24. Twenty-Four

Twenty-Four

The last time Whit had been to the Fallen Oaks Police Department, he'd been in handcuffs.

Twelve years hadn't done much to change it. Same ugly brick building perched like a gargoyle in the center of town. Same pervasive smell of Lysol and musty carpet. He breathed it in, his chest tightening at the memory as he strode past the city's government offices and into the section of the building that housed their meager police force. Same beige walls lined with pictures and plaques. He even recognized a few of the faces, old friends of Sawyer's dad who had to be at least approaching retirement. Bit of a different reception this time, he thought, as the rookie at the front desk asked for an autograph.

Sawyer hadn't been particularly forthcoming with details, and Whit wasn't certain what to expect. Fans, even overly-invested fans, came with the territory. So did groupies. A lot of guys didn't mind it—a few even welcomed it—but every now and then, someone crossed a line. Spread rumors, faked photos, tracked down phone numbers, contacted relatives. Harmless fantasy twisted into obsessive delusion, and then it needed to be shut down, fast.

He'd dismissed the possibility of a stalker when Nell first suggested it, partly because he hadn't felt like dealing with it. These situations had a tendency to get messy, and Whit hadn't wanted more of his personal life dissected by the press. But this was so far over the line, it wasn't even in the same galaxy. Forget the vandalism to his car. Whoever had done this had targeted Nell, and that made his blood run cold.

He stopped in his tracks when he recognized the slender, tear-streaked woman seated in front of Sawyer's desk.

" Lilah ?" The word croaked out of him.

He blinked, but she didn't vanish. That was Lilah, all right, her lower lip wobbling and her misery coming off her in waves. Still beautiful, in spite of the puffy eyes and smeared makeup. She'd cut a few inches off her hair, lost a little weight. She flinched when he said her name, then sat wringing her hands, a box of tissues in her lap, her shoulders trembling with the soft, hiccuping sobs that kept escaping.

Whit's thoughts churned. He hadn't seen Lilah in… what was it, two months now? Longer? Not since they'd decided to end things. He didn't like to break up during dates—it seemed disrespectful—so they'd taken an afternoon walk in the park, and when he'd seen she was upset, they'd gone back to her place. There had been a few tears then, but nothing on this level. She'd been a hell of a lot more reasonable than Nell, when it came to it.

Lilah dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. "Hi, Whit," she said when he reached her. Her voice came out small and creaky.

He stared at her, trying to process. Lilah was the one who had trashed his car? She was the one who had messaged Paige? He couldn't believe it. Lilah was the very opposite of aggressive. She was warm, bubbly, affectionate—the sort of woman every guy wanted, which was exactly what he'd told her the day they'd broken up. He remembered the faint smile she'd given him at that. Not every guy.

He also remembered telling her on their first date that he wasn't looking for anything serious, and that he never dated anyone more than a couple of months. She'd given him a smile then, too. Perfect. I'll try not to break your heart.

Apparently perfect had been a bit of an exaggeration.

Whit had no idea what to even say to her, so he just snarled out the first thing that popped into his head. "What the fuck, Lilah?"

Her already anguished face crumpled. "It was a mistake. "

"You think?"

"I didn't mean for this to happen. Any of it."

"So you accidentally spied on me? You accidentally took a baseball bat to my car?" His raised voice was drawing looks, and he made an effort to lower it. "You don't accidentally stalk someone, Lilah. You don't accidentally harass them."

She must have sent the video to Meltdown , he realized. He hadn't seen her at Gills that night, but after his run-in with Nell, Babe Ruth could've walked into the bar without him noticing. And the video edit, sloppy as it was, wouldn't have required much effort for a woman who made a living recording modeling shoots and makeup tutorials.

He was too disgusted to look at her, and he turned his snarl on Sawyer. "She just showed up and turned herself in to you? Just like that?"

"Actually, she turned herself in to Keane. He's letting me handle it." A thin smirk slanted across Sawyer's face. "As a favor."

"Yeah, I bet you're just loving this."

"Hey, don't kill the messenger." Sawyer leaned back in his chair, swiveling it slowly from side to side. "And just so you're aware… she's not technically under arrest yet. She said she doesn't want a lawyer, she just wants to explain things to you."

Whit glowered. "That's standard operating procedure?"

"I assumed you'd prefer to keep it out of the press."

He wasn't wrong, though Whit had no idea why Sawyer would give a shit. He forced his hands to unclench and turned back to Lilah. "You couldn't have tried calling me first?"

"This was the only way I could think to prove how sorry I am." Her voice caught. "I loved you, Whit. I… I couldn't say that before."

He recoiled, which only made her cry harder. "And this was your way of showing it?" He was close to shouting again, and took a deep breath before continuing. "I don't understand. We agreed to end things months ago."

Lilah's watery gaze flicked toward Sawyer, then back to Whit. "Maybe we could do this privately. "

"Like hell." He might not enjoy Sawyer having a front row seat to this disaster, but he didn't trust Lilah not to twist things around on him, and he wanted witnesses. "If you're going to say something, say it here."

"But…"

"Say it here, or I walk out and you can say it to a judge."

It was an empty threat and Lilah knew it. He wouldn't allow her to go to jail, no matter how furious he was. But she nodded anyway. She gave her eyes another dab. "It didn't start out as stalking. At least… in my head it didn't. I just wanted to see you. Someone mentioned they'd spotted you out at Gills, so I went there every night for a week, hoping you would show up." She grimaced. "And then when you did, there were women all over you. I couldn't stand it. I was so jealous I couldn't think."

"You were thinking clearly enough to edit that video," Whit retorted.

She stared at the floor. "I regretted that right away. I knew you were going to Fallen Oaks that week, so I followed you here to apologize. I thought maybe I could make it up to you. But you were already with someone else, and when I saw you with her… I guess something inside of me snapped. I'm sorry. I'm really sorry, Whit. I didn't mean for it to get so out of hand."

"Out of hand? Lilah, you totally wrecked my car." He let out a soft curse as sudden realization hit. "You had my spare set of keys."

"That really was accidental," she said quickly. "I didn't know I had them until after we'd broken up."

Whit snorted.

Lilah had managed to stop crying, and she set the box of tissues on Sawyer's desk, folded her hands in her lap. "I know it doesn't make any sense, but it's like—like I wanted to punish you for not loving me back. Stupid, right? None of it made me feel any better. And after a while I realized the person who did all those things wasn't who I wanted to be." She heaved in a breath. "So I went home. I decided to put it all behind me. But after this morning…"

Whit was on instant alert. "What happened this morning? "

"I take it you haven't seen Meltdown today," Sawyer said mildly.

Dread pooled in Whit's stomach. Rebecca had texted him a few hours earlier, before he'd even dragged himself out of bed. A single, short statement: Don't worry, I'm handling it. He'd disregarded the message at the time, assuming it was referring to Paige. Now he fished his phone out of his pocket and felt bile rise in his throat as he stared at the photo of him and Nell that was once again splashed across the tabloid's main page. Meltdown had updated its article to include the identity of the woman with him in the bar. Eleanor McLean, a schoolteacher from the Chicago area, sister of O'Rourke's former flame…

He felt like he'd been sucker punched. Beneath the picture of Nell on her knees was a blown up and cropped version of a press photo that had been taken a couple of weeks ago. That Tuesday, he thought. The day before they'd first slept together. It had been at the elementary, where Whit and some of the guys had been giving baseball lessons to the kids. When the media had set up their photos, Whit had dragged Nell into one of the group shots without even thinking. Her bright smile beamed out at him. She looked radiant and happy, so lovely it made him ache. He'd drawn her close to him, nestling her hip against his thigh, and his hand was curled possessively at her waist. She was dressed in those tight-fitting jeans that drove him crazy… and the exact same sky blue jacket she'd worn that night at Gills.

It may as well have been a giant guilty sign. A scarlet letter. For the past two weeks, Whit had been trying not to wonder how Nell's meeting with Frank Grantham had gone; now he didn't have to. If she'd had a job when she woke up that morning, she wouldn't for much longer, thanks to him. He'd given her the chance to save her career, and then stolen it right back from her.

Lilah must have read the fury in his eyes, because she scooted her chair backward a couple of inches and lifted both her hands. "It wasn't me, I swear."

"Bullshit. "

"As soon as I saw the article, I drove straight here," Lilah was saying. "I didn't have to come here, Whit. I didn't have to tell you anything. I'm trying to make amends."

Whit was barely listening to her. "Release it," he breathed.

Lilah stared up at him. "What?"

"The unedited video. The entire thing. I assume you caught more than just those few seconds." His publicist would have some choice words for him about that, but it was the only way to absolve Nell. "You want me to believe you're sorry? You want to make amends? Prove it."

He could issue a statement. He would issue a statement, of his own, on his own, whatever Rebecca had to say about it. But if he wanted anyone to believe the video had been taken out of context, he'd need to provide that context.

Lilah was still gaping at him, and he struggled to rein in his temper. "Or send it to me, and I'll release it," he ground out. "I'll keep your name out of it, if that's what you're worried about."

"I—I'll release it."

Whit wasn't taking any chances. "Why don't you send it to me, just in case?" he told her, and tried to ignore the rapid drumming of his pulse when the video popped up on his phone.

It was worse than he remembered. Lilah's focus had been on him, not Nell, and even from a distance, he could see the hard, angry sneer on his face, hear the cold mockery in his tone. Every word dripped with venom. And Nell… she looked so small in comparison, but she faced him down without flinching, without fear, the same way she'd faced down his father less than twenty-four hours later. His gut churned. He closed the video, slid his phone back into his pocket. Swallowed hard.

Lilah lifted a hand toward him, then thought better of it. "Whit—"

"We're done here," he said flatly. "Release the video in a couple of hours, or I'll do it."

"You're not going to have them arrest me?"

"You knew that before you walked in the door." His rage had burned itself out. It left him feeling numb, empty. He turned away. "I'm sorry I couldn't be what you needed. "

He didn't watch her leave. He needed to think. He'd have to come up with a statement, warn his publicist. Lilah had enough of a social media following that the second she dropped the video, some news outlet or another would pick it up. It would be all over the internet within minutes. That probably wouldn't be enough to undo whatever damage had already been done to Nell's reputation, but it might help mitigate it.

His own reputation was another matter.

Sawyer was smirking at him again. "Did you really just apologize to the woman who vandalized your car?"

"She needs therapy, not a jail cell." Whit was too tired to care what Sawyer thought. He was bone-weary, wrung out. But since Sawyer had done him a favor, even if he didn't know why, he managed to grumble out, "Thanks."

"I heard your girlfriend left town."

Great. Did everyone know he'd been dumped? He should just walk out, but he couldn't seem to make his feet move. They just sat there like cement blocks. Really big cement blocks. He tried to work up another snarl. "Haven't you gotten your fill of gloating today?"

"She came to see me."

That surprised him enough that he straightened up. " Nell ?"

"Didn't you date her sister, too? The hot blonde? She was with her. That makes three in the past couple of weeks. I'm a pretty popular guy with your exes."

Whit could feel his teeth wanting to grind and tried to think of something calming. When that failed, he folded his arms and glared at Sawyer. "What did she want?"

"Would you believe my number?" Whit just went right on glaring at him, and after a moment Sawyer relented. His voice lowered. "She told me about the night you were arrested."

He should've known Nosy Nellie wouldn't be able to mind her own business. "She shouldn't have done that."

"Is it true?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yeah, Whit, it matters. "

"Then think whatever the hell you want. You always did."

"What the fuck else were we supposed to think? You shut us out. You wouldn't talk to us."

"And then I switched schools, started a fire, and nearly got you and James killed. Yeah, I'm familiar with the history. If we're making a list of my sins, let's not forget the time I wrecked a motorcycle or when I got suspended for doping."

Sawyer let out a soft whistle. "Damn, you are a mess."

"I'm not the one wearing a uniform I swore I'd never be caught dead in."

"You want to say that a little louder?" Sawyer hissed. He leaned back in his chair again. "I never said I wasn't a mess."

"What are you looking for here?"

"I'm not sure."

"If it's another apology—" He broke off, frowning. After Sawyer's accident, he'd tried so hard to reach out. Again and again, more times than he could count or remember. If this was an olive branch, shouldn't he take it? If somehow, beneath all the anger and bitterness, there was something left to be salvaged, shouldn't he at least try? Nell's voice was in his head, gently urging.

Then do it for yourself. So that you can finally start to forgive yourself.

Whit shifted his feet, feeling awkward. "What I said the other night… I didn't mean it. You were good, Sawyer. One of the best I've ever seen. You would've made it. All the way."

"Maybe. Maybe not. I guess we'll never know."

Whit shifted again, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. "Anyway… thanks for helping with Lilah."

He was nearly at the door when Sawyer called after him.

"Hey, O'Rourke."

Whit turned.

Sawyer sat at his desk, flipping him the middle finger. "Go fuck yourself, man."

Sheer surprise made him bark out a laugh. It had been twelve years since he'd last seen the designated farewell of the Fallen Oaks boys' baseball team, but he still knew there was only one accepted response to it. He cupped his hands around his mouth and hollered back. "Every time I see your mom!"

***

True to her word, Lilah posted the unedited video, along with a less-than-detailed confession about her brief "lapse" into harmful behavior. From what Whit could tell, it didn't do much to damage her image. She recorded a couple of videos discussing the importance of mental health and inviting her followers to accompany her on her journey of self-discovery, which Whit thought sounded ridiculous—but at least she confirmed that she'd signed herself up for counseling. He noticed she'd left out the part about trashing his car.

He thought about calling Nell.

For three days, he could hardly think about anything else. He even clicked on her name in his contacts and stared at the screen long enough that he started to sweat. But what could he possibly say to her? That he was sorry? His statement to the press had been his apology. Entirely personal. Nauseatingly heartfelt. Clearly she didn't want to hear from him. If she had, she would have called him herself. Instead, radio silence. He'd set his reputation on fire to save hers, and she didn't so much as text.

Not that the fallout from the video had been as bad as he'd feared. The inevitable rehashing of his PEDs usage was quickly overshadowed by the fresh scandal of a prominent hitting coach with a gambling problem. Whit's years-old doping incident was barely Little League drama in comparison to one of the cardinal sins of baseball, and his latest transgression was out of the news cycle before he could even have his lawyers demand a retraction. But instead of being relieved, Whit was filled with a vague sense of panic. There was an air of finality to it all. The last thing, the only thing connecting him to Nell had come to an end .

Unless—what if she'd gotten pregnant? They'd used protection, but a couple of times they hadn't been quite as careful as they could've been, and nothing was a hundred percent. She would have to contact him then, wouldn't she? It was probably still too early to tell, but it would be the right thing, the responsible thing for him to check in.

Only the worry that she might have blocked his number stopped him from calling her that time.

And even if he did reach out to her, what would it matter? Nothing had changed. Anything lasting between them was still out of the question. Dating was impossible; the logistics alone would be a nightmare once he had to report for spring training. They lived four hundred miles apart, and managing a relationship during the season was difficult enough without adding long distance into the equation. He couldn't ask her to hop on a plane every weekend just so they could steal a few hours together in between games. If he gave in now and asked her for a second chance, it would only lead to more heartbreak. She'd understood that when she ended things. She was right to have ended things.

If only he could convince his own heart of that.

I don't need you to love me right now, Whit… I just need to know you someday can.

So maybe he was in love with her. He knew damn well that wasn't a guarantee. And that talk about marriage and babies, about getting old and wrinkly… people fell in love all the time. They fell right back out of it just as quickly. In the real world, there was no such thing as always. Ever after only lasted until the ink was dry on the divorce papers. People grew apart. Chemistry faded. And who knew? Maybe Nell would be the one to wake up one morning and decide she was bored with him.

Maybe she already had. She'd claimed to have her next lover lined up. What if she hadn't been lying?

That thought depressed him so much, he almost wished he hadn't outgrown reckless behavior. Pushing a motorcycle to its limits on a lonely stretch of highway, feeling the bite of the wind on his face, the rush of adrenaline as the asphalt blurred away beneath him—that might be enough to distract him from the woman who had turned his life inside out and then left him restless and wanting. Instead, he added a two-mile run to his daily workout routine.

"Don't you think this has gone on long enough?" Skip asked him, two weeks and five days—he was keeping track of the days—since Nell had returned to Chicago. Whit had just finished showering after his run and found Skip waiting outside his bedroom, an old gym bag slung over his shoulder.

Whit brushed past him. Skip was one to talk. His hair was getting shaggy at the ends and he'd been wearing the same pair of sweatpants for a week straight. "If you want to go home, go home. We won't miss you."

Skip grunted. "Come on, kid. Let's go destroy some baseballs." He lifted the gym bag slightly, slapped a hand against it. "Dad went into town for a couple of hours, so I smuggled in contraband."

"I hope you didn't go out in public like that."

"If you want to shit talk, do it outside. We're on a schedule here."

Whit wasn't in the mood to whack more baseballs into the snow, but he was in even less of a mood to argue with his dad, who had apparently been serious about that fatherly bonding crap. He would've told him it was too little, too late, but the truth was, he sort of felt sorry for him, so he pulled a cap over his damp hair, shrugged into a jacket, and followed Skip out of the house and around the barn, where the farmland turned from rolling pasture to snow-covered cornfields. The sky was a clear, crystalline blue, the sun just reaching its zenith. A beautiful day for baseball. If it hadn't been about twenty degrees out.

A faint breeze whistled against them as Skip dropped the bag to the ground, digging out a bat and a couple of baseballs. "This is for you. You'll find out why in a minute." He shoved the bat toward Whit.

It didn't surprise Whit that his dad immediately brought up Nell.

"I won't pretend to understand what actually went on between the two of you, but you've been miserable since she left," Skip said. "And I know you don't want my advice as your father, so let me just say this as an outside observer. You're being an idiot."

It didn't surprise him, but it did annoy him. "You're right. I don't want your advice."

"Well, I'd ask your grandpa to do it, but he thinks you're smart enough to figure it out on your own, so I'm what you get."

"Don't you have three estranged daughters to worry about?"

"Allie and Rory aren't estranged. They're on vacation. And as for Maggie… I'm working on it." Skip grimaced, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. The sunlight sparked off the glints of silver in his hair. "Okay. This is gonna be as awkward for me as it is for you, so let's just get it over with. Do you love her?"

Whit had never in his life discussed relationships with his father, and he wasn't about to start now. His dad, of all people. His dad, who had once kept a different mistress for each day of the week. It would be laughable, if his chest hadn't squeezed painfully at the question. How could he explain what he felt for Nell when he barely understood it himself? He tried to tell Skip to mind his own business, but what came out was a hoarse whisper. "It feels like I do."

"Then what the fuck are you still doing here?"

A dozen sarcastic retorts came to mind, but it was as though someone else had control of his body. "I don't know if I can be what she wants," Whit heard himself answer.

"Don't know or won't try? Because if you don't love her, that's one thing. If you do love her, you fight like hell."

His voice cracked the way it hadn't since he was fourteen years old. "Maybe love isn't enough."

"Or maybe you're just scared."

Almost exactly what he'd said to Nell. Having it flipped around on him only made the knot in his chest tighten further. "Thanks for the chat, Dad." He tossed the bat into the snow and would have stalked off, but Skip stepped in front of him.

"I'm not saying I blame you. You've got plenty of reason to be scared," Skip told him. He nodded at the bat. "Pick that up—we're not done here." Whit just stared stonily at him, and Skip sighed. "Christ, you're difficult. Always have been. Your mom and I used to have to sit in the car with the engine running for hours at a time just to get you to stop crying. And that was when I was on a minor league salary, so believe me, we didn't want to waste the gas money. Now would you pick up the goddamn bat, Whitney?"

He did, mostly because he figured it was the quickest way to end the conversation, and he needed to get out of there before he completely broke down. "Is there a point to all this?"

"I'm getting to it." Skip crouched, pulling a few more baseballs from the bag and arranging them in a small pile in the snow, then glanced up at Whit. "You know, with your mom, it was like a lightning bolt. I knew immediately, that first day we spent together. No other woman ever came close."

It hadn't been a lightning bolt for Whit. More like a grenade. One he hadn't even known he'd been holding until it had detonated.

He aimed a half-hearted sneer at his dad. "And it took you how long to start cheating on her? One week? Two?"

"I won't try to excuse it. I ruined one of the best things that ever happened to me because of my selfishness, and I didn't figure it out until it was too late. But the point is—just because I screwed up doesn't mean you're going to. You're not me, Whit. And thank god for that."

"It's not that simple."

"Why the fuck would it be? Playing ball isn't simple. I don't hear you bitching about that. You want something badly enough, you find a way to make it work." Skip flipped one of the baseballs into the air, caught it again. "Here's how we're gonna do this. I strike you out, you go after her."

It wasn't until his father said the words that Whit realized how much he wanted to.

Desperately. More than desperately. With every fiber of his being. He wanted to go right now, not waste another second—just throw the bat to the ground and take off running, climb into the Maserati and whip down the highway until he reached the airport. And if there weren't any available flights, he'd just keep on driving. He'd be in Chicago by morning, and then—

And then… what? Everything would magically fall into place? Whit knew better than that. Going after her wouldn't be fair to either of them. He'd been through all of the arguments. He'd spent the past two and a half weeks torturing himself with them.

You want something badly enough, you find a way to make it work.

He had never wanted anything more.

His hands felt clammy. A line of sweat popped up on his brow. "You're not a pitcher," he told his dad.

"Almost a two-way player, remember? And I wouldn't get cocky if I were you. I've seen you try to lay down a bunt, kid."

Whit's heart was slamming against his ribs, but he did his best to sound casual. "I've been called on to pinch hit before."

Skip retreated a few paces, stamping the snow to form a makeshift mound, and did a couple of warm-up motions with his right arm. "Yeah, in the sixteenth inning, after you'd lost the DH and everyone else left on the roster had the shits."

"It was the fifteenth. And we won that game."

"No thanks to you. Now are we just gonna stand here, or are we gonna do this thing?"

Whit wrapped his fingers around the grip of the bat. For all his bluster, there was no way Skip could strike him out, and both of them knew it.

Skip gazed down at the ball in his hand, turning it slowly. "The way I see it, you're at a crossroads. Thirty years ago, I stood at one, too. I can't tell you which way is right for you—I only know I regret the one I took. It's your choice, Whit. It's your future. You just have to decide if you want her in it."

A future with Nell. Whit froze.

He could imagine it so easily. That picture he'd had of her, smiling at him from the stands—he wanted it so much it was like a physical ache. He thought of her curled up on a sofa, a blanket draped across her knees and a book in her lap. Or standing in the kitchen with the early sun on her face, a mug of coffee in her hands, her hair a mess, her eyes misty with sleep. He wanted to wake up with her body nestled against his. He wanted to argue with her until her temper sparked, and then seduce it away again .

He'd told her no one fell in love in a week, but what the hell did he know? He'd never been in love before. He'd felt more for Nell after a few days than he had for any other woman after a few months.

I want us to get married and have babies and sit in matching rockers when we're old and wrinkly.

Why had that seemed so frightening? The only thing that frightened him now was the thought of a lifetime without her.

"You get one shot at this," Skip called to him from across the snow. "Try not to mess it up, will you?"

He peeled back his arm and threw.