by Tara Wyatt
But how could she let him go? True, she’d broken up with him, but a tiny part of her wondered if she’d overreacted. She didn’t know. Every single thought felt incomplete, fragmented.
Needing the fortification despite her roiling stomach, Maggie picked up her wine and took a healthy swallow.
“How am I ever supposed to trust him again? How am I supposed to know he’s not keeping secrets or playing me, expecting me to fall at his feet like a good girl? How can things ever be real between us?”
The four women sat in silence because there were no answers to Maggie’s questions. “This was our second chance,” continued Maggie. “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice…” She shrugged, not finishing the saying. “I hate that he’s made me feel this way, and I still miss him. I hate that he lied to me and I still look at pictures of him on my phone. I hate that my bed feels so empty without him that I have to sleep on the couch. I hate that I should delete him from my phone but I can’t. I hate that he burned me—twice—and I’m still in love with him. I hate him for it. I hate that I love him.” Tears welled and slipped down Maggie’s cheeks, burning a path over her tight skin.
Jess moved forward and gathered her into a hug. “I’m so sorry, babe. I’m so sorry that you’re hurting. I wish I could fix it.”
“We all do,” said Audrey, joining the hug.
“We love you.” Laurel wrapped her arms around them. Maggie felt some of the tension ebb away, knowing these women had her back and would support her—literally and figuratively.
“I wish I could take it all back,” she whispered, burying her face in Jess’s warm, sweet-smelling shoulder. “I wish I’d never met Dylan McCormick.”
Dylan scrubbed a hand over his face as he sat in the dugout, staring unseeing out at the field as he waited for his turn at bat. The Denver evening air was warm, and the Longhorns were currently winning 4-1 in the sixth inning. If they won tonight, they’d hit .500 and talk of having a shot at the wild card could officially start. But he didn’t care. He didn’t give a shit about anything except losing Maggie. He hadn’t shaved since she’d told him she didn’t want him in her life. Hadn’t been eating much, subsisting on sports drinks and protein bars. Hadn’t been sleeping hardly at all. Guys on the team had been asking him if he felt okay because he looked like hammered shit.
He wasn’t fucking okay. He’d ruined everything by being the same kind of asshole his father was.
He hadn’t talked to Maggie in a week now—hadn’t tried because the least he could do right now was to respect her wishes and not contact her—and the team was on the road for an epic ten game road trip, so he hadn’t had a chance to have it out with his father yet either because what he had to say couldn’t be said over the phone or in an email. But that was coming. Goddamn right that was coming.
He tried to focus on the game unfolding before him, but all he could think about was Maggie. The pain in her eyes. The way her voice had trembled with held back tears. How she’d pulled away from him. He’d had a second chance with her, and he’d royally fucked it up. He kept seesawing back and forth between wanting to figure out a way to fix it and letting her go, knowing she’d be better off without a controlling prick like him in her life. She was right. Her life wasn’t a toy, but he’d fucking treated it like it was.
Motherfucking bastard.
Anger simmered through his blood, not at Maggie, but at himself. At his father. At hurting Maggie—again—because of who he was, and who his father was. He’d been so stupid, so blind, so selfish to think he didn’t owe her the truth. He’d played with her life, both then and now, just like his father had played with Dylan’s. He clenched his jaw to the point of pain, his muscles quivering with the self-loathing roiling through him.
Somehow, Dylan managed to pull his focus back to the game just in time to see Cruz line a drive up the third base line and make it easily to first. With an irritated little growl, he geared up and stepped out onto the on-deck circle to warm up. Hunter was batting right before him, and Dylan watched as Hunter took a couple of balls, then fouled off a pitch that was tight to the inside. Hunter chirped at the pitcher, telling him exactly what he’d thought of that pitch. Dylan worked the bat over his shoulder, pulling at his tight muscles, the tension radiating through him preventing him from getting loose. The pitcher wound up, released the ball, and it hit Hunter right on the arm.
“Son of a bitch!” he yelled as he threw his bat down and paced away from the plate, walking off the pain that Dylan knew hurt like a hammer right to the flesh. Hunter spat angrily and glared at the pitcher, who adjusted his cap and smirked at him. Hunter said something unintelligible to the umpire, who issued the pitcher a warning. Fans booed loudly as Hunter took his base, taking his sweet time walking down the first base line.
“Good thing you can’t throw very hard, Sellers,” taunted Hunter as he settled in at first. Sellers tossed something that sounded a lot like “fucking pussy” over his shoulder. The entire series had been like this. Hit batters, squabbling players, tension mounting between the teams after two close games with the Longhorns fighting to hit that .500 mark.
Dylan came up to the plate, scratching the same four letters into the dirt, unwilling to let his tradition go despite the sadness tugging at his chest, and then settled into his stance. The pitcher glanced over his shoulder at Hunter, who’d taken a healthy lead off of first base and then let the pitch fly. Dylan only had a split second to react, and he turned away from the ball, wincing as it slammed into his shoulder blade.
“That was fucking on purpose!” he yelled, turning to the ump, expecting him to throw Sellers out after the warning he’d given him.
“Not my fault you didn’t get out of the way,” called Sellers. “You were fucking crowding the plate. It’s your fault.”
It’s your fault. The words seared through Dylan, tinging everything red, and before he could talk himself out of it, he was charging the mound, his blood and the crowd roaring in his ears. He ripped off his batting helmet and whipped it at Sellers. It made a satisfying thunk against the pitcher’s chest and it tipped Sellers just off balance. Dylan cocked his arm back and swung, connecting with Sellers’s jaw. His head snapped back, but he stayed on his feet. Hunter charged over from first base, pouncing on Sellers, but not before he got his own punch off, his knuckles hammering into Dylan’s cheek. The pain felt good as it exploded across his face, a cathartic release for the ugliness inside him. As Hunter pulled him away, Dylan swung again, hitting Sellers in the nose and sending blood spurting everywhere.
Players from the Rockies and Longhorns erupted from the benches, swarming the field, some fighting, some trying to break up the fight. Dylan was pulled to the ground by two Rockies players, holding him back from doing any further damage. To his right, Hunter threw a swing at a Rockies player, sending him sprawling. A blur of purple and white swirled around Dylan, players and coaches shouting, taunting, pleading. Almost none of it was audible over the screaming roar of the crowd. Umpires and coaches worked together to separate everyone, and when Dylan was able to stand up, he felt a pair of strong arms band around him from behind. Cruz, holding him back. Right in the middle of everything was Abby, trying to separate the players and calm things down. Javi held a bleeding Hunter back, who was grinning despite his split lip.
Everything drained out of Dylan—the anger, the adrenaline, the need for release—and he felt empty. Hollow. Worthless and guilty and like the piece of shit he was. He let Cruz pull him back to the Longhorns dugout without any resistance.
Once the dust settled and everyone had gone back to where they were supposed to be, the umpires tossed Sellers, Dylan, and Hunter from the game. Javi gave him a look promising a world of suffering as he headed to the showers. But Dylan didn’t care. Anything Javi did to him would only be icing on the fucked-up cake of his life. Nothing mattered anymore.
Dylan nursed his beer as Hunter shot back his whiskey, grimacing as the liquor hit his split lip. Dylan’s cheek was tender, and
he’d probably be sporting a hell of a bruise come tomorrow, but it had been worth it. He wasn’t normally a violent guy, but the guilt and revulsion simmering inside him had been eating him alive and had needed an outlet. Sellers beaning first Hunter and then him had been the perfect scenario. The perfect excuse.
“Didn’t take you for a brawler,” said Hunter, toying with his glass as his eyes scanned the interior of the bar in downtown Denver after the game. They’d just spent the past half an hour getting royally chewed out by Javi, who’d warned them both to get their shit together or they’d be riding so much pine they’d have splinters in their asses. Funny how a few months ago, Dylan would’ve been horrified at the threat of getting benched. Now, he didn’t give a shit. He’d already lost the only thing that really mattered. It was as though Maggie was the center of his world, and without her, everything else just kind of…fell away. She’d been the center ten years ago, and she was the center now. How could she not be? Everything good in his life—then and now—was her. Because of her, or for her, or with her. Maggie.
Dylan took a sip of his beer and then set the bottle down, picking at the label. “I’m not usually. But Sellers had it coming.”
Hunter tipped his head, running his tongue along his back teeth. “Was it Sellers? Or did you just need to mow someone down to work through whatever it is that’s got you walking around like a fucking zombie?”
“I’m not.”
“Dude, you look like an extra on the set of The Walking Dead. I keep expecting you to take a bite out of someone at every turn.”
Dylan sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face, wincing when the pressure of his fingers made his cheek throb angrily. “So there’s this girl…” He drained the rest of his beer and signaled for another one.
Hunter smirked, one eyebrow raised. “Isn’t there always?”
Dylan snorted and shook his head. “Can I tell you something?”
“Is it about all those rumors about you and Maggie Jennings?”
He didn’t know what he’d originally planned to tell Hunter, but as soon as he started talking, it was as though the floodgates had opened, and Dylan found himself telling him everything, the whole twisted story. Falling in love with Maggie ten years ago, his father’s interference and her “scholarship,” reconnecting with her here and fighting to win her back, his father’s interference the second time around and Maggie finding out he’d kept the truth from her. Hunter listened without saying anything, just nodding occasionally. Finally, when Dylan was done talking, Hunter leaned back in his chair.
“Man, your dad sounds like a dick.”
Dylan rolled his eyes. “That’s your takeaway from all of that?” He sighed and shook his head, diving into his second beer. “And yeah, he is.”
“Listen, I know it’s hard to see because you’re in it, but it seems pretty straightforward to me.”
Dylan arched an eyebrow. “It does?”
“Sure. You love her. She loves you, yeah?”
“Yeah. I mean, I love her. Not sure if she loves me. I thought she did, but I’m not so sure anymore. Not after the way she looked at me.” Despite how Maggie felt about him now, though, Dylan loved her. He wasn’t fooling anyone, pretending he should just let her go, as if that were any kind of legit option. She was his. She always had been. He’d never loved anyone but her, and regardless of what had happened between them, he knew that’d stay true for the rest of his life.
“You want her back.”
“Yeah, but she won’t—”
“All you gotta do is find a way to show her she can trust you. And maybe think about going no contact with your old man, because that bastard’s straight up toxic.”
“Oh, I plan to. When we get back to Dallas, I’m going to give him a piece of my mind, and then we’re through.” Despite his words, despite everything his father had done, Dylan felt a tiny tug of sadness right in the center of his chest at the idea of cutting his father out of his life, even though he knew it was the right thing to do.
As though he could read his mind, Hunter leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the table and giving Dylan an earnest look. “You know, not everyone you lose is a loss.”
He nodded slowly, letting that sink in. “Who said that? Yogi Berra?”
Hunter smirked. “Dr. Phil.”
“Didn’t peg you for a daytime TV fan.”
“I’m a man of hidden depths, my friend.”
“Apparently.”
Dylan leaned back in his seat and twirled his beer bottle around with his fingers, scraping it against the table. How could he show Maggie that she could trust him? That if she gave him another chance, he’d never lie to her again for as long as he lived? Chances were, if he just showed up at her door with flowers and chocolates and begged her to hear him out, he’d be on the other side of a slammed door and a few choice curse words. Why would she believe him when he told her he was being honest when she didn’t believe anything he had to say?
“Thanks for having my back out there tonight,” he said to Hunter, letting the questions pounding through him go for now. He didn’t have any answers. Not right now. Not yet. But if he didn’t fight for Maggie, that meant that his father had won. And honestly, fuck that.
Hunter clinked his glass against Dylan’s bottle. “Anytime, man.”
Sixteen
Adrenaline surged through Dylan as he stood in front of the massive double doors of his father’s house. The house he’d grown up in. The house he’d left at eighteen and hadn’t missed even for a second. Despite the beauty of the property—weathered gray brick, large windows, each wing of the sprawling mansion punctuated with a turret-like bookend—a feeling of utter and complete revulsion crawled over Dylan, making his skin itch. The wrought-iron gate at the end of the driveway had been locked when he’d first pulled up, but thankfully some things never changed, including the entry code. He’d punched it in and then wound his way down the curving concrete driveway lined with live oaks.
It was ten in the morning; he’d driven the half hour out to Ivy Hills as soon as he’d managed to pull his ass out of bed after getting in from the road late last night. It didn’t matter if his father wasn’t home right now. Dylan had an off day today, and he could wait. This conversation was happening today. He’d put it off long enough.
Taking a breath and squaring his shoulders, he pressed on the doorbell, listening as the delicate chimes peeled and echoed through the ten-thousand-square foot house. A soft wind blew, chasing away some of the heat hovering in the air, making the leaves sigh as the branches swayed. Dylan wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be feeling right now. He was about to cut his father out of his life, and he just felt impatient, like he wanted to get this over with. Maybe because this moment felt inevitable, in a way.
Footsteps echoed through the foyer and the front door swung open, revealing a woman Dylan didn’t know wearing a light yellow polo shirt and a pair of khakis. Around her waist was a tool belt filled with cleaning supplies.
“Yes?” she asked, blinking at Dylan.
“I’m here to see my dad. Is he home?”
The woman blinked at him again and then recognition dawned in her eyes. “Oh, you’re Dylan. Yes, come in. Mr. McCormick is working from home today. I’ll let him know you’re here. Why don’t you have a seat in the front room?” she suggested, gesturing him into the house.
He shook his head. “Thank you, but I’ll just go up to his office.”
“Oh, but he doesn’t like to be disturbed…” She trailed off helplessly as Dylan started mounting the wide, sweeping staircase.
“He’s not going to like any of this,” he said, taking the stairs two at a time. He walked down the hall to the very last door, knocked once and pushed it open.
Here we go.
His father sat behind a garishly big desk, his back to the curved windows looking out onto the three sprawling acres of property surrounding the house. The infinity pool sparkled invitingly below, expensive-looking patio furniture ar
ranged around it, as if waiting for guests. The office itself was masculine and tasteful, with deep blue plush carpeting and light gray walls. But it could’ve been anyone’s office. There were no personal touches, no photos, no mementos decorating the space.
This house wasn’t a home, and it never really had been. Being here now, Dylan realized it felt like a goddamn mausoleum. No wonder his mother had hightailed it out of here.
His father smiled at him, a smug quirk of his lips that twisted his face into something almost like a sneer. “I was wondering when I’d see you.”
Dylan opened his mouth, shocked to find he didn’t want to shout or swear or demand answers. None of that was worth his time or energy; the answers—the twisted lies that they’d be—didn’t matter. So he closed his mouth and slipped a hand into his back pocket, pulling out the cashier’s check he’d picked up from the bank on his way over. The paper was thick and creamy between his fingers. He dropped it onto his father’s desk.
“This is for you. It’s a million dollars. I don’t want to owe you anything. I don’t want you to have a single thing to hold over my head. So here it is—payment for pretty much everything you gave me, not out of parental duty, but some fucked up chess game I could never seem to win because the rules were always changing.”
His father slowly picked up the check with a frown. “I don’t want this.”
“I don’t care. I don’t care if you cash it or rip it up or use it as toilet paper. This is me tipping the scales back to zero. I don’t owe you anything and you can’t jerk me around and fuck with my life anymore. We’re done. Do you understand? Consider the loan repaid, the game over, our relationship in the past.” With every single word, Dylan felt lighter and lighter, the weight of years of forced gratitude and manipulation lifting from his shoulders.
