There’s a reason I left everyone from St. Louis behind when I was traded. If they needed to reach me, they would have contacted my agent or left a message.
Gripping the phone tightly with my fist, I decline the call—pissed that whatever this is, has pulled me out of bed with Delilah. She rolls onto her stomach, her hand searching for me as her eyes flutter open. She smiles when her hand connects with my knee, but when she looks up it fades immediately.
Delilah’s soft hands cradle my face as she kneels next to me, examining me with concern. “What’s wrong Cruz?” she pleads, her hands running down my neck and shoulders before smoothing back up to my face.
“They called again.” I look down at the phone like the device in my hands is guilty of a terrible offense.
“The same number? Did they leave a message?” Delilah’s gaze drops to the phone.
“No. I’m going to call my parents to check in.” I don’t need to tell Delilah that my greatest fear, when I get calls like these, is that someone is hurt or injured. But that doesn’t make sense because they’re in Texas, and this is a St. Louis number. It’s why I could mostly ignore it last night, but with another call and no message, but now, I just need to be sure.
Her hands wrap around my fist, which is still squeezing the phone. She gently runs her hands over my knuckles until I loosen my grip. When she takes it from me, she uses my code to unlock it while I just sit there like a statue. I barely register what’s happening as she navigates to the missed call and then to my voicemails before pulling my mom’s phone number and looking at me for permission.
“Yeah. Go ahead.”
She connects the call, putting in on speaker. When the phone rings, she shifts, so she’s in my lap, running her hands through my hair. It’s a move that has always calmed me. I rest my head against her shoulder as the phone continues to ring. Right before it goes to voicemail, my mom picks up and the knot in my chest loosens.
“Morning mijo,” my mom says, her voice warm and inviting.
“Buenos días mamá.”
“This is an early call for you. Is everything okay?”
My arm snakes around Delilah’s waist, pulling her tight against me. “Yeah. Everything is fine. Are you and Dad okay? I had a few calls from a number I didn’t recognize last night and again this morning,” I admit sheepishly. My parents have already lost one son. The idea of them worrying about the one they have left me makes me feel weak and I hate it.
“Oh, Cruz. Everyone here is fine.” The sympathy in her voice just makes me feel like more of a burden. I wish I could be stronger for her. Closing my eyes, I fight the urge to scream in frustration. “Are you okay?”
Delilah shifts the phone away from me, bringing it to her ear and taking it off speaker. “Hey, Analia, it’s Lilah. He’ll be fine . . . No, I’ll be here with him until he leaves for the stadium.”
Delilah’s cheeks pinken at whatever my mom says on the other side of the call. “I bet you are.”
Her shoulders shake against me when she laughs at Mom’s response. My mom is no doubt thrilled that Delilah is here this early in the morning. Her greatest wish for me, aside from seeing my baseball dreams come true, is to make Delilah my wife and fill a house with her grandchildren. She’s never failed to remind me of those hopes over the years.
Delilah looks at me silently, asking if I want to talk with her. I hold out my hand for the phone.
“I’m going to hand the phone to Cruz . . . I’ll make sure he’s okay . . . Te extraña también.” She passes me the phone and I bring it to my ear knowing that my mom is about to go full-on mama bear with worry.
“No, don’t do that. I’ll be fine . . . Yes, she’s staying . . . Te amo, má,” I tell her before I hang up—having talked her out of a trip to come check on me.
The Spanish Delilah so easily used with my mom doesn’t go unnoticed and I catalog that detail to ask her about later. She shifts in my lap, changing positions so she’s straddling me, but I can see by the concern in her eyes and the way she’s rolling her lips together this isn’t an invitation for some morning fun.
“It’s okay to ask for help. Whether it’s me or someone else. You need an outlet when the grief is too much, or when the anxiety creeps in from something like this.”
Downplaying this with her doesn’t feel right, and she would see right through me. The last thing I want is to burden her. My mom and Delilah have a lot in common in how they nurture those around them. It’s part of the reason they’ve had an easy friendship for years.
My mom appreciates the way Delilah’s always been there for me, putting me first. But I watched her do the same thing with Brad. And I want to be better than that for her. She should come first, and she can’t do that if she’s taking care of me all the time.
“I’ll send Rich the phone number and ask him to look into it. I don’t want you to worry about it, and I’m sure it’s nothing.”
“The P.I. you used to work with?”
“Yeah, he and I still speak once in a while. It shouldn’t be hard for him to track down a number.”
“This time of the year is always harder for you and with these calls and the upcoming travel schedule to play the Commanders, do you think calling him is going to be enough?”
It’s been three years and I still don’t have the answers I need. For the first two years, I paid a private investigator to find something that would help shed some light on the hours before Jarrett ended up in the hospital fighting for his life. The leads never amounted to anything, and about nine months ago, Rich told him he wouldn’t take any more money from me.
“You’ll let me know if this all gets to be too much, right? The travel, the calls?” she asks, her hands bracketing my face, so I’m forced to look at her when I respond.
