that direction with her glass of wine perched in one hand, the box of baked goods in the other, and the bottle cradled against her side with her elbow. Josh waited until she chose a seat on the sofa, then purposefully chose to sit on the arm chair instead. She needed to get this off her chest, and he needed to let her. Touching while sitting on the couch they’d had sex on wouldn’t help either of those goals come to fruition.

  “She’s quitting, basically.” Carri opened the box, took a cookie, then slid it across the table to him. With her legs tucked up under her on his sofa, a cookie in each hand, and a glass of white wine she looked at home. She looked perfect. Like he could see spending evenings with her like this every night.

  Shake it off, Leeman. Focus on her words.

  “She’s taking one of the investors I use, which is sort of a dick move,” she cut into his thoughts, “but not unethical . . . exactly. And she’ll use all the knowledge she gained from working for me . . . which I can’t really complain about.” Another gulp of wine. “It’s not like I trademarked the idea of investment real estate. It’s aggravating, though. I know she’s been handling things back home by herself, but my rentals and tenants are pretty low maintenance. And she’s paid well.”

  “Sounds like it might be best for all involved if she heads out,” Josh put in, then zipped his lips when he caught her freezing glare while she topped her glass off . . . again. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t fix,” she warned. “There’s no real way to fix it, so there’s your warning. The only way to make it better is to get back to Utah.”

  “And you can’t,” he guessed.

  “How do I leave my dad? Mom just told me today there was no home health worker coming in. They weren’t great with money, ever. Why would I think they had long-term-care insurance? Why would I think that was even possible? She’s been stringing me along.” Carri blew out a breath, shifting the baby-fine hairs that caressed her cheek. “As usual. She’s a pro. My mother should be in business. Maeve’s Manipulations: First Panic Attack Free.”

  “She could have a punch card, like the frozen yogurt place. Buy ten manipulations, get your eleventh free.” He chuckled, then laughed when Carri snorted.

  She took a big gulp of wine, then another cookie. “Your call couldn’t have come at a better time. Between Jess giving me at least a month of notice—which I do appreciate, because that’s more than required—and my mom basically telling me that no, there’s no home-aid worker coming . . . I’m stuck.”

  “And I provided a Maeve-approved escape hatch. Hey, I won’t complain,” Josh said, toasting her with his juice when she looked guilty. “If it gets you over here faster, I’m all for it.”

  “Well, it did.” And that seemed to annoy her even more. Enough that she sipped her wine without even looking at it. Was that her third glass, or fourth? He’d lost count with her topping off half-full rounds between sentences.

  Time to change tacks. “Come over here.”

  “Hmm?” She was still staring at her wineglass, swirling the last few drops around the bottom of the bowl.

  “Come over.” He patted his thigh in invitation. When she gave him a skeptical look, he shrugged. “Or not.”

  Contrary soul that she was, that enticed her all the more. “Fine. But no funny business.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said innocently as she set her wineglass beside his juice and perched on his lap. “No, like this.” Wrapping an arm around her waist, he pulled her back, arranged her legs over his, and waited for her to rest her head on his shoulder. “There. Better.”

  “Mmm,” was all she said. Then she breathed deeply.

  “What?”

  “Just creating a memory.”

  “Of what my shirt smells like?” he asked wryly.

  “Of what you smell like. This moment, really. Cookies, and wine, and you and . . .” She started to drift, and he felt her relax against him. “I’m supposed to be over here lifting you up, not the other way around.”

  And just like that, he realized it didn’t matter who was lifting whom up. It mattered that they were both together, working their way out of the dark.

  Lips against her hair, he said, “Doesn’t matter. This is working for me.”

  She snuggled closer to him and sighed. “Wanna tell me about your reason for wanting me over here?”

  “I’m nervous about tomorrow.”

  “Of course you are.”

  That made him huff. “Nobody else seems to think I should be. Apparently if I’m nervous, I’m screwing the entire team up.”

  “Then they’re idiots. Or they’re trying to give you something you don’t need. Which is a pep talk. You don’t need a pep talk. You need to do the talking. You always thought better after talking.”

  He considered that a moment. “How do you even know that?”

  “Do you know how many times I was recruited for you to talk through your essay problems for English? How often my presence was about as useful as a cardboard cutout?”

  He thought back to the cutout of Josiah Walker and his media training and grinned. “Sometimes, just watching someone’s facial expressions is enough. Or knowing they’ll stop you if you say something dumb.” She certainly would have.

  “I would have totally stopped you for saying something dumb,” she agreed. “Any chance to mock the great Josh Leeman.”

  Unlike prior times, she said it so softly this time, so without that typical Carri bite, it almost sounded loving. Like a long-used inside joke between two people who had no problem bagging on each other and ending the insults with a kiss.

  “I wish I could take you into the locker room with me.” He pulled her tighter against him.

  “Sounds like a whole lotta junk I don’t need to see,” she mumbled, and he snorted.

  “The sidelines, then. Or you could sit in the skybox and call me. That would be good. Kick me back down when I’m getting too greedy, pull me back up when someone’s making me feel like shit.”

  “Nobody gets to make you feel like shit except me.” Her voice was a little hazy now, almost as if sleep were dragging her down whether she liked it or not.

  Well, he had no problem helping that along. He rubbed her back with one hand and lowered his voice. “And after we win—because this is my dream so of course we win—I’d come find you and claim my prize.”

  “I’m no prize,” she whispered.

  “I was talking about another cookie, but you’ll do.” He felt her lips curve against his neck. “I’d steal my kiss from you quickly. Then you’d sit beside me during the inevitable, unavoidable media circus afterward, and then get in my car and ride off with me somewhere quiet where you wait on me hand and foot for being the football god that I am.”

  When she didn’t even blink at that, he knew she was out like a light. Josh checked his watch. Not quite seven. He’d wake her in an hour or two for dinner. But for now, he considered the warm, comforting weight of her in his arms to be the closest thing to heaven he’d experienced. He wasn’t giving it up so soon.

  And he wasn’t just talking about tonight.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Carri woke up to Josh’s lightly chanting voice, followed by a mild earthquake. “Wha . . . Huh?”

  She tried to move, but her face was glued to something. Oh, God, what the hell had happened to her?

  “Carri. I hate
to do this but I’m starving. And you probably need some food in you.”

  “Marphft,” was all she could manage when her cheek wouldn’t move.

  “Something to soak up the wine. Cookies aren’t enough. Up we go.”

  The earth tilted again, and she realized the mild earthquake had been Josh shaking her. She was still on his lap, and her cheek had become stuck to his neck in a sweaty mess.

  Oh, sweet God . . . that was embarrassing.

  Finally able to pry herself away, she tapped his shoulder as he walked with her still in his arms to the kitchen. “Down, please.”

  “In a minute. Let me be heroic for a second, would ya?” He grinned as he deposited her on the counter beside the kitchen sink. “There. Perfect. What do you want for dinner?”

  Dinner. She probably had to get home. She used the back of her wrist to wipe at her mouth, in case there was any lingering drool.

  Reading her thoughts before she could vocalize them, Josh shook his head and caged her with his hands on the counter. “You’re not going anywhere tonight. You’re mine, all night, end of story.”

  “But my parents—”

  “Will accept that their daughter is grown and can make her own decisions. Send your mom a text saying you’ll be home tomorrow, and let it go. Turn the phone off. That’s all she needs to know.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to stay all night,” she countered, for some stupid reason.

  “Yes, you do.”

  “It’s annoying when you know things you shouldn’t.” She pushed at his shoulder. “Now make me a sandwich.”

  “That’s usually the guy’s line, but I’m up for some gender-bending.” He pulled out a loaf of bread from the pantry and a few plates from a cabinet. “Tell me something I don’t already know about you.”

  She watched with her feet dangling in front of the cabinets as he began pulling condiments and lunch meat from the fridge. When he reached in for the sliced cheese, she said, “I don’t like cheese on my sandwiches.”