“Okay. And you…” She tried for her stern therapist voice. “Don’t knock yourself out.”
He grinned. A real one that reached all the way to his eyes, chasing the shadows away for an instant. “Yes, ma’am.”
While he limped into the bedroom and rifled through drawers, she tossed her jacket on the couch and wandered over to the window in the far wall. It looked down into the shop, a bird’s eye view of what appeared to be a mad jumble of equipment and pieces of trucks dimly lit by safety lights over the doors. As her eyes adjusted, she began to see order in the chaos. Tools lined up on benches or hung on pegboards. Floors swept clean. Neatness appeared to be a Sanchez family creed.
Delon reappeared with a ball of clothes tucked under his arm.
“Nice view,” she said.
Delon’s expression went cool again, as if she’d offended him. “I like it.”
“That wasn’t sarcasm,” she clarified. “It must be awesome to stand here and watch everything that’s happening in the shop when it’s busy.”
“Yeah.” He squinted, as if he couldn’t figure out what she was up to. Good luck with that, since she didn’t have a clue either. He gestured toward the bathroom. “I’ll be in there.”
“Leave the door unlocked.” When his squint deepened, she added, “In case you do keel over. I’d hate to have to kick it down.”
Amusement crept into his eyes again. “Could you?”
“Damn straight.” She flexed one arm. “I’m a lot tougher than I used to be.”
“I noticed,” he said, with a look that went right through her three layers of clothes. Then he limped into the bathroom and closed the door. The lock didn’t click behind him.
Chapter 23
Tori was in his apartment. Cooking for him. Delon smelled the bacon as soon as he turned off the shower. Why hadn’t she booted him out at the foot of the stairs and hightailed it home? Damned if he could guess. The handful of ibuprofen he’d swallowed hadn’t kicked in yet and as usual, the hangover was jabbing hot pokers into his brain before he even sobered up. This was why he hadn’t been shit-faced in at least five years. He pulled on a white Dodge Trucks T-shirt over black nylon sweatpants. His knee hadn’t swelled much yet, just a slight puffiness around the kneecap. Putting weight on it didn’t hurt much as long as he took it slow, and it didn’t feel like it would give way when he took a step, but it was starting to stiffen up.
When he limped out into the living room, Tori was pouring batter into his waffle maker. She flipped it over, then reached into the freezer, pulled out a cold pack, and pointed at the couch. “Sit.”
“Why are you doing this?” he asked, too fried to beat around the bush.
She paused. “The waffles and bacon, or the ice pack?”
“Either. Both.”
She sucked in one corner of her bottom lip, the way she did on the rare occasions that she seemed uncertain. “I needed a distraction. Otherwise I would’ve spent the night looking for job opportunities in Brazil and trying to decide whether it was easier to get my horse there on a plane or a boat.”
He blinked. “Brazil?”
“Well, they don’t have rodeos in Puerto Rico. Do they?”
He gave his muddled head a shake. “You just moved home. Why are you job hunting?”
“Oh, you know.” She waved a hand in a vague circle. “My mother. The media. It’s going to be hell. Brazil probably isn’t far enough.”
Delon tried to think what was farther. Australia? He glanced around the room. No empty bottles in sight, so if she’d been in his beer, she’d hidden the evidence. “Toss me some bread crumbs, would ya? You lost me at Puerto Rico.”
“What?” She blinked as if coming out of a fog, then closed her eyes and grimaced. “Sorry. It’s that thing with the screwed up filters again. Oh! The bacon.”
She tossed the cold pack to Delon and hustled over to pull the pan off the stove, fish out half a dozen strips with swift, expert movements, and dump them onto a paper towel-lined plate. Apparently, Willy Hancock had been a bacon kind of guy. She’d never cooked anything but a Pop-Tart for Delon before.
He sank onto the couch, propped his leg up on a pillow, and molded the cold pack around his knee. “So you’re fleeing the country because…”
“My father filed for divorce yesterday.” She checked the waffle and cast a glance over her shoulder. “Cool waffle maker, by the way—just like they have at hotels, at the continental breakfast bars. Willy loved those. I kept meaning to buy one but…” She trailed off, shrugged. “You know.”
Yeah. He knew. But his brain had stalled back at my father filed for divorce. “Your parents are splitting up?”
“They haven’t actually been together since…well, hell, I don’t remember. Maybe before I started kindergarten?” She grabbed another bowl and beat the contents viciously with a whisk, then dumped eggs into a pan on the stove. “He does his thing, she does hers, and they only meet up for publicity purposes. Which is why she’s going to be really, really furious.”
“Divorce isn’t a good career move?”
“Exactly.” Tori pointed the whisk at him, then cursed when egg dripped on the floor. “Sorry. I’ve been wearing my brain down to nothing trying to imagine how she’s going to block him this time.”
“This time?”
“Yeah, that sorta blew my mind, too.” She grabbed a paper towel and crouched to wipe up the spilled egg. “I’m betting she’ll play the stand-by-your-man card. Work up some tears at a press conference, blame herself for not being there for him, make a few vague references to other women.” Tori froze midswipe and pressed a knuckle to her mouth. “Oh, hell. I never asked if there were other women. There must have been. He sure hasn’t been getting any at home.”
Delon had no idea what to say, so he just waited and watched, like a rubbernecker at a car wreck. Geezus. Senator Patterson. Potential presidential candidate. Divorced. Possibly sleeping around. This shit was gonna hit and splatter all over Texas. Hell, the whole country.
Tori jumped up and tossed the towel on the counter, then went back to the stove to turn the eggs. Having her in his kitchen cooking for him was surreal—in a dangerously good way. She doused the eggs with salt and pepper and gave them a violent stir. A chunk of half-cooked egg flew out, bounced off her chest, and plopped onto the floor.
“Dammit! I’m not usually a total disaster in the kitchen. I’m just—” She raised both hands and waggled them in the air to demonstrate her frazzled state of mind. “And it’s stupid. I’m twenty-eight years old and I’ve always known they weren’t exactly a love match.”
“They’re still your parents.” And divorce still sucked, no matter how old you were.
“They could destroy him,” Tori said. “My mother. The media. The voters. All because he wants to have a normal life, with someone who wants him. Not Senator Patterson. Not the CEO of Patterson, Incorporated.”
“Why did he marry her?”
“Because she decided he should.” She gave a low, contemptuous laugh. “And she was—is—beautiful, which pretty much sealed the deal back when he was twenty-two and easily distracted by a nice rack.” She moved over to check the waffle maker. “How many do you want?”
None, but he had to eat more than those few bites of prime rib sandwich or the ibuprofen would chew a hole in his stomach. “One’s fine.”
“Are you sure?” She picked up the bowl, tilting it for his inspection. “I made too much batter.”
“That’s fine, I—”
She plunked the bowl down and whipped around to face him. “Are you in love with her?”
“Your mother?”
“What? No! I meant Violet,” she said, exasperated, as if that’s who they’d been talking about all along.
“No.” The answer popped out so easily, he had to look away in embarrassment, remembering how Gil had mocked his s
elf-delusion. “Not the way you mean. Violet and I were…close. Comfortable, you know? Plus, Violet’s parents are right there, and I wanted that for Beni. Everybody together. A regular family.”
Tori fished out a crispy brown waffle, her jaw working as if she was chewing on words she was trying not to spit out.
“You think I was stupid.” Join the big fucking club, he thought.
“No.” She spread the waffle with butter, and placed eggs and bacon alongside. “I just wonder…”
“What?”
She turned to fix him with a penetrating gaze. “Are you sure it was only for Beni?”
“Of course. Why else?”
She kept looking at him that way, like she could see every strand of the dark tangle of hurt and jealousy inside him. He ducked his head. “Beni deserves a family.”
“So do you,” she said, and handed him his home-cooked breakfast.
He felt as if she’d stripped him naked, and not in a good way. She gave him time to recover, returning to the kitchen for silverware and syrup, which she handed over before stepping back and folding her arms.
“Look, I know I said that your head isn’t my problem, but that’s not true. We can’t separate physical and mental well-being. In order to restore an athlete to their pre-injury level of performance, we have to address both.” She’d switched on her therapist voice, cool and formal. “People underestimate the emotional repercussions of a major injury. You haven’t just lost the ability to ride. You’ve been removed from your team—in your case, the circuit. Your friends call now and then, maybe stop by when they’re passing through, but it’s awkward. A form of survivor’s guilt.”
And he knew that particular brand of guilt better than anyone. He got another dose every time he looked at Gil.
Tori shifted, keeping a careful eye on his expression, waiting for him to tell her what she could do with her psychobabble. He just bent his head over his plate, too tired and bruised to pick another fight.
When he remained silent, she continued. “On top of all that, your family situation has undergone some fairly dramatic changes since Joe came along. It would be more of a shock if you weren’t a mess.”
“Well, that’s a relief.” He sawed a chunk off his waffle and stabbed it with his fork. “Is there a pill I can take for this?”
“Several, but they only delay the inevitable.”
Her eyes emptied out for a second, as if she’d retreated to a place he couldn’t follow. Had she tried the pharmaceutical route, after Willy died? His gut twisted at the memory of Gil’s confession. Opiate addict. Son of a bitch.
Tori refocused on him. “Every person experiences loss differently, but there are common stages.” She held up a hand, ticking points off her fingers. “First, denial and isolation. This can’t be happening to me. If I don’t admit it, don’t talk about it, it won’t be real.”
The Sanchez way, Gil had called it. Yeah, he had that one down.
“I think we can safely say you’ve reached the anger stage.” Tori gave his knee a pointed look, tapping her second finger, then moved on to the third and fourth. “Bargaining and depression come next, not necessarily in that order. Bargaining doesn’t last long. You figure out pretty fast there’s nothing you can promise that will fix what’s unfixable. But the anger keeps flaring up when you least expect it. And then…” She jerked a shoulder. “When you let go of the anger…well, sadness is the only thing left. Which is why it’s easier to be pissed.”
She wasn’t just talking about him anymore. He swallowed twice to get a lump of waffle past the knot in his throat. “There must be something after depression.”
“Acceptance. Or so I’ve heard.” She whipped around and strode to the kitchen, gathering pots and pans and dumping them into the sink with a clatter.
He picked up a piece of bacon. Like the waffle, it was done to a perfect crisp.
“If you can reach that stage, you’ll be able to straighten things out with Violet.” She grabbed a bottle of dish soap and squirted it liberally over the dishes. “And you should. Family is important. I never had that kind of normal until I married Willy.”
“And it wasn’t possible to stay with his family after he died?”
She shook her head. “I couldn’t play the part anymore.”
“Which part?”
“Tragic widow, keeper of the eternal torch.” She turned on the faucet and stared at the water as it streamed into the sink. “People love a hero. So much they start to think he belongs to them. Honestly, I’m not sure whether the sympathizers or the haters were worse.”
“Haters?” Delon stared at her in disbelief. “For what?”
“Smiling. Laughing. Wearing a shirt that’s too bright, or too tight, or not buttoned up to my chin. And the men…” She shook her head. “If one more sleazy prick had offered to help ease my pain, I would’ve bit something besides my tongue.”
Delon stared down at the bacon, eggs, and waffle. What the hell was wrong with people? “What he did was incredible.”
“It was a reflex.” She cranked off the faucet and faced him, leaning her hips against the sink with her hands braced on either side. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m amazed he saw what was coming and reacted so quickly, but it’s not like he threw himself on a grenade. Willy never thought he could die. He was driving a one-ton, four-door dually and the other guy was in a compact car. If the jackass hadn’t looked up at the last instant and tried to swerve, he would’ve plowed into the rear fender instead of the driver’s door. And even then…” Her breath fractured. “God, I bet Willy was pissed. If they’d let me write his epitaph, it would’ve said, ‘Seriously? A fucking Subaru?’”
The laugh burst out before Delon could stop it. He clamped his mouth shut, aghast.
“Don’t.” Tori gave a quick shake of her head. “I’ve had enough of proper and respectful, especially when it comes to a man who was anything but. I need to be able to say what I think. Laugh a little, and be pissed off a little, and give Fate the middle finger instead of worshiping at the altar of Willy Hancock, loving husband and son and savior of children.”
Her gaze met his, her emotions so raw it was all he could do not to flinch. Despite all that had come before, she had never been this naked in front of him. The moment stretched unbearably thin, until it felt as if something inside him might rip wide open if he didn’t look away.
“Do you really want to move to Brazil?” he asked, trying to sound like it didn’t matter one way or the other where she went.
“No. Just someplace where there isn’t all of…this.” She made a gesture that wrapped her father’s situation up in a nice little bow. Then she sighed. “Those first years in Cheyenne were so amazing. People actually saw me. Not the money. Not my daddy’s politics. Just me.”
“That’s all most of them have seen here, since you’ve been back,” Delon argued.
“For now. But it won’t last. A few people are already starting to put the pieces together. Next thing you know they’ll be tweeting my grocery list and debating on the state of my health and my love life based on how much toilet paper I buy.”
Okay. Yes. That would suck. “Then, what?”
“I’ll stick it out as long as I can, for the sake of my job. Then I suppose I’ll find some other place where nobody knows me or gives a damn about the Pattersons.” She tucked her chin and studied her toes. “I hear the Pacific Northwest is a great place for ropers. And Montana is so overrun with movie stars buying up their pieces of the Big Sky, I’d be chump change.”
In other words, anywhere but here.
Tori turned back to the waffle iron. “If you’re sure you don’t want another one, I’ll put this away.”
“Are you hungry?” he asked. Not to stall her. Exactly. She had done all the work, it was only polite to offer her a bite.
“I’ll grab something on the way home.”
<
br /> “Eat. I owe you that much.” When she started to shake her head, he added, “It’ll just go to waste otherwise.”
She hesitated so long he was sure she’d say no. When she did speak, it was as if the words were pulled out against her will. “That bacon does smell awfully good.”
“Tastes even better.” He waved a strip like a bone in front of a dog, then crunched it between his teeth.
She gave him an eye roll. “If you’re gonna be that way…”
While she laid more strips of bacon in the frying pan and poured another dollop of batter into the waffle iron, he wolfed down the rest of his bacon and dug into the waffle. With each bite, the queasiness in his stomach settled and his headache eased.
Tori loaded her plate and came into the living room, pausing when she realized her seating options were limited to the beanbag chair or the slice of couch Delon’s legs didn’t occupy. She chose the beanbag, sinking down to sit cross-legged. Silence descended, cut only by the scratch of silverware on plates.
Delon grabbed the television remote and scrolled through the channel guide. “See anything you want to watch?”
“There.” She pointed with her fork.
He squinted at the selections. A shoot ’em up spy thriller, a comedy, one of those drama-slash-romance flicks where one of the main characters invariably died, or a cartoon. Please God, not the comedy. He’d watched the first half hour while he was stuck in the hospital and wasn’t sure his IQ had recovered yet. “Which one?”
“At the bottom.” She wriggled her butt, settling deeper into the beanbag. “The penguins kick ass.”
So Beni said. Delon damn near knew the words by heart, but he could watch it again. They finished their meal without speaking, the silence a relief, as if they had both hit an emotional wall and needed a time-out. When their plates were clean he maneuvered to his feet.
“I can—” she began.
“Got it.” He tucked the gel pack under his arm and collected the plates.
“The kitchen—”
“Can wait until morning.” He dumped the dishes in the sink, flipped off the overhead light in the living room, and fetched a pair of fleece throws from the bedroom. His had a bucking horse on it, a Father’s Day gift from Beni. The one he tossed her had a cartoon platypus. “Might as well get comfortable.”
Tangled in Texas Page 17
