Dear Life

A little chuckle comes out of me as I shake my head. “Yeah, my friend Amanda thinks it’s one step away from becoming a crazy cat lady, but I can’t help it. I feel like I can just sit back and forget about everything around me when I’m here. Just play with cats.”

  “How often do you pet pussy?” Jace asks with a wince, causing both of us to laugh.

  “I say the same ridiculous joke. My friend Amanda, Daisy’s half-sister actually, chastises me every time I say it. But how can you not? It’s such an easy joke.”

  “It’s pretty unavoidable. Honestly, you’re too much of a square if you’re not making that joke.”

  “Agreed, and no one likes a square,” I add but then think. “Although, if you’re not a square, what are you? What’s the preferred shape for people to be? A circle? Rhomboid? Trapezoid?”

  “Trapezoids are startling shapes. Never liked the little fuckers.”

  “Let me guess, you’re a diamond kind of man?” I ask, laughter in my voice.

  Still teasing the cat, he answers, “Grew up on the diamond, lived my whole life on one, pretty sure I will die on one too. I think that makes me a diamond man.”

  He looks like he’s lived his entire life in the gym, but I don’t mention that. “Did you always want to be a baseball player?”

  If I take a step back and think about it, it’s weird to know that Jace is THE Jace Barnes from the Colorado Miners, the Jace Barnes that broke all kinds of rookie records last year, the Jace Barnes who won Rookie of the Year. He seems nothing like the man I saw trending all season last year. He’s subdued, troubled, quiet. He has the exterior of a famous professional athlete with his broad build, strong and powerful muscles, and his rugged handsomeness, but his interior is shattered, barely hanging on by a thread. You can see it in his eyes; they are pleading for help, begging for the pain to stop. If only I knew how to help him, how to direct him. I know that pain, and I haven’t dealt with it well. Hell, I still don’t know how to deal with it.

  “Ever since I could remember, I’ve wanted to play baseball. It was an escape for me. I didn’t have a stable household, shit, I didn’t have a household at all. Living in foster care, I clung to one thing: baseball. It was the only family I really had, so I hung on to it, lived it, breathed it. It’s what kept me out of trouble and kept my hopes alive for getting out of the hell I lived in. Luckily for me, I had a coach who saw my potential and helped me along the way, to get me to where I am today. If it wasn’t for him, I don’t know where I would be right now.” Taking a deep breath, he nods at me. “What about you? What do you do?”

  I hate that question. Why is that a question adults feel obligated to ask in order to hold conversation? As if what we do defines us. It might define some of us, but not everyone. Then again, right now, I can’t particularly say anything defines me. Well . . . that’s not true. What defines me at the current moment? My trauma, my loss. That’s what singularly characterizes me.

  Not wanting to go into too much detail about my failed attempt to become a nurse, I settle for the easy answer. “Eh, nothing special right now. I’m a waitress at Carter’s uncle’s restaurant.”

  “Really?” Jace resembles shock in his expression. “Huh, I guess that makes sense since it seems like you know each other.”

  “Yeah, unfortunately. We’ve never really gotten along. He’s a beast to work with.”

  “There has to be a reason why he’s closed off all the time. Sarcastic. Kind of a brooding bastard, that guy.”

  “You can say that.”

  “But there is good in him,” Jace adds, this time surprising me. “You can see it in the way he listens to Daisy, like he wants to help her but doesn’t know how to. At the last meeting he showed a little humility, a little humanity, and hopefully, we’ll continue to see that in him.” How does Jace possibly see that in Carter? Maybe I’m blinded by his abhorrent display of anger I see regularly.

  “Are you the silent observer of the group?”

  He shrugs his shoulders, his eyes cast down toward the cat, his tan forearm flexing with each toss of the ribbon in a different direction. “It’s easy to observe when you sit back and listen, if you truly listen to someone rather than preparing to respond to what they’re saying. It’s the difference in creative listening and reactive listening. Being on the receiving end of reactive listening my entire life, I’ve strived to be a creative listener. It’s hard, but I feel that I hear people better when I do so.”

  I’m kind of blown away right now. Never in a million years would I have pegged Jace Barnes as someone with such a sensitive soul. Despite his broken veneer, he gives off a hopeful, positive vibe that I find myself gravitating toward right now.

  “That’s a beautiful way to think of having a conversation.”

  Tipping his head to the side, he glances in my direction. “It’s a beautiful thing to be able to listen to each other. Not just hear their words, but read body language as well. Imagine if we were all trained that way, the kind of compassion we’d have for everyone.”

  “I’m getting the feeling you’ve had an unfair deal of judgment.”

  He pulls on the brim of his hat, adjusting it lower on his brow. “You could say that. It’s funny that as a collective whole we ask for compassion and understanding but have a hard time handing it out when the time comes. I’ve always tried to put myself in someone else’s shoes before passing judgment, because you never know what that person is truly suffering from, why they are the way they are. Take Carter for instance. It’s obvious he doesn’t want to be in the program, that he’s just going through the motions, but there is a deeper reason he’s not sharing with us. Instead of jumping to the conclusion that the man is just a dick, I’m trying to see it from his perspective with every bit of information he gives. First impressions are meaningless, because not everyone can be on point all the time, and yet, one bad day can ruin us.”

  “Do you have a hard time trying to put on a happy face for fans and for the media?”

  “Not really.” He shakes his head. “But this year, this season, I’m going to have one hell of a time trying to keep myself from breaking down on the field, let alone in the locker room, or during interviews.”

  “I can’t imagine.” I take a deep breath and continue, “When I lost Eric, it almost felt like my breath was taken away with him. I felt cold as stone, lifeless, like a steel rod making the motions through life, but never feeling anything. I’m sure I wasn’t pleasant, or chipper, or even a joy to be around because I was either hating life, hating other people, or crying hysterically.”

  “But it got better?” His eyes plead with me.

  One of the ribbons provided for the cats runs through my fingers as I play around with it, needing to fidget with something as I talk about Eric. I hate to break Jace’s hopeful heart, but I can only be honest about my situation. “Doesn’t seem like it. Breathing feels just as hard, but unlike when Eric first passed, I’m used to it by now.”

  “You learned to live with it.”

  Not the first time I’ve heard that. “I guess so.”

  Sitting back in his chair, Jace lets out a long breath. “Shit, this is not the type of conversation we should be having in front of the cats. I’m sure they enjoy other types of topics, less morbid.”

  That garners a chuckle from me. “Yeah, what kind of conversations do you think the cats like to hear?”

  “Hmm.” He ponders my question for a few seconds, giving it some good thought. “They probably like to talk about the tuna count in local fishing holes. Latest trends in scratching posts, and of course, the drop of the next Taylor Swift album.”

  “Naturally.” I laugh out loud. “Oh to be a cat.”

  “Sure as hell is an easy life.” Turning, Jace smiles at me, a genuine, beautiful smile. It kind of reminds me of Eric’s smile in a way. Charming, very charming. A smile I haven’t seen in the media, a smile that seems reserved for intimate moments. “I’m glad I ran into you, Hollyn. It was nice talking to you outside of the program’s
dictated discussion.”

  “I agree. You’re pretty cool, Jace Barnes.”

  “Pretty cool?” He raises an eyebrow at me. “Only pretty cool?”

  “Hey, I have to give you something to strive for. It’s all about progression, Jace.”

  “True.” He chuckles. “Hey, look at us proving our existence today and growing our support system. Marleen would be so proud.”

  “If she was here, she would be gushing.”

  If I have to admit it, I’m gushing a little inside as well because for the first time since Eric passed, I feel a little at ease. It’s like the band around my chest relaxed somewhat. Odd. Jace gets me. He feels my emotional distress. He knows what it’s like to lose something so incredibly precious to you and for that, I know our friendship will always be unique.

  CARTER

  What the hell am I doing here?

  Being a total dumbass, that’s what.

  Meatloaf? I’m here to learn how to make meatloaf? Fuck, I could make meatloaf in my sleep, and yet I accepted Daisy’s invitation to teach me one of the things she knows best.

  This was an incredibly stupid idea because honestly, what do I really have in common with Daisy? I barely know her, so what the hell are we going to talk about? And she’s going to find out I’m a chef at some point, that will just humiliate her, and I don’t want that.

  But fuck, texting her the other day, it felt almost normal. Guiding her felt normal and I have no idea why. It wasn’t until Fitzy started whining and tossing popcorn at me that I slowed down on the texts even though I wanted to continue to talk to her. The only other person I’ve ever really wanted to text was Sasha.

  There is something about Daisy that draws me to her. Is it her innocence? She’s so pure, so untouched, not even being close to jaded like me. Does that make me a bigger dick than I am, wanting to cling to her innocence with the possible chance of scuffing her pristine personality?

  I sure as hell hope not.

  Tucking my helmet under my arm, I take off my gloves and walk up to the townhouse Daisy gave me directions to. Yes, actual directions, not an address. She’s so old school. Shit, I like that about her.

  The weather is ridiculously cold still, so I blow into my fist a few times and then knock on her door. It takes a few moments to answer but when she does, an excited Daisy in a pair of khaki slacks, a cream turtleneck, and a maroon fleece zip-up vest greets me. What is with this girl and her vests? Her grandma clothes do nothing for the figure I know she’s hiding.

  “Carter, you made it. Come in, you must be cold.”

  “Thanks,” I say awkwardly, completely regretting this get-together.

  “Here, let me take your helmet, we can set it in the entryway.” Fumbling, she grabs my helmet and gloves, and while I’m trying to take off my leather jacket, she attempts to assist me but given I’m a good half foot taller than her, she ends up just pulling on one of my sleeves, making it more difficult to take off.

  Once I untangle myself, I take my boots off as well, not to track any dirt in the house. Daisy starts to assist me, but I put up my hand to stop her. “I’ve got my shoes.”

  Stepping back, she folds her hands in front of her and nods. “Sorry,” a light giggle pops out of her heart-shaped mouth, “I guess I’m a little eager to have company. I was doing a lot of reading on the Internet about being a good hostess and it told me to make sure I take your jacket and whatnot.”

  Reading on how to be a good hostess? Why am I not surprised?

  “Well, I’m not sure they meant for you to take your guest’s shoes off,” I say with a little chuckle.

  “Oh.” The expression on her face falls, her eyes casting down in embarrassment.

  Standing tall, I come up to her and with my index finger, lift her chin. As I notice her wide eyes, her breath picking up, I say, “It was a nice gesture though.” Looking around, I end the intimate distance. “Where’s the kitchen?”

  “Uh, over here.”

  She motions us down a short hallway into an open-concept space. To the left is a small living space with a beige sectional couch, purple frilly pillows, and a giant flat-screen TV on a dainty white cabinet with an Xbox tucked to the side. Man and woman cohabiting, blatantly obvious. To the right is a small dining area with a four-person dining set, matching buffet table and . . . a kegarater. I chuckle to myself, as this is most definitely man and woman merging their lives together. Anchoring the large space is the modern kitchen with dark cabinets, marble counters, and a . . . oh hell, an electric stove top. The devil’s cookware.

  “Nice place,” I state, hands in pockets, not knowing what else to say.

  “I would say thank you but it’s not my house, it’s my sister’s. She’d done a great job decorating.”

  Taking in the décor, I ask, “Is she a wine drinker? Because it sure as hell looks like it.” Everywhere I look there is either a picture of wine, wine bottles, or wine corks shoved in decorative vases.

  “She loves wine. She always tries to get me to drink a glass with her, but I’ve never had alcohol so it’s kind of scary to me.”

  My brow furrows together. Never had alcohol? Oh hell, she is innocent. “You’ve never had a drink? You’re twenty-one, right?”

  “Yeah.” She shrugs. “Just never thought about it before. Do you drink?”

  A sarcastic laugh pops out of me. “Yeah. I’ve had a beer or two.”

  “Beer seems like it tastes gross. Matt drinks beer and I’ve smelled it a couple of times, it really smells like butt.”

  Like butt. I laugh out loud. Of course she wouldn’t say it smells like ass.

  “I can assure you, beer doesn’t taste like . . . butt. It’s an acquired taste though.” Taking in the kitchen, I see she has everything set up, things already measured out, and the double oven preheated. Shit, I need to confess to her or else this is going to be more awkward than is has to be.

  “Are you ready to get started? I have aprons for us.”

  Holding up two frilly white aprons, she smiles at me. Not in a smart-ass way, but in a way that says she’s genuinely serious about wearing the 1950s aprons in her hands, like we are Betty Croker and Julia Child.

  Christ.

  Grabbing the back of my neck, I say, “Uh, yeah. I kind of have something to tell you.”

  “Oh?” She sets my apron on the counter and starts tying hers around her waist. When she cinches it, I catch a glimpse at just how small her waist is. I knew she was petite under those drab clothes.

  “I should have told you earlier, but I’m a chef.”

  Pausing, her hands come to a standstill, no longer tying a double knot with the apron straps over her stomach. “You’re a chef?” The way she asks the question—complete disappointment in her voice—makes me feel like shit. It’s rare I feel like shit, but I do right now.

  “Yeah.”

  “Like a professional chef?”

  Would I call myself a professional? I don’t know. Stirring a pot and dumping noodles in boiling water doesn’t make me feel like a professional. It makes me feel like a man who barely knows how to hold his own in the kitchen, someone who specializes in making “cheesy dogs.” Aka, hot dogs with a split down the center and a slice of cheddar stuffed inside. Classy.

  “Well, I went to school for it.”

  “So you’re trained?” Her expression falls some more. Christ, I feel like the lowest piece of shit ever. I’ve never cared about disappointing people, but hell, Daisy doesn’t hide her emotions at all. They are like a Technicolor picture shown on a brilliantly large IMAX movie screen, there for everyone to see and experience. “Then it seems pretty silly for me to teach you how to make meatloaf. I’m sure you can make a meatloaf way better than mine.”

  “Maybe,” I say like a dick, because I have no practice in being nice.

  “Yeah, probably.” Sighing, she looks around the kitchen.

  Shit, how do I fix this? Normally I couldn’t care less, but Daisy is different. She’s like a grown-up child, some
one you never want to disappoint.

  “Um, I guess you can go home if you want.”

  “Do you want me to go home?”

  She’s avoiding all eye contact with me, trying not to lay out her cards, but with my question, she glances at me briefly, giving me a straight shot into those crystal-blue eyes of hers, slaying me right in half with her purity.

  “I don’t know. Seems silly for me to teach you how to make something you already know how to do.” I’m about to agree with her when she says, “Is there something you don’t know how to cook?”

  Not so much. I’ve studied cooking for so long that I’m pretty sure if you asked me to make anything, I would be able to deliver.

  “Not really.” I wrack my brain for something and then it hits me. “Honestly, I don’t know much about baking. Do you?”

  Eyes meet mine, and her smile stretches across her face, shining with pure joy. “Carter, I am so good at baking,” she practically cheers. She really is sweet . . .

  “Is that right?” Her enthusiasm is infectious.

  “It is! Oh gosh, what should we make?” Without even pausing to talk about it, she goes to the pantry and starts shuffling through ingredients. “Darn, no butterscotch or chocolate chips.” Some more moving of cans on the shelf. “There’s canned pumpkin but that’s out of season. Hmm . . . oh I’ve got it.” Whipping around with a box of raisins, she asks, “Do you like oatmeal raisin cookies?”

  “Love them but can’t bake worth shit.”

  “Then it’s settled. I’ll teach you how to make my special oatmeal raisin cookies.” Clapping her hands together, she jumps in excitement, and then starts pulling ingredients off the shelf. “This is going to be fun, Carter.” Fun.

  Fun might not be the right word. Interesting is more like it. Yeah, this is going to be interesting.

  DAISY

  “Hell, these are good,” Carter says with a mouthful of cookie. I watch him closely examine the cookie before he takes another bite. “They’re so chewy.”

  “It’s the flour and Karo syrup.” I wink and wipe up the counter. “My grams taught me all the secrets.”