Chapter Twenty Seven: Willow

Phoebe’s eyes dart from the box of gourmet donuts to me and back, her head dropping when she realizes the sweet breakfast treats arrived without her uncle in tow.

“I know you’re bummed you didn’t get to see Bishop last night,” I offer, wanting to pluck the sadness straight from her giant heart, “but he sent your favorite breakfast.”

“They’re only my favorite with him.” Phoebe huffs, resting her elbows on the island. She dramatically lowers her head into her hands and lets out a weighted sigh.

It breaks my heart. Ever since she saw me standing at the airport last night instead of Bishop, Phoebe has had a rain cloud hanging over her head. I think she needed this trip more than any of us realized. She’s kept it together remarkably well since the crash, but it’s clear having Bishop away has taken its toll on her.

I’m ready to say screw it and drive her to the team hotel if only to see her smile.

“I’ll tell you what, eat up and we’ll head down to the field early so you can watch batting practice and morning work before the game.”

“Really?” Phoebe looks up from her hands and a hint of a smile traces her lips. “Are we allowed to do that?”

“Not normally.” I plop down on the seat next to her and open the box that smells too heavenly for words. “Lucky for you, I know the owner.”

Phoebe giggles, appeased by my offer, and digs into the box, carefully inspecting each of the options available.

It wasn’t Bishop’s fault the bus broke down on the way back from Tampa, leaving them stranded for an extra three hours. By the time they were able to make it back to Fort Myers, it was late and Phoebe had already passed out on the couch. Lana made the executive decision that we shouldn’t wake her and let Bishop know we’d see him at the game today.

He agreed, much to my dismay.

Not that I could blame him. He had no reason to come over. Still, selfishly, I wish he would have insisted.

After the fight we had yesterday, I’m not sure where we stand, and I hate being on unsolid ground. Especially with him.

I screwed up by aiming to keep the interview from him, but I really thought I could fix it.I still think I can. There isn’t any reason why he should have to get in front of the press if he doesn’t want to.

But that isn’t the point.

Over the last week, Bishop and I have found ourselves in new territory, skating somewhere between fuck buddies and something more—friendly? Lovers isn’t the right word. Still, friends doesn’t seem like enough.

I told him he was mine, and I meant it. If that doesn’t say more, I’m not sure what does.

Maybe we’re an ass-backward version of fuck buddies with benefits—the friendly part being the benefit. But damn if it isn’t a benefit I want.

I sip my coffee and shake my head to myself. If that’s the case, I’m hands down a shitty friend because it didn’t cross my mind to ask him for help with this.

Bishop has given me his trust, and I’ve done what I always do—fix things. I listen to him. Distract him. Protect him. Even if doing so breaks my own heart. It’s the curse of giving a shit.

No one tells you that, when you give a shit about others, it becomes second nature to keep them at a distance. It becomes second nature to hide behind their problems and push your own deeper.

My therapist would tell me it’s a coping mechanism, but for me it’s surviving.

Most of the time, I don’t even realize I’m doing it. I will give and give to those around me. I’ll even allow them a glimpse at the things that break me. But I don’t ever fully let them in enough to see me fall apart.

Bishop is a special case.

I accidentally let him in once. He didn’t ask to witness me sink into panic and lose it on that balcony in New York, but when he did, he brought me back and pushed me to be more. Then I left, shoving him away like I do with everyone when they get too close. I never could have predicted our world would implode as it did. And now to let him in—let him help me again—feels more intimate than I”m ready for while still managing to protect myself.

Because that’s what I’m doing with Bishop. Constantly trying to stop the traitorous organ in my chest from demanding more than either of us can give.

Not that it matters this time. I hurt him.

And now I might lose him.

Lana pads into the kitchen, pulling me from my thoughts. She eyes the box of donuts with a knowing smile. “Your uncle sent over an apology breakfast?”

Phoebe bounces in her seat beside me, and I preen, knowing my plan has lifted her mood.

“Yup!” Phoebe pops the p at the end before taking a giant bite of a frosted pink donut with Fruit Loops sprinkled on top. “Willow is going to take me to the field early to watch batting practice.”

“That’s a great idea,” Lana says, snatching a glazed donut covered in Oreo crumbs before turning toward me. “If it’s okay with you, Willow, I’ll meet you guys at the field closer to the game. I’ve got a few calls I need to make, and honestly, I’d love to take a nap.”

Phoebe’s brow furrows in the most adorable way. “You just woke up, Nana. You don’t need a nap.”

Lana chuckles and ruffles her granddaughter”s hair. “When you get to be my age, there are no time restrictions on naps.”

Phoebe gives her a skeptical head tilt, making Lana and me laugh.

“Of course,” I say, reaching for the carafe of coffee in the middle of the island. Pouring Lana a mug, I then top off my own. “It’s not a problem at all. I’ll give you the number for my driver. He’ll pick you up whenever you”re ready. And if you want to spend the afternoon by the pool, that”s okay too. I’ve got Phoebe.”

“Really?” Lana’s eyes widen, exhaustion evident in the soft purple circles beneath them. She places her hand on top of my forearm like I’m offering her the lifeline of all lifelines. “Are you sure?”

I nod. There’s no way I’m allowing Lana to go to the stadium today. This saint of a woman has taken on the role of both parents for Phoebe since the crash, and even though I don’t doubt she’d do it over and over again for her granddaughter, she didn’t ask for the level of exhaustion that comes with taking care of a nine-year-old. If anyone deserves a break, it’s her.

“I insist. Let me take Phoebe. You relax today.” I turn to Phoebe, who has a mustache of powdered sugar dusting her upper lip from the second donut she snagged when Lana and I weren’t looking.Laughing, I hand her a napkin. “We’ll have a girls’ day. I’ll even take you to pick out a jersey at the team store.”

“Really? Do you think they’ll still have my dad’s jersey?” Phoebe asks excitedly, wiping her mouth and hopping from the stool.

I force a smile, keeping Phoebe’s attention on me so she doesn’t see Lana wiping the sudden tears from her eyes.

“I know for a fact they will,” I assure her.

The smile on her face makes me glad I fought the board to keep the jerseys of the team we lost in the team store for one more season. They wanted to discontinue them and auction off the remaining stock for absurd amounts of money.

Her smile falls as fast as it appeared. “But what about Uncle Bishop? Do you think he will be upset that I’m not wearing his number to see him today?”

“I think he’ll understand,” I offer, knowing damn well Bishop will be happy to see Phoebe wearing her dad’s jersey.

Her nose crinkles, and it’s hard not to smile at the innocence of it all. “You’re right. But I still feel bad.”

The fact that this sweet child has lost as much as she has and can still manage to think of others is remarkable. Not even I was capable of that after losing my mom. I was a downright terror until I found my place in the world with Leigh and Indie. Even then, it took a long time for me to find my groove.

Phoebe just keeps moving forward like nothing has changed. I know she has her moments. She takes on the weight of the world because she thinks it’s what she needs to do. She’d rather see the smiles of those around her than let them see her tears.

It’s a slippery slope, one I know all too well.Which is why I’m vowing today will be a day of fun where she can just be a nine-year-old.

I slip my knuckle under her chin and tip her head up, so her eyes meet mine. “No feeling bad. We’ll make sure Bishop knows we are there for him too.”

She chews the inside of her cheek and nods. “Promise?”

“I promise. Now, why don’t you go get dressed and I’ll braid your hair? Then we’ll head over to the stadium.”

“Okay,” Phoebe says, finishing the last bite of her donut before she hops off the stool and bounces down the hallway.

When she’s out of earshot, Lana sighs. “Thank you for taking her. She really looks up to you.”

I sip my coffee and offer her a tight smile. “I look up to her too.”

“And thank you for keeping an eye on Bishop.”

“Oh…um…” I stutter, caught off guard.

If it was anyone else, I would have been able to lie with ease. I’ve been doing it for weeks. But this woman has the uncanny ability to make me feel at ease, but at the same time gives off “don’t fuck with me” vibes.

I suspect it’s a talent honed by motherhood. Not that I would know, considering my mother never got the memo.

As if to prove my point, Lana raises a brow in a way only she can. It says who do you think you’re fooling and I was young once at the same time. “I haven’t talked to Bishop much since he’s been down here for spring training, but the few times I have your name always manages to come up, even just in passing.”

“My father believed the Renegades were a family. We take care of our own.” The lie tastes bitter, but still I give a noncommitted shrug, hoping she won’t press further.

It’s wishful thinking.

Lana presses her lips into a tight smirk, twirling her finger along the rim of her coffee cup in a playful manner that lets me know she’s absolutely not going to let this go.

“And I assume taking care of your own entails being at the owner”s house at four in the morning?”

“I…uh…” My mind races to find an explanation, something that makes sense and still keeps my promise to Bishop of no one finding out, but I’ve got nothing.

I let my shoulders fall with a resigned sigh. “How did you know?”

Lana smiles, easing my worry that she is not about to rip me a new one. “I’ve been worried about him, not only because Jackson and Norah wanted him to be the one to take Phoebe, but also because Bishop is like a second son to me.”

“That still doesn’t tell me how you knew he was here overnight,” I reply.

“When he was spiraling after the crash, I enabled locations on his phone so that I could track where he was and make sure he didn’t end up in a gutter choking on his own vomit. I was worried he would do the same thing here in Florida. So, I kept tabs on him. Imagine my surprise when I found him at the same house multiple nights in a row. Then when I arrived, it turned out to be this very house.”

I shoot her an impressed grin. “Does Bishop know you’re tracking him?”

She scoffs playfully. “Absolutely not.”

“You’re sneaky. I like it.”

“Just like you, I take care of what’s mine. Which is why I have to ask—is it serious?”

I force out a strangled laugh that shreds my heart. “No. Bishop isn’t ready for serious. We have an agreement to help each other when the world feels like too much. That’s it.”

It’s not a lie, but it’s not the whole truth—that I absolutely wish it was serious.

Lana gives me a skeptical look but doesn’t push. “I’m happy he has you. Even if it is just for right now. He seems like he’s doing better.”

“He is,” I reassure her.

She nods toward the spare bedroom at the end of the hall where her granddaughter is getting ready for the day. “Enough to care for Phoebe?”

I nod without hesitation.

Bishop hasn’t wanted to talk about Jackson and Norah’s wish for him to take Phoebe since he let it slip, and I haven’t pushed for him. But little comments he’s made here and there when he updates me on the lack of progress in Jackson’s condition let me know he’s taking the request seriously. He wants to do better, not only for himself, but for Phoebe.

“He adores that little girl, but more than that, he loves your son and he would do anything to protect them.”

My words bring Lana’s smile to life, and I swear she’s about to let another round of tears fall. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

My heart cracks at her statement, opening in a way I didn’t anticipate. I’ve been so focused on the short game when it comes to Bishop—getting him through spring training, fighting to make sure his next breath is easier than the last—I haven’t even considered the long game beyond him playing for the Renegades.

What comes next?

Opening day will be here in two and a half weeks.

Then we go back to the real world, where he’ll become Phoebe’s primary guardian and his entire life will change. Again. He’ll be responsible for homework and school plays. Will he even want to play for the Renegades anymore when he’s essentially a full-time parent? Is that why he brought up Stone becoming a dad at sixteen and still making it to the majors?

“Slow down, Willow.” Lana’s voice pulls me back to my kitchen island.

“Huh?” I mutter in her direction.

“I can see your brain working a million miles a minute.” Lana chuckles. “Care to share with the class?”

“It’s nothing,” I say with a resigned exhale.

Her gaze narrows, and she crosses her arms over her chest. “I raised Jackson as my son. He’s the king of overthinking. I know the symptoms when I see them.”

I roll my eyes, which only makes Lana’s smile grow. “It’s nothing. I’m just trying to figure out what comes next for the team.”

She chuckles. “You mean what comes next for you and Bishop.”

Nothing gets past her. But I can’t confirm that.

“Nothing comes next for us.”

Lana sets down her cup of coffee and rounds the corner of the island, stopping behind me. She places her hands on my shoulders and gives me a tight squeeze. “You both have been through so much. Too much, if you ask me. Enjoy your time together and worry about the rest later. Life’s too short as it is.”

There’s whimsy in her voice, and I want to ask how she can possibly have so much hope in a world that is hell-bent on breaking us. Instead, I sink against her forearm and savor encouragement.

“Thank you, Lana.”

“Anytime, my dear.”

Her advice clings to my soul with a white-knuckled grip.

Life’s too short.

“Alright.” Lana gives another small squeeze and heads for the door. “If there’s nothing else you need from me, I think I’m going to go take that nap. You girls have fun.”

“Enjoy,” I say, waving after her, my mind on the verge of spiraling once again.

Life’s too short.

The truth haunts me and spurs me forward at the same time.

Thank goodness only a few moments pass before Phoebe comes bounding into the room with a brush and a hair tie, ready for me to braid her hair.

“I just had the best idea,” she declares, taking up her seat next to me and handing me the hair tools.

Turning to face her, I gently start to brush her hair. “What’s that?”

“I’ll wear Dad’s jersey and you can wear Uncle Bishop’s!” she exclaims.

The way she says it so matter-of-factly leads me to believe she’s been working through this problem the entire time she was in her room getting ready.

“That’s…um…” I stumble, trying to come up with a reason I couldn”t possibly wear Bishop’s jersey, knowing damn well I’m not about to say no to this little girl.

“We can be twins!” Phoebe yells, bouncing in her seat and making it impossible to untangle her brown locks.

Fuck. I can’t do this.

I shouldn’t be the one twinning with her.

Norah, I never knew you, but give me strength to survive your daughter”s innocence.

Phoebe’s excitement is infectious, and despite the fact it’s probably a terrible idea to wear the jersey of any of my players—especially the one I’m fucking on the side—I find myself agreeing to her little plan.

“Uncle Bishop is going to be so excited to see you in his jersey,” Phoebe proclaims.

I’m thankful she’s facing away from me and can’t see my grimace.

Bishop is going to be something, that’s for sure.

I can only hope his soft spot for Phoebe is greater than his contempt for me.