CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

RILEY

My cheeks hurt from smiling, and my throat is hoarse from cheering and talking all day long. I can’t believe Walker showed up this morning to volunteer.

I can’t believe the words he spoke to the crowd and to the news.

I can’t believe how much he’s listened to me over the months talking about Boston Strong. He spoke like a representative of the organization. Like he worked with us.

And I can’t believe he left shortly after and I didn’t get to kiss him goodbye. My phone vibrated non stop in my pocket, but I never had a second to check it. My head coordinators and I communicated through walkie talkies. It was the only way to prioritize emergencies and not be overwhelmed or distracted with outside issues.

At the end of the event, Channel 8 interviewed me briefly, asking how much we raised and where people could donate. The cleanup is just as much work as the set up, but many hands make less work.

All afternoon, people kept asking me how I knew Walker and Declan and why I kept their appearance a secret.

“We could’ve had more walk-up registrants if people knew they’d be there,” Brad says once we get back to Boston Strong.

“Yeah, well, our social media pages are buzzing right now.” Julie giggles as she and Brad leave my office.

I can only imagine how many videos and pictures there are of Walker—and Dec—from today. If a handful of them also tag Boston Strong, we could possibly garner more donations. People are crazy like that. They see a celebrity endorsing a product and they’re all in, no questions asked.

Yeah, I suppose I could have asked Walker to speak at the 5K, and promoting his appearance would have brought a spike, but I couldn’t use him for our gain. He doesn’t like the spotlight, and the fact that he spoke for so long, and so eloquently...

Hell. I wanted so badly to jump into his arms and wrap my legs around his waist and kiss him for hours. Days. Weeks.

Kendall drops a box of shirts on the table in my office and wipes her hands on her leggings. “That’s the last of it.”

“Thanks so much for sticking around after you and Rowan ran to help clean up.”

“Yeah. Real convenient on Row’s part that she had to work. Way to get out of cleaning up.”

“Are you saying you’d rather work a twelve-hour shift in the OR after running a 5K?”

“Whatever.” Kendall rolls her eyes in jest. “‘Kay. Now that we’re alone. What. The. Fuck?” She gives me a playful push on my shoulders.

“What?”

“Um. Hello? Your man fucking stole the show. And not for his own good, but for you. And seriously. You were eye fucking him the entire time up on the stage.”

“Was not.”

“Yuh uh.” She takes out her phone. “I recorded it from the mosh pit.”

She shows me the grainy video she took from the middle of the crowd. She was too far away to really zoom in on my face, but I blush anyway.

“I had no idea he was going to be there.”

“He deserves the best blow job of his life tonight.”

“I hope not.”

“Why not?”

I grab my backpack and throw it over one shoulder. “He leaves for North Carolina tonight.”

“No reason why you can’t rush over there now and give him a BJ.”

“Is everything always about sex with you?”

We walk down the now empty corridor to the back door and out to the vacant parking lot. “Since you’re still in denial of your feelings, sex is the way to go.”

“I’m not in denial.”

We stop in front of my car and Kendall crosses her arms. “He wants you, Riles. Bad. He pretty much told the city of Boston that today.”

“Drama queen.” I wave her off. “He did me a favor by hyping up Boston Strong.”

“And you .”

“Yeah, well, he’s already told me he wants me back. That’s not the problem. I can’t let my heart get ripped out again.”

“Honey.” Kendall lets out a sigh.

Great. When she pulls the soft tone and the endearments, I know it’s going to be serious and something I don’t want to hear.

“Is it worth it? Being alone? Pushing him away? Denying your wants? He may not want kids right now, but other than that, he’s perfect for you. Would you rather settle for a guy who wants kids but doesn’t look at you the way Walker does? Would you rather have a guy who has a predictable schedule and will be home for dinner every night, but doesn’t sweep you off your feet with his kindness, his sweet words, and his magic dick?”

When I don’t laugh, she curses under her breath.

“Kids are great. Trust me. I work with them all day long. But I’ve worked with too many who come from dysfunctional or unloving homes. Is it fair to put your children through that? To have a mother and father who aren’t madly in love with each other?”

“You’re implying there isn’t another man out there who will fall madly in love with me.”

“Oh, contraire. You’re amazing and beautiful and smart and kind. I have no doubt hundreds of men will and have already fallen madly in love with you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You’re the kind of girl who loves big and hard. Who gives her whole heart to one person, and no one else can ever take his place. Walker is it for you. You can’t look me in the eye and tell me you’ll be okay pushing him out of your life and moving on with another man.” Kendall gives me a hug and tugs on my ponytail. “Go take a hot bath and have some phone sex with the love of your life. Live one day at a time.”

I watch as she crosses the lot to her car. When she drives off, I get behind the wheel and drive home more confused than ever. Things changed between Walker and me the other day in my office. The whole Give a Mouse a Cookie thing. I, in so many words, told him I wanted to work on things between us.

We almost kissed. I want him so badly, but will our happiness wear off in a few years when I still don’t have children?

He sends me a selfie of him on the plane, and I text back wishing him well at his game. Monday night, I curl up on my couch wearing my favorite sweatpants and Walker’s jersey and watch the entire two-hour pre-game show.

Jackson and Taylor invited me to their place to watch the game, but I have an early morning Pilates class I’m teaching, and I’m already pushing it by staying up late tonight. This weekend wiped me out in the best of ways.

By the end of halftime, the score is tied at fourteen and I’ve demolished my plate of nachos. Walker ran in a touchdown during the first quarter and Humphries had a pick six. The defense on both sides is doing all the work causing turnover after turnover. It’s a sloppy game, and I can read the frustration in Walker’s body language.

My group chat with Kendall and Rowan settled down now that they retired for the night. Both have to get up early as well, but it’s not their man playing so they’re not as invested as I am.

Not that Walker is my man. But I want him to be. Kendall’s words of wisdom have been playing on repeat all weekend. I’m seventy-five percent sure I’m going to tell Walker I want to give us another chance, then I see a mother pushing a baby in a stroller, or a little toddler giggling with their siblings, and I question if I can really give up my dreams of being a mother for a guy.

Ironically, it takes a guy to make those dreams come true. Sort of. If all I wanted was kids and no husband, I could go to a clinic or even an adoption agency. But while I’ve been dreaming of making memories like the ones my mother and I made in the short time we had together before she died, they also include a father. A complete unit.

My parents were happy together, and while I may not have realized it when I was younger, their marriage is what I want to replicate. My father’s grief and depression scare me though. If I don’t allow myself to fall in love as hard as my parents, I’ll never have to grieve like him.

And then I think of Walker. I’ve only known him for a few months, and if anything ever happened to him, I don’t know that I’d handle myself any better than my father.

I pick at the cuff of my sweatpants and focus on the game instead of the questions and doubt running through my head. The time clock runs down to the final two minutes of the game. I cover my yawn with the back of my hand and check the time. It’s a little after eleven, and I’m teaching the five-thirty class. Boston is down by three and they’re almost near field goal range. While I don’t want them to lose, tying it up means overtime, which means even less sleep.

I keep the volume up and go to the bathroom during the next commercial break to wash my face and brush my teeth.

The announcer’s volume picks up and I slow my brushing as I hear him cover the play. “With twenty-three seconds left in the game and fifty-nine yards to go. Cannon and Buckingham are the targeted receivers and North Carolina has them double covered as they have all night. Anderson steps back, looks for an open receiver. He steps out of the pocket, finds Bankes, and tosses him the ball. It’s a short six-yard pass, but he’s open.”

“There’s not enough time on the clock,” the other announcer cuts in. “But—Wow. Did you see that block from Anderson? Bankes cuts to the left, steamrolls over a wall of defense and he’s going all the way!”

I run into the living room and jump up and down in front of the television and watch as Walker zig zags through the defense. He’s five yards from the end zone and leaps over a defender as he reaches the ball across the endzone. His face crushes the pylon, but he hangs on to the ball.

“Touchdown! What a run by Walker Bankes!”

“Yes!” I jump up and down and toothpaste spit spills onto my jersey. The camera cuts to the crowd and zooms in on their astonished faces, and then pans to a row of Boston fans cheering ecstatically.

“Looks like Bankes may have gotten injured on his game-winning touchdown.”

The toothbrush falls from my mouth and I move closer to the television. The camera zooms in on Walker, who is still lying flat on his chest in the endzone. The medical team surrounds him and the cameras back off.

“Walker.” I touch the screen and send a prayer. The announcers are talking but I don’t make out their words, focused on Walker instead.

The team is down on their knees talking to him, and when his feet move, I let out my breath. Slowly, they get him to his knees and take off his helmet. I gasp at the amount of blood covering his eye and dripping down his face.

“Wow. Walker took a hit with that play. Let’s see what went wrong.” They cut from his face and show the replay over and over again from multiple angles. “It looks like the pylon went through his face mask and busted his face.”

They keep replaying his touchdown when all I want to see is Walker. The station goes to a commercial break, and I stand in place, waiting for an update on him. When the game is back on, with only ten seconds left, they show Boston missing the extra point, then kicking the ball to North Carolina who runs it back for a touchdown.

I don’t even care about losing the game now. I just need to know how Walker is doing. The announcers act as if they don’t even care about him, and focus only on the outcome of the stupid game. When North Carolina nails the extra point and finishes the game off with a win, they cut to the cheering crowd.

There’s no more footage of Walker, just of the winning team. My heart is lodged in my throat and worried about him.

I send him a text, knowing he won’t see it until later when he’s on the plane. He mentioned a late-night flight back and that he probably wouldn’t make it back home until two in the morning.

Turning off the television and the lights, I go to my bed and toss and turn for over an hour. I check my phone and social media accounts for any update on Walker, but none is given. I send him another text asking him to write back no matter the time.

When it’s two in the morning and I still haven’t fallen asleep, I don’t overthink my actions and shove my feet into sneakers, grab my keys, and drive over to his new apartment. I haven’t been there before, but Jackson gave me his address weeks ago, not-so-subtly hinting that Walker would love it if I came by sometime.

I guess middle of the night calls are sometime . It’s hard to find an open parking garage this late at night, but I find one a block from his building. Racewalking down the vacated streets of Boston, I run up the stairs to his building and am greeted in the lobby by a doorman.

He stands behind a desk and greets me with a warm smile. “Good evening, ma’am. How can I help you?”

“I’m here to see Walker Bankes.”

“Is he expecting you?”

“I texted him.”

The man does a quick appraisal of my outfit. “Hm.” He taps the keys on his computer. “Your name?”

“Riley.”

“Last?”

“Yes.”

“Riley is your last name?” He eyes me questioningly.

“Margaret Riley, but I go by Riley.” I can see why he’s skeptical of me. I’m wearing my sweatpants that have a salsa stain on my right thigh, Walker’s jersey with a trail of toothpaste drool down the front, and a messy bun. I look like I just rolled out of bed and took a spin through a dumpster.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Riley, but you’re not on his guest list for the evening.”

“Oh. Okay. Well, he wasn’t planning on me coming by tonight but I’m a...friend.”

“I see.”

Damn. I feel like a stalker fan. I can only imagine how many crazy women pretend they’re a friend of his and lurk by his apartment. I suddenly feel territorial and jealous.

“He’s probably not back from his game yet. I’ll just wait here.” I sit on the bench across from the security desk and lean against the wall.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Riley, but you’ll have to wait outside the building.”

I glance out the glass doors to the cold, dark night. Walker should be here soon. It won’t be long. I can wait outside.

“Okay. Thank you.” I usher out of the lobby and sit on the front stoop.

A few minutes later, another security officer stops by. “Excuse me, ma’am, but you can’t stay here.”

“I’m waiting for someone.”

“I’m sure you are, but you can’t wait here.”

I stand and fold my arms across my middle to ward off the chill in the air. I rushed over here and hadn’t thought of bringing a coat. “I’m waiting for Walker Bankes. He should be back any minute.”

“There’s no loitering in front of the building, ma’am. Maybe you should check back tomorrow.”

Tears fill my eyes and I nod, not wanting to cause a scene. Not like anyone would see. The street is empty. Walker lives in a safe area, but I still don’t feel entirely comfortable sitting out here alone in the middle of the night.

I take a walk around the block and stop in front of the parking garage to the building. Walker is more likely to see me over here anyway. I pace up and down the sidewalk to warm up, and when my yawns grow bigger and my legs more tired, I finally take a seat on the curb next to the call box.

My head grows heavy, and I catch my chin falling to my chest a handful of times before darkness finally takes over, and I close my eyes, catching a few minutes of sleep while I wait for Walker.