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Eleven

SCOTT ROSE IN the early morning, giving up after a night of broken sleep, rubbing exhaustion from his eyes. Trailing into the kitchen, the dog bowl on the counter mocked him, and lifting it in careful hands, he put it away in the pantry.

He’d thought it an innocuous gift, the latest in a line of them carefully designed to earn Abby’s trust. Clearly, he’d miscalculated.

“How am I going to tell Dylan?” he asked the empty room, his voice echoing back at him.

Instead of tackling that problem, he methodically cleaned up the still-full, now-cold mugs, the slight spill where some coffee had sloshed onto the counter, the crumpled towel which had fallen to the floor at some point during Abby’s...

What? Episode? Attack? Finn’s younger sister had anxiety and sometimes couldn’t breathe. Scott considered calling his best friend, but he wasn’t sure what had happened to Abby. And, he wasn’t sure he had the right to share her struggle with someone else without her permission.

Ghosts clearly haunted her; maybe he should have left them well enough alone.

Should he not have given her the bowl?

He rubbed his forehead. No, that way lay madness. A twisting labyrinth of second guesses and regrets. And he had plenty of those.

He’d lost his best friend in high school.

Jake had been the star receiver on the team; Scott had been the quarterback.

It had been a running game back then; throws were rare, but he and Jake had practiced for hours in the back yard—so much so their coach had given them the go-ahead to run a play during the homecoming game.

Scott had thrown a perfect spiral, and just like a thousand times before, he waited for it to slide into Jake’s arms. But it didn’t. Jake dropped the catch.

They lost the game. Not because of the dropped catch, but because Scott had been furious.

They’d gotten into a yelling match on the sidelines, and he’d been about to throw the first punch when the offensive coach pulled them apart.

After that, he hadn’t trusted Jake. Not to make the catch, not even to make the run.

He’d been foolish, handing the ball off to others again and again, his frustration mounting as they failed to move the chains.

By the end of the game, their friendship had ended.

It took a couple more years—and a lot more games—for him to learn sometimes perfect throws end in dropped catches. He could only control what happened on his side of the ball. He’d made the throw. Now, Abby had to choose what she would do with it.

A knock sounded on the front door, and Scott’s heart turned over. He didn’t need to check to know Abby had returned. He wore only sweatpants and an old t-shirt, the collar worn out and full of holes, but he wouldn’t make her wait. Wouldn’t make himself wait for her answer.

Either way, it was time to find out if she could catch.

Abby slept like the dead, Gen curled comfortingly in the space behind her knees, and woke, eyes burning and throat raw, emotionally hungover and wrung out. Gen padded after her into the kitchen and waited patiently, tail swishing the floor, while Abby filled her food dish.

“Okay, Gen.” Her voice shook and broke as if glass shards were lodged in her throat. The dog cocked her head and studied Abby before sniffing at the bowl, then sitting again. Abby sighed. “It’s okay, girl. You can eat.”

Gen wagged again, then laid down and rested her head between her legs. A low whine crawled up Abby’s spine.

Anger swept through her, her cheeks heating, and she let it bubble up, burning away the numbness and exhaustion. “Enough, Gen. Either eat or don’t. I don’t care.”

She whirled away and threw herself onto the stool, sending it into an aggressive spin.

Her foot bumped its twin with Will’s old books, stacked exactly as he’d left them three years before, never touched again.

She kicked out, rocking the stool, then caught its edge in both hands, shoving it over until the whole pile tumbled to the floor.

A puff of dust rose, then settled in the morning sunlight.

Gen’s collar jingled as she pushed back into a sit, watching Abby, who stared, shocked for a moment at her own emotional display.

Guilt and shame spiraled around each other in her gut, banking the fire of her fury.

She slipped from her stool and knelt, lifting one book that had flown open and tucking its pages back into place before closing the cover with a gentle pat.

Dust streaked her fingertips, grayish and grainy. She sneezed.

Standing, she righted the fallen stool and circled into the kitchen.

She dampened a rag and returned to the jumbled books, lifting each one with reverence and wiping it down before stacking them beside her, squaring the edges with tender fingertips.

When they were all pristine, she swiped the rag over the floor, then the stool as well, cleaning the mess until no trace remained.

She was awfully good at that.

Lifting the pile of books, she approached the long shelves, eyes flitting over the titles, searching for the spaces they’d once occupied, long since forgotten. She slid one into place, then another, but when she shelved the third, it wouldn’t fit. Too wide. The coals of her anger flared.

“Fine, whatever.” Her harsh voice cracked the silence.

“It’s not like it matters, anyway. He’s not coming back for you .

” She shoved the book lengthwise across the top of its fellows, then jammed the last few helter-skelter wherever they could fit.

When the last one resisted, she whirled and threw it.

It slid across the floor, thumping into the leg of a bar stool and spinning. One corner crumpled, and the cardboard cover under the faux-leather binding peeked through. That’s what happened, she supposed, when life handed you a hard hit. It showed you what you were really made of.

Gen whined again.

What was she made of? Tears and memories, held together with cheap binding and a little gold leaf for distraction, spinning through life and wondering when the next hit would come. It fit all too well.

She was tired of life happening to her, tired of taking hits, of waiting.

He’s not coming back for you.

Hot tears pricked her eyes, but for once, she didn’t let them fall. Her anger bubbled up again, a molten heat churning her gut and flaming her cheeks. For the first time since Will’s funeral, she allowed the emotion to flow freely. At him. At herself.

Had she had plans before Will died? He’d wanted to change the world, to cure cancer. She’d wanted his dream for him, content to sit in his shadow, the woman behind the man, quiet and demure. But what had she wanted?

Him.

She’d wanted him. Ever since their first kiss she’d known they belonged together, and she’d followed wherever he led, like a lamb.

What did she want now?

Gen. She loved Gen and their work together. She loved the kids. Somehow, even in Will’s shadow, she’d made it hers. Not curing cancer—that would never be her role—but standing beside those fighting their battles. Doing good, worthwhile, important work, too.

A vision unfurled in her mind: a team of therapy dogs.

Hospital dogs, first responder dogs, school dogs, court dogs.

So many places could use a trained therapy dog.

For comfort, for recovery, for joy and love.

What if she could be more than one handler and her dog?

She’d taught herself from scratch, but what if she could help others learn to do therapy work?

Maybe start a non-profit, expand, and do even more.

She loved kids.

Dylan’s face flashed across her mind. What would it be like to have one of her own?

She wanted... Scott.

The realization shocked her.

The betrayal stung, but it was also a relief. She’d held so tightly to Will in the years since he’d died, cocooned, unable to move on. Unable to believe she had a right to do so. But now the cocoon that had protected her restricted her too tightly. She wanted to stretch, break free.

The thought scared her.

I think you get to be scared. Cara’s words echoed in her head.

Scary, yes. But also... freeing!

Could she rise above the fear and do it anyway? Be a whole person? Be her own person?

And if she did, could Scott fit into her future? Would he want to?

As committed to football as Will had been to his research, there would always be something seductive in that level of determination.

It drew her in, because if he could look at her like he looked at the thing , whatever it was, cancer research, or football.

.. She’d seen Scott look at her with that intensity, and it stole her breath. Her blood heated, then abruptly cooled.

She remembered Will, too. The times he’d turned the same intensity on her. The addictiveness of being the one he utterly adored. It made up for all the times in between, the distance, the late nights, the half-present conversations trailing off into silence as he retreated inside his own head.

She struggled to admit how much it had hurt. Struggled to accept Will for who he had been— all of who he’d been. He’d loved her, but, if she could be completely honest, she wondered if he’d loved her enough. Would she have woken up one morning tired of fighting for his attention?

Would the same happen with Scott?

No, she wouldn’t let it.

She’d learned to live on her own in the last three years.

And if she had Gen, and their work, and maybe a therapy dog school, she’d have plenty to keep herself busy.

Her own passions and commitments. Scott could be a part of her life, if he wanted to, but not her whole life. It could be different this time.

She grabbed her keys and strode out the door.

There was only one way to find out.