AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Unlike some people, I have a fear of desert wildlife so I take the time to slip on my shoes before walking next door where I find a note taped to Sutton’s front door:
Maxwell - The back door is unlocked, let yourself in.
– S
I pull the note off the door and crumple it in my hand before walking around to the back door and letting myself in. Leaving the food on the counter, I walk through the house, concerned that I don’t find Sutton in the living room or bedroom.
“Is that you, Maxwell?” A voice calls from the hall bathroom.
“It is,” I respond, “but it could be anyone because you left a note on the door and your back door unlocked.”
“Save the lecture for another day, Maxwell. I have no fight in me right now.” The sound of water sloshing in the bathtub punctuates her point. I don’t know if she’s getting out of the bath or just repositioning herself, but either way it’s none of my business and definitely not something I need to be thinking about.
“No lecture,” I exhale a harsh breath. “Just dinner. I’ll put it in your oven to stay warm. If you need anything else, you know where to find me.”
I get out of her house as fast as I can, locking the door behind me as I do.
CHAPTER THREE
Normal
SUTTON
After ibuprofen,a bath, and chugging a cold brew coffee from my fridge, I sit down at the small dining table and dig into the meal that Max left for me. Salmon, roasted root vegetables, and wild rice. One of my favorite meals. One that I make for myself on a regular basis, and one I definitely didn’t have the energy to make tonight.
I woke up this morning with a headache right behind my eyes, but I drank some water, ate some breakfast, and prayed for the best as I drove to the training complex. By game time, my sunglasses weren’t helping with the effects of the sun, and the overstimulation of the game was too much. Roger pulled me aside in the dugout between innings and sent me home. He silenced all my protests with a raised brow and a scowl, and I know better than to argue with Roger Galligher.
Missed you after the game.
A perfectly innocent text that sent my heartrate into the stratosphere. I know Maxwell Harrison. I know him better than most people realize. Sure, we only met a handful of years ago when I was hired by Seattle but I was drawn into his orbit from the moment we met.
I knew Max would be worried once he realized that Iwasn’t at the training complex, and I had a feeling he’d be by to check on me so I left him a note on the front door, and ran myself a bath, hoping to relax and relieve the tension in my head and body.
I expected a lecture about leaving the note and leaving a door unlocked, and I almost got one. I expected him to tell me how the rest of the game went. I expected him to force water and sports drinks on me like he always does when I have a migraine, but what I didn’t expect was a meal. A meal free from foods that exacerbate my migraines. A meal so comforting and delicious that I could cry. The only thing that would make this meal any better is having company, but I can’t very well walk over and ask to eat with him just so I’m not alone.
Can I?
When I finish the meal, I wash Maxwell’s plate and grab a box from The Good Eats Bakery out of my fridge before I make my way next door, stopping to slip into a pair of shoes first in an attempt to avoid a second lecture. In the evenings, I know that I will find Maxwell on the deck in his backyard, so I let myself in through the gate and am satisfied to find him right where I thought he’d be, legs kicked up on a chair, eyes closed as he leans back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. The picture of calm.
“How are you feeling?” He asks, eyes still closed but one corner of his mouth hitching up in a half smile.
“Fine,” I tell him, which isn’t a lie exactly, but isn’t an accurate representation either. The tension in my neck and shoulders is gone, but the headache is still lingering behind my eyes. “Better than I was this afternoon.”
Hehmmsin response.
With a smile I’m glad he can’t see, I open the bakery box and place it on the table in front of him before letting myself into the house to put away the plate and grab two forks.
“Just how old do you think I am, Davis?” He calls from the deck.
“What do you mean?” I shout back while raiding his fridge for two bottles of water.
“See for yourself,” he grouses, turning the box so I can get a peek inside as I deposit our forks and waters on the table, and I don’t know what’s more funny, the fact that the bakery reversed the numbers in his age when they boxed the cupcakes, or the scowl that Max levels at me when I double over with laughter.
“You look great for ninety-three.”
“Sure, laugh it up Davis. You’re not that far behind me.”
“Are you calling me old?”
