19. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

Cat

I pace my bedroom, wringing my fingers together, my bare feet sinking into the plush carpet with each step. The late afternoon sun streams through the windows, casting long shadows across the room and highlighting the dust motes dancing in the air. My stomach churns, a constant reminder of the conversation I need to have.

Asking for help feels like sandpaper against my skin. I've been here before, and it’s always a disaster, even for the simplest things. Like the time in college I’d asked one of my friends for a ride to the airport. I was heading home to Arizona for Thanksgiving. But my friend never showed, never texted, and didn’t even answer when I reached out.

The memory of that day floods back, sharp and vivid. The panic rising in my chest as I watched the minutes tick by on my phone, the frantic calls going straight to voicemail, the mad dash to book an Uber. The utter embarrassment of explaining what happened to the ticketing agent. My palms grow clammy at the recollection, and I wipe them on my jeans.

My friend even turned it around on me, claiming I was making a big deal about the whole situation. Except I was the one who had to shell out extra money for a new ticket.

This is different, more serious than a ride to the airport.

I pause at the window, pressing my forehead against the cool glass. I've always been the one people turn to for help, never the other way around. It's safer that way. No expectations, no letdowns.

Except my grandmother’s backed me into a corner and I have no other choice.

The kids are with Leo’s mom, who threw in another dig when she picked them up. I'd bitten my tongue so hard, I tasted blood, but fuck her. I have enough on my plate without dealing with her passive-aggressive bullshit.

Sucking in a deep breath, I shake my arms out, hoping to relieve some of the tension building in my body. My shoulders are so tight they feel like they're up around my ears. I roll my neck, wincing at the series of pops that echo in the quiet room.

“Come on, Cat,” I mutter to myself. “You can do this. It's just Leo, for fuck's sake.”

That's part of the problem.

It's Leo.

The man I've been living with, the man I've slept with. The man who, despite my best efforts, is starting to mean more to me than I'd planned on.

I'm running out of time, though.

And that last thought propels me out of my room and down the staircase to the living room. Leo is sprawled out on the couch, his long legs stretched out across the cushions, a beer in hand as he watches TV. A twinge of guilt tugs at my chest for interrupting his rest, especially after traveling for away games the past few days.

But then I register what's on the screen, and my lips part in surprise, a small snort of laughter escaping. “Do I even want to know why you’re watching SpongeBob when the kids aren’t even here?”

He sits up straight so fast, he nearly spills his beer, sputtering and reaching for the remote. “Was just flipping through the channels.”

“Yeah, okay, liar.”

Leo changes the channel to some sports broadcast, but not before I catch the hint of a smile. It makes him look younger, more approachable, and some of my nervousness starts to ebb away.

Plus, the guys won yesterday, so he should be in a good mood. And he told me I could ask for help. . .

Before I lose my nerve, I clear my throat and rush out my next words in one breath. “My grandmother is a pain in the ass who won’t listen and for some reason likes you, and I need your help because as you know she needs to go to assisted living since she feels it's her life’s mission to chase out every health aide the agency sends over.”

He mutes the TV and puts the beer down on the coffee table, turning to face me fully. His blue eyes are serious, focused entirely on me, and I have to resist the urge to squirm under his intense gaze. “What can I do?”

I perch on the edge of the loveseat to his right, picking under my nails. It's a nervous habit I've had since childhood, one that drives my grandmother crazy. But the familiar motion is soothing, giving my restless hands something to do. “Talk to her. Flirt with her. Whatever works. Hell, agree to a weekly dinner wearing just a thong.”

When he doesn’t respond, I look up and his eyes are wide, cheeks a light pink as he rubs the back of his neck. The sight of the usually composed Leo Hartman looking flustered is almost enough to make me laugh.

I cross my arms in front of my chest, one brow raised, unable to resist needling him. “Bet Mykyta would do it.”

“Sure he would.” He takes a deep breath. “Have you talked to her about moving in here?”

“It’s not an option.”

His brows furrow, creating a small crease between them. “Why?”

I stand abruptly, needing to move, my upper lip twitching. “For a few reasons. The biggest one being that a health aide would still be needed. I work. You work. She needs to be supervised.”

His shoulders slump. “Didn’t think of that. You’re right. And I didn’t mean to piss you off.”

The fight drains out of me as quickly as it came, leaving behind a hollow ache in my chest. “Don’t worry about it. I’m just wound up.”

I walk over, then flop down next to him on the couch, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his body, and stare at the ceiling. “Never imagined I’d be in this situation.”

Leo picks up his beer and takes a swig. “Sucks. I get it. Nothing like watching the people you love waste away.”

His words hit too close to home, and my eyes start to sting. My lower lip trembles, and I have to blink hard to keep the tears at bay. “Always thought she'd be around forever. Now it seems like the time she has left is ticking down, and I'm not ready.”

“Don’t think we ever are. Even with my wife’s cancer we knew it was terminal. But it still hit hard when Wendy passed, no matter how hard I tried to prepare myself for it.” He twists the bottle in his hands, his knuckles white with the force of his grip. “Prepared for her death maybe, but her absence was another thing entirely. It was like learning to live all over again.”

“I'm sorry,” I say, the words woefully inadequate.

He shrugs. “Was a long time ago.”

But it's clear he's still affected by it. The loss of his wife has left scars that haven't fully healed and maybe never will. I can see it written all over his face—in the tightness around his eyes, the downward turn of his mouth.

I place a hand on his, and we sit in silence for a moment because sometimes words are just not needed.

“Let me know when you want me to talk to Rosa.” He turns his head, his eyes locking with mine. “And thank you for trusting me enough to ask, Hellcat. I know you’d rather claw my eyes out most of the time than be vulnerable.”

I laugh softly, shaking my head. “I’m used to handling everything on my own.”

“Because you want to or because it’s easier than relying on someone?”

Talk about hitting the nail on the head.

“My parents were working class, had multiple jobs just to make ends meet. I was used to being on my own most days.” I cross my legs on the couch and sit back. “Add in teenage years where popularity won out over loyalty and then you get this version of me.”

His eyes search my face. “There’s nothing wrong with the version I see.”

I snort, rolling my eyes. “Oh, really? Didn’t you pretty much say I’m too independent for my own good?”

Leo chuckles, the corner of his mouth lifting up and this has to be the first time I’ve seen the man smile at me.

“But you're right,” I say, surprising myself with my honesty. “And it's not just from being on my own. Proving I can handle things also comes with the territory of being a woman, and Latina. But I'm not a people pleaser either. I'll open my mouth, show you what I'm capable of.”

The problem with that . . . it wasn’t any better. Some people just hate a strong woman. With them, it’s a no win situation. One I’ve encountered too many times for a lifetime.

“Sorry you’ve had to deal with that. I can’t even begin to relate.”

His words, simple as they are, make something warm bloom in my chest. “Thank you. For listening, for offering to help . . . or everything.”

“Always,” he murmurs, his hand squeezing mine gently.

We sit there for a moment, the silence comfortable rather than awkward. I find myself studying his profile—the strong line of his jaw, the slight furrow between his brows, the way his eyelashes cast shadows on his cheeks in the fading light.

“So,” I finally say, breaking the silence. “Any ideas on how to convince my grandmother that assisted living isn't the seventh circle of hell?”

Leo turns to me, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Well, I could always take you up on that thong idea. . .”

I burst out laughing, the tension of the day finally breaking. “Oh, God. Please don't.”