Page 60
Chapter
Forty-Eight
Soren
Lane:
Ribs at my place on Sunday before the game.
Jonah:
I’ll be there.
Lane:
Bring Landry and Hope. Hope wants to see her favorite uncle.
Jonah:
*eye roll emoji*
After three hours, Lane texted again.
Lane:
Yo, Soren. Are you coming?
Soren:
I’ll be there.
I stared at the words on the screen, fully aware that Lane’s comment about being Hope’s favorite uncle was his way of provoking a reaction from me. Everyone had reached out over the past three days, even Landry. Of course, Lane had shared everything with Jonah and Landry. He knew more small-town gossip than Chet Fagan and his morning coffee crew. Volunteering as the high school football coach made you privy to all the latest news around town.
My desperate hope of being able to have a relationship with Sawyer was dwindling like sand in an hourglass, and I felt as if I were drowning under the weight of losing her. Without the crutch of whiskey, I had to confront every emotion head-on, and it frustrated me to no end. Dammit, I was exhausted from feeling. But it was impossible to silence the pain, especially when I was counting the days I’d been sober this morning like they were etched in stone. I felt hopeless, as if no matter how hard I tried, I might never have been everything she needed. Was life so cruel as to send me this incredible woman to love, only to take her away?
I wanted to be angry at her. I wanted to tell her she had given up on us before we even had a chance. But deep down, I knew that wasn’t who Sawyer was. She was scared, and I could hear it in her voice. But that didn’t change anything. She had said she didn’t want to date me, which left me feeling trapped. I wouldn’t force her. I wanted her to choose me just as much as I chose her. A relationship could never succeed long-term if one of us was always running away.
As I pondered these thoughts, the mail carrier drove by, leaving a cloud of gravel dust in his wake. I climbed out of my truck and walked toward the road. The mailbox door creaked open, and beneath a stack of envelopes, I spotted one of the deliveries I had been expecting. I didn’t have all the answers, but maybe this package would hold some. Thank God for expedited shipping.
Lane’s house was a new custom-built home located outside of Kennedy. The winding gravel driveway left visitors unprepared for the mansion that lay beyond the hedge row of Osage orange trees. The house was entirely hidden from any passerby or nosy neighbor curious about what the residence of a retired MLB pitcher looked like.
The house was situated around a five-acre pond with a fishing pier. Lane insisted on driving his restored powder-blue 1954 Chevy pickup even though he could purchase any vehicle on the market. He appreciated nice things, but he didn’t flaunt them. Although he was outgoing, Lane created a sanctuary that provided him with privacy that no other part of his life had allowed him.
I walked in without knocking, precariously balancing two six-packs of soda in glass bottles, a bag of chips, and a crockpot of queso with ground sausage.
“Look, Hopey, it’s Uncle Soren,” Landry said, smiling at Hope on her hip, who was all gums, slobber, and smiles. Her cheeks were like pink, round apples as Landry reached to take the bag of chips before my tower of food crashed to the floor.
“Thanks, Lands,” I said as I lowered everything to the kitchen counter and plugged in the crockpot.
“Hey, man!” Lane called from where he was pulling a pan of ribs from the oven. I raised a hand in greeting. Jonah sat on a bar stool at the high-top counter. Everyone’s eyes were on me, even Hope’s. I reached to carry Hope, trying to pretend I was feeling better than I was, but Hope burrowed her cheek into the hollow of Landry’s neck.
“She’s been kind of clingy since she’s teething,” Landry explained, her dark brown eyes alight with love for her daughter. Although Hope was unexpected, Landry knocked it out of the park as a mom. She had been secretive about who the father was, which killed Jonah because he wanted to rip him limb for limb, but aside from that moment of tension between them, Jonah adored his younger sister. I brushed a knuckle down Hope’s cheek, which gained me another smile. Hope’s eyes were the brightest blue, which made me think of Sawyer.
“What’s everyone been up to?” I asked, settling onto a barstool as Lane finished painting the barbecue glaze on the ribs. Landry tilted her head and blew out a breath to push a stray piece of hair out of her face before Hope’s grabby hands could reach it.
“Worrying about you,” she said bluntly.
Lane and Jonah turned to her, ready to kick her out. Landry tended to speak her mind, regardless of who was around, which only added to the mystery of Hope’s dad. I had rarely been on the receiving end of her ire—it was usually reserved for Lane and Jonah. Lane enjoyed riling her up for fun, while Jonah often overextended himself, or so Landry claimed.
