Left Field Love
: Chapter 27

Sunbeams creep across the hardwood floor slowly, turning shadows into honey-colored wood. Normally, this is when I’d roll over to slip back into the haze of sleep until my alarm goes off.

Instead, I keep watching the light expand, illuminating the clothes strewn across my bedroom floor.

I toss one leg to the side, wincing when it hits the plaster wall. This bed is too small for me. Has been for years. But now that there’s a larger one available, I can’t bring myself to use it.

I hoped turning the house upside down would help me move forward, but all it has accomplished is ensuring I have to spend an extra ten minutes looking for anything.

I slide out of bed, not bothering to change out of the oversized T-shirt I’m wearing. It’s either Caleb’s or Gramps’s. I discovered after Caleb left that half the clothes he brought over made it into cardboard boxes along with Gramps’s.

The morning light has reached the edge of the bed, revealing the white cotton I’m wearing is free of any stains or rips. Caleb’s, then. It’s probably designer.

I yank on a pair of jean shorts and stumble into the hallway, almost tripping over the stack of books I told myself I’d move last night. Tonight. Maybe. I amble down to the kitchen, picking my way through the rest of the scattered belongings I now own.

The sun that woke me hasn’t fully risen. Mist hovers over the grassy fields that surround the farmhouse. I look out the window above the sink, at the peaceful scene. I know it’s impossible, but I can almost define the sloped shape of an equine form out in the field. All the horses are still in their stalls, though, unless I’ve really lost it and left one out last night.

The quiet gurgle of the coffee maker is the only sound in the silent house. I should get a dog. Or a cat. Or just start sleeping in the barn. The total absence of sound is peaceful.

It’s also really lonely.

I eye the plastic bag sitting on the counter. It’s almost empty. Each morning since the service, I’ve spread some of Gramps’s ashes on my trip out to the barn. It makes me feel like he’s here with me, slamming pans or about to hobble down the driveway to fetch the paper like he did most mornings. But even that sliver of solace is nearly gone, disappearing as fast as the mist evaporating off the grass.

The few days that have passed since the memorial service have been hard. I’m not someone who struggles with isolation. I don’t mind being alone with my thoughts most of the time. The sting of loss has started to ease.

I miss Gramps—I’ll always miss Gramps—but I don’t have regrets. I didn’t leave freshman year and miss the past three years with him. I’m not sure if I believe in any cosmic power, but my last conversation with him was exactly what I wanted him to know. I’m grateful he knew I got into Clarkson. Glad he knew I’d have Caleb.

Now, I just need to decide where I go from here. The simplest—easiest—path would be to change nothing. To continue living in this farmhouse, attending RCC, and taking care of what remains of my family’s racing legacy.

I’m not under any illusions about my financial situation. I’ve been snooping around bank statements for years now. When a lawyer came over yesterday to hand me the deed to Matthews Farm, the little else I’ve inherited didn’t surprise me. Money is tight. But it’s manageable. I could make staying here work with the paltry savings, my income from the paper, and the stallions’ stud fees.

I just…don’t know if I should.

The coffee maker shuts off, returning the kitchen to total silence. I fill a mug with a healthy helping of caffeine, grab the bag of gray dust, and head out onto the front porch.

I’m tempted to take a seat in one of the rocking chairs, but as much as I want to prolong this, I also want to get it over with. Like the memorial service, I know this is something I need to get through. And hope like hell it looks better on the other side.

Hot coffee scorches my tongue as I walk the familiar path from the farmhouse to the main barn. There’s no hint of the heat I know will blanket the farm later today. The cooler weather makes me dread the sun’s full rise. I’d rather it stays like this, just on the precipice.

Another searing sip of coffee burns my throat as I watch the final physical remains of Earl Matthews drift away toward the towering oak that shades the barn.

I’m left holding an empty plastic bag. The woman working at the funeral home was definitely judging my refusal to purchase an urn, but I didn’t know what I would do with it after spreading Gramps’s ashes. Now, I’m left to ponder what I do with this bag.

Keep it?

Toss it?

It’s the type of ridiculous, morbid predicament Gramps would have been in stitches about. The memory of his booming laugh prompts a smile to tug at the corners of my mouth for the first time in over a week.

The flicker of amusement is what causes me to flick the radio in the barn on for the first time in weeks when I walk inside. I even sing along to an old Billy Joel song as I mix the grain and supplements that make up the horses’ diets.

There’s a dusty piece of paper affixed to the bulletin board above the bins of grain, covered with Caleb’s scrawl. It’s hard to recall the time when I thought Caleb Winters was selfish and entitled as I study the notes he made about each horse’s diet so he could help me feed them.

Resentment mixes with gratefulness. He’s making this choice a hard one. Accepted or not, I know I wouldn’t be even considering Clarkson if not for Caleb.

I distribute the pails of grain throughout the mares’ stalls, then set about mucking out the manure while they eat. The mares get turned out in the east pasture, then I repeat the process in the stallions’ barn. Summer days are long enough I’ve switched to riding at night, during the sweet spot where the sun is retreating but the bugs haven’t come out yet.

After showering and changing, I hop into the truck and head down the driveway, smiling when Stormy trots along the fence line to keep pace with me. It’s not until I turn on to the main road that she spins and canters back to join the rest of the mares.

I’m halfway to town before I realize I never ate any breakfast. I haven’t had much of an appetite lately, and I know it’s not only attributable to grief. I’m also stressed. The heavy, omnipresent sort of anxiety that sits in your stomach no matter what you do, like a dark cloud. The kind of worry that accompanies a big decision with no perfect outcome.

Since I’m ahead of schedule, I stop at the local coffee shop where Cassie and I used to spend Sunday mornings.

There’s no line at this hour. Most of the summer tourists are likely sleeping in. Most of the locals probably have espresso machines in their state-of-the-art kitchens.

The sleepy teenager at the counter surprises me by greeting me by name.

“Hi…” I squint at the nametag affixed to his apron. “Charlie.”

The boy beams at me. He can’t be older than sixteen. “What can I get for you?”

“Iced latte, please. Extra shot of espresso,” I reply. “And…a blueberry muffin,” I tack on reluctantly.

I’m still not hungry, but the bowl of cornflakes I ate last night weren’t much of a dinner.

Charlie nods, then grabs a pair of tongs and sets to work, fishing a muffin out of the pastry case.

“How is Caleb liking camp?” he asks, giving me an expression that’s akin to an overeager puppy.

“Uh, I think it’s fine,” I respond.

“This is going to be his best season yet,” Charlie predicts, as he tosses a muffin dotted with blue spots into a bag and hands it me. “Seriously. That’s what the guys on TV last night were saying.”

Caleb’s ability to throw a baseball being discussed on television is news to me, but I don’t say that. I never know what to say when people bring up Caleb and baseball.

I have nothing to do with that part of his life. His athletic accomplishments are his and his alone. I’ve never even seen him pitch in an actual game.

But that’s not what people want to hear. They want the inside scoop. The team drama. The professional prospects.

“That’s great.”

Charlie nods. “Coffee will come out at the end of the counter. And…uh, I’m sorry, Lennon. About your grandfather.”

“Thanks,” I reply, pairing it with a smile. It’s not the kid’s fault he just went two for two on topics I don’t want to discuss.

My latte appears in minutes. I sip on the cold coffee slowly once I’m back in the truck. The amount of caffeine I’ve already consumed today is probably burning a hole in my stomach. Until I start sleeping, there’s no other option.

It’s a short drive to the brick building that houses the Landry Gazette from downtown. The newspaper offices are perched above a real estate office, just one block from the racetrack. I whistle under my breath as I pass the listings posted in the window. Land in Landry isn’t depreciating. The least expensive property is listed for just under seven figures.

Cold air smacks me in the face as I open the glass door that reads “Landry Gazette.”Wooden stairs creak as I climb them to the second floor. The stairwell muffles sound, so it’s a shock to step into the hustle and bustle of the newsroom.

“Lennon. A word,” my supervisor, Alex, tells me as he breezes by and heads for his office.

I trail after him immediately. I’m well aware he sees his role in coming up with and overseeing my assignments as a massive waste of time.

Most of the paper’s permanent staff members are in their mid-thirties and live outside of Landry. My impression is they’ve ended up here because their spouses wanted to live outside the big cities where most reputable papers are located.

Alex’s office is the total opposite of the messy farmhouse I picked my way through this morning. A couple of framed articles hang on the wall, but aside from that the space is spotless. A neat row of red pens is the only decoration on his desk.

“Good to have you back, Lennon.”

“Thanks,” I respond. The words are genuine, but I’m guessing Alex wouldn’t have been upset if recent events meant I didn’t return to the paper for a few more weeks.

“Now, for the summer—”

Emily, one of the other research assistants, pokes her head in from the hallway. “Sorry to interrupt…”

“Then why are you?” Alex asks, grabbing a pen and spinning it between two long fingers.

“Mr. Stradwell is here. He’d like to speak with Lennon. Immediately.”

“Right.” Alex’s face looks resigned, like he was expecting this.

I can’t say the same. Tom Stradwell, the Gazette’s owner, attended Gramps’s funeral, but aside from that, I can’t recall the last time we spoke. He focuses more attention on his golf game and grandkids than at the many papers he owns.

Since he’s almost a decade past the traditional retirement age and the sole reason I’ve had a reliable paycheck for the past three years, I judge his time management less harshly than I know many of my co-workers do.

“Let him know—” Alex starts.

“No need to send a messenger, Alex-boy. I’m right here.”

Alex’s jaw clenches. If I had to guess, I’d say being called “boy” by your boss while you’re in your early thirties is not the greatest feeling.

“Hello, young lady.” Tom’s gaze has shifted to me.

Unlike Alex, I’m expecting the greeting. It’s what Gramps’s friends have always called me. It started when I was a toddler jumping into puddles and has stuck ever since, despite the fact I’m a “lady” often scrubbing water buckets or dumping manure when they stop by. Maybe because of it.

“Hi, Mr. Stradwell,” I respond.

“Tom, Lennon. Always Tom.” He smiles at me. The corners of light blue eyes crinkle, forming creases that work their way down his aged face. “Can we have a minute, Alex?”

We’re in his office, but Alex doesn’t point that out. “Yes, of course, Mr. Stradwell.”

There’s no name correction this time. Alex’s jaw tightens before he shoos Emily out of the room, shutting the door behind them.

Tom rounds the corner of Alex’s spotless desk and takes a seat in the swivel chair, leaning back as far as the springs will allow. They let out a squeak of protest, and that’s the only sound in the small room for several seconds. Tom folds his fingers under his chin, surveying me closely. I shift under the scrutiny.

“You doing all right?” he finally asks, kindly.

I knew venturing out into the world would probably involve some obligatory sympathies, but I didn’t expect to end up in a conversation with one of Gramps’s oldest friends.

“I’ll be fine,” I answer.

It’s not exactly what he asked, but he lets it slide with an understanding “hmmm.”

“I know Earl felt like he would likely leave you with an awful lot to worry about.”

“I’ll manage.”

“If you need money—”

“I’m good,” I reply quickly, then soften my tone. “Thank you. But I’m good.”

Tom’s lips quirk. “That Matthews pride is still a force to be reckoned with, I see.”

I acknowledge his observation with a small smile.

“I want you to know you’ll always have a place here. Full-time position is yours once you graduate, if you’d like. Course, I’d imagine you may end up someplace else once you and the Winters boy make things official. Earl seemed to think it was just a matter of time.”

“Official?” I echo. “We’re just dating.”

Tom grins. “I follow Clarkson baseball closely. Caleb Winters risked being benched his senior year to stick around town. You’ve got a good man there, young lady.”

“Um, thanks.”

I’m not sure what else to say.

That boy doesn’t love a thing in this world anywhere near as much as he loves you, Lennie. I can recall Gramps’s voice perfectly. Did Caleb risk his baseball career to remain in Landry, or is Tom exaggerating?

Tom raps the desk twice, then stands. “If you need anything—anything at all—you let me know, okay?”

“I will,” I promise.

I may be stubborn and proud, but if I need money, I’ll take it from Tom. With him, it would merely be a loan. With Caleb, it’s complicated. Even considering—because of—the implication Tom just made.

Tom hears the honesty in my voice. “Good. Now, it’s off to the links for me. Here’s hoping the grandson can manage to hold on to his club this time.” He winks at me, then heads out the door.

Alex returns seconds later to walk me through my assignments and schedule for the summer. He doesn’t ask what Tom and I discussed, but sends me a series of curious looks that make it clear he’d like to. I pretend not to notice as I scribble notes on research topics and deadlines.

“Uh, one last thing.” Alex’s voice has shifted from commanding to uncomfortable, and it makes me look up. “I’ve—I’ve heard you’re in a relationship with Caleb Winters?”

“Um, yes,” I reply, startled.

Alex is not the sort of supervisor you confide in about bad dates in the break room. He makes it clear to every member of the staff that if it’s unrelated to work, he doesn’t want to hear about it. A mindset I appreciate, and one I did not expect him to break out of.

“There’s some interest from the sports staff about doing a feature on him.” Some scorn follows the words.

Alex is clearly not a baseball fan.

Suddenly I’m back in high school, staring Andrew down in the glorified closet where we had our paper meetings. The only difference now is that I know I hold some sway over Caleb’s choices. That if I ask him to do this, he will.

“What does that have to do with me?”

“They’re wondering if you think he’d be…amenable,” Alex replies, looking very much like he’d love for a member of the sports staff to be talking to me about this instead. I’m surprised he even agreed to mention it.

“That seems like a question for him,” I respond.

Alex nods. “Understood. That’s all, Lennon. Thank you.”

I nod. Based on his expression, I actually might have elevated his opinion of me with my response.

Just another unexpected part of today.

I spend the next seven hours doing research for the politics editor, Alice. The primary this fall is for Landry’s seat in the state legislature, one previously occupied by a familiar name: Richard Winters. Caleb’s grandfather. He was already representing Kentucky at the national level by the time I was born. It’s hard to picture the distinguished looking, stern man I’d occasionally see in town ever concerning himself with any of the issues listed on the current candidates’ websites.

Everyone has to start somewhere, I guess.

I leave the paper just before dinnertime. When I reach the end of the driveway leading to Matthews Farm, I discover the rusted mailbox has chosen today to topple over.

I pull into the driveway and hop out of the truck to straighten it. Unfortunately, the post itself has rotted through. No matter how many different angles I try to prop it up from, it refuses to stay upright.

“Fine,” I mutter, yanking the box clean off the post and plopping it in the dirt. Sorry, mailperson, I think, as I add buy new mailbox post to my mental to-do list.

I should probably get a new mailbox as well. The peeling letters that spell out Matthews Farm are barely visible. The outline from where the sun has altered the rest of the paint is the main reason it’s even possible to read what was initially displayed along the side of the metal mailbox.

The horses all head for the gate as soon as I park outside the barn. They know what my arrival home means. I walk into the tack room first to mix their grain, depositing a bucket in each stall before returning to the gate.

I grab Stormy and Dusty’s halters first, buckling them in place and then leading the two mares into the barn. I repeat the process with the rest of the mares, then make my way over to the west pasture to fetch the stallions. I grab Geiger first. Unlike the mares, I never lead the stallions in at the same time. They’re ornery and unpredictable on a good day.

When I return for Gallie, he’s trotting back and forth along the fence line. I whistle, and he bolts for me. I grab his halter and put it on as efficiently as I can with him constantly tossing his head.

Rather than start toward the barn, I close the pasture gate behind me, containing us both inside the couple of acres the stallions graze on every day. I knot the lead line around the ring I clipped it to, forming a makeshift set of reins. After guiding Gallie over to the fence, I climb the lower two rungs. I’m still a foot below his broad back, but it’s enough I can pull myself up with a mixture of determination and exertion.

It’s Gallie’s day to be exercised, but I would be on his back tonight even if it wasn’t. This isn’t how I usually ride him. Ride any of the horses.

But I’m feeling tired. Lazy. Reckless.

Even at age six, Gallie could give the horses set to race in the Landry Cup this weekend a run for their money. Riding him without a bit or saddle is similar to standing on a plane during take-off.

I slide onto rippling muscles anyway. Gallie’s figured out what’s going on. He’s dancing in place, tossing his head in excitement. Before I second-guess this decision—before I grab my makeshift reins, even—he takes off, eating up meters of grass at a breathtaking pace.

I knot my fingers in his black mane, weaving them between the rough strands in a desperate attempt to stay on his back.

The speed is jarring.

My stomach got left back by the fence.

Adrenaline streams through my veins. For the first time in days, I can’t think. I’m focused on the immediate, on ensuring I don’t end up beneath the hooves trampling the ground with a rhythmic series of resounding thuds. On the strides churning up divots of grass at a startling speed.

I relax atop shifting muscles, making a grab for the rope that’s been swaying in time with Gallie’s strides at the exact wrong moment.

A bird flies out from one of the oaks that lines the pasture. Gallie spooks, turning to the right with a pivot that would make a barrel racer proud. I’m not one, and my reflexes are too slow. My vantage point shifts as I fly through the air and then land in a heap on the hard ground.

My shoulder takes the brunt of the impact. I roll onto my back, staring up at the clear sky as I readjust to being on the grass, rather than flying along above it. One by one, I shift all my limbs and muscles. Aside from my shoulder, the only bruise is to my pride.

If Gramps were here, he’d be bent over laughing as soon as he realized I was all right. He always preferred to watch others ride than hop aboard a horse himself.

I love riding. It’s been a part of my life for longer than I can remember. But the number of hours I’ve racked up on horseback were more a product of necessity than pleasure. One of many tasks I took on a long time ago simply because there was no one else who could, or would.

All of a sudden, I have a chance to drop all of them. To decide if they’re chores I still want to do now that I have a choice not to.

A terrifying, exciting prospect.

My view of the dusky sky is interrupted by a black muzzle. Gallie has returned to my side, realizing I was left behind.

I stand slowly, both to avoid startling the massive stallion and because hitting the ground at that speed felt like I imagine being smacked by a speeding train would.

I don’t bother trying to climb back on his back. I hobble back toward the barn. Gallie is happy to amble alongside me. He kept running for several minutes after dumping me, and it appears to have been a more effective form of exercise than the controlled canter around the training track that’s his normal running routine.

After depositing Gallie in his stall, I head inside for my second shower of the day. The water pressure feels heavenly against my tired muscles. I dress in jeans and a T-shirt, then pad downstairs to the kitchen.

A quick glance inside the fridge reminds me why I ate cold cereal for dinner last night. I heave out a sigh and pull a loaf of bread from the freezer.

Two slices pop out from the toaster a few minutes later, ready to be slathered in peanut butter. I take a seat in my usual chair at the kitchen table, slowly munching on the glorified snack. I finish eating but keep sitting. Today’s checklist is complete. Horses, work, horses, eating. All done. I could read. I could watch television. I could continue sorting through piles.

There’s only one thing I want right now. Rather than shove it to the back of my mind, I embrace it. And the same reckless energy that made me climb on an animal weighing more than a ton with nothing more than a flimsy rope makes me stand, grab the truck’s keys, and head out the door.

The truck wheezes to a stop outside 52 Edgewood Drive. I sit for a moment, staring at the house Caleb has spent the past three years living in. It’s larger than I expected it to be; a three-story brick structure with a neatly trimmed lawn out front.

Every light in the house looks like it’s on, so I won’t be waking anyone up. I shouldn’t be surprised. Pretty sure I’m the only person in the state of Kentucky under the age of forty who goes to bed at ten p.m. on a regular basis. It’s almost midnight now.

I climb out of the car, grabbing the bag of clothes I hastily threw together and slamming the door shut behind me. The sound echoes on the empty street. I walk toward the brick house, startling when a loud clang comes from the right.

“Sorry!” I glance over at a guy who looks to be my age, with sandy blond hair and a friendly smile, who’s standing with two overflowing trash bins. The lid for one is now lying on the cement sidewalk. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s fine,” I reply, loosening my grip on the bag I’m holding. “Here, let me get it.” I approach him, grabbing the fallen lid and plopping it back atop the bin.

“Thanks.” He gives me a wide grin.

“No problem.” I turn to leave.

“Are you coming back to campus early?”

I spin back to face him. “Uh, no. I’m not a student here. Just visiting someone.”

“That makes more sense. I definitely would remember seeing you around.”

Friendliness turns flirtatious. I smile, awkwardly. This is what I get for being a good Samaritan, I guess. I’m out of practice when it comes to dissuading flirting. Guys weren’t exactly swarming me in high school, and there’s not a single person in Landry unaware I’m dating Caleb Winters.

“Good luck with those.” I nod to the bins.

He smiles before continuing to the curb. “Hope to see you around.”

I walk up to the front door of Caleb’s house and knock.

“Yeah?” The door swings open, revealing a shirtless guy with dark blond hair chewing what looks like a stick of jerky. He looks me up and down, then smirks.

“Is Caleb home?” His truck is in the driveway, but I suppose he could have gotten a ride with someone. I probably should have texted him a heads-up, but I liked the idea of surprising him.

“It would be great if you could spread the word around campus that other people live here, too,” the guy replies. “Not just Winters.”

“If I went to school here, I’d definitely consider doing that,” I reply.

His face crinkles in confusion. “Where do you go to school?”

“Could we have this conversation while I’m not standing out on the street?”

“Uh, yeah. Sure. Come on in.” He pulls the door open, and I step inside.

The outside of the house may not look like it’s inhabited by a group of college guys, but the interior definitely does. Sports equipment is hung on pretty much every visible surface: railings, doorknobs, and a couple of chairs. A pair of socks are flung on the floor and the walls are bare.

I’m not sure why Caleb was bothered by me turning the farmhouse topsy-turvy. Seems like it would have just felt the same as living here.

“Guys are through here.” The blond guy whose name I probably should have asked for heads down the hall and disappears to the right.

I swallow my nerves and follow. I’ve only met two of Caleb’s college teammates. They visited him in Landry last summer, and we got lunch. They were both perfectly nice, but the one meal didn’t establish any of the rapport I have with Colt, Jake, and Luke. No one at Clarkson knows anything about me and Caleb’s past: good or bad.

“Winters! Some chick for you,” I hear called out just before I reach the opening.

I enter what is obviously the living room. Four guys are sprawled out around the large space. There’s a massive sectional couch holding two of them; the third and Caleb are in bean bags.

Unsurprisingly, there’s a baseball game playing on the flatscreen television.

I am surprised to see a bunch of girls parked on the couch between the boys. A few are sitting on the floor as well. I do a quick count, registering there’s eight of them. A couple take note of my arrival, but the others are distracted, talking with the boys.

“Who?” one girl asks the blond who announced my arrival. “Sophie said she couldn’t come tonight.”

Caleb glances over, sees me, and freezes.

Then, a broad smile spreads across his face. Every second of the dark, three-hour drive here from Landry is suddenly worth it. He stands and strides over to me.

I’m expecting a hello, or for him to ask what I’m doing here.

Instead he kisses me, pulling me tight to his body and wrapping his arms around my waist. I melt into him, not hating the fact he’s greeting me so enthusiastically in front of his friends and teammates. And especially the other girls here.

“Hey,” I whisper, when we break apart for air.

“Hi.” He grins, but the humor leaves his face as he studies mine. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, everything’s fine. I just wanted to see you.”

Caleb’s smile returns. “You left after the night feeding?”

“Uh-huh. Mike’s going to take care of things in the morning.”

Gramps’s friend seemed thrilled by the prospect when I called from a gas station an hour ago, especially when I told him I was going to visit Caleb.

“I’ll have to head back tomorrow afternoon.”

Caleb’s smile dims a little when I reveal just how brief a visit this will be. He recovers quickly, though, turning so he’s no longer blocking the rest of the room.

Everyone’s staring at us, ignoring the game on the screen.

“Guys, this is my girlfriend Lennon. Lennon, you’ve met Garrett and Jamie. That’s Drew.” Caleb nods to the blond guy who let me in the house. “And Elliot.” He nods to the other guy on the bean bag.

“Nice to meet you all,” I say.

He doesn’t introduce the girls, and I wonder—hope—that means he doesn’t know their names.

“See you guys tomorrow,” Caleb says, then pulls me from the room and toward the stairs.

“Maybe I wanted to watch the end of the baseball game,” I tease.

Caleb laughs. The warm, husky sound of it warms me from the inside out. “We can watch it in my room if you’re really that invested.”

Once we’re upstairs, he leads me down the hall and into his bedroom. I glance around. I’ve seen glimpses of it on video calls, but never in person. It’s more tastefully decorated than the one in his parents’ house in Landry. The walls here are white rather than red. His comforter is navy, rather than lime green.

Textbooks and more baseball equipment litter the room, but aside from that, there isn’t much in the way of decoration. There are a few baseball posters up on the walls. There’s a framed photograph on his desk, and it’s one of us. I smile when I see it.

“Do you want anything to eat? Drink?” Caleb walks over to a mini fridge tucked in the corner.

I shake my head as I let my bag drop to the floor and kick off my shoes. “No, thanks. I’m good.”

He pulls a sports drink out for himself. I watch his throat contract as he drinks some of the red liquid.

“Want to watch something?” He misreads my eye roll. “It doesn’t have to be baseball, Len.”

I walk over to him, not stopping until I can feel the heat radiating from his skin. “I don’t want to watch anything, Caleb.”

“Oh.” Understanding dawns as he studies my face. “You could have just said this is a booty call.”

I tug at his T-shirt. “This is a booty call.”

Caleb yanks the cotton material off in one smooth motion and then walks forward, forcing me backward. I giggle as he pulls my shirt off impatiently, leaving me in just a bra and jeans. “Don’t think I don’t want to, because I really do, but are you sure that you want to?” he asks as we tumble down onto his bed.

“I’m sure.”

I’m sick of feeling sad, of experiencing nothing but grief and uncertainty. But most of all, I want to reconnect with Caleb. To show him how much his support after Gramps passed meant. To reassure him that while everything else in my life might have changed, my feelings for him have not.

“I need you, Caleb.”

Hunger replaces uncertainty as he pulls my mouth to his. Lust condenses in my stomach and spreads throughout my veins as he rolls above me, his tongue skillfully stroking mine. I feel alive, a mass of emotions and desires. My hands explore the corded sinew of Caleb’s bare back, savoring how the muscles shift and tense.

I can’t get close enough to him, only moving away to pull down my jeans and tug at the gray sweatpants he’s wearing. His mouth moves to my neck. I arch upward, moaning his name and not caring how needy and desperate I sound.

Anticipation tumbles through me like a waterfall when I feel his cock press against my entrance. My heart races and my breathing quickens.

“Fuck,” Caleb groans, as he slips the rest of the way inside of me.

I stop thinking and just feel, letting myself get lost in the sensation of being completely consumed by Caleb Winters.

And hope the way I’m clutching on to him is telling Caleb everything I haven’t found the words for yet.