Chapter 4
JJ
“Better to keep your mouth shut and seem a fool than open it and remove all doubt.”
~ Grandma Dixie
“So, I heard you were down at the Spoon, stalking Destiny.” Trace grabbed two sandwich triangles from the platter on the island in my parent’s kitchen and popped them in his mouth.
My youngest brother was practically the same age as Destiny and had always been protective of her. I used to think he had a thing for her, but he acted the same way, if not more protective, towards the other pea in Harmony and Destiny’s best friend trio-pod, Cara. I figured that, since the three girls were always together, they’d gotten lumped in as sisters to him.
“Kiss my ass,” I shot back as I picked up a sandwich.
“I also heard that she didn’t give your ugly ass the time of day,” he goaded. “I always knew that girl had good taste.”
I decided not to respond to that jab—even though I wanted to tell him that I knew exactly how she tasted and it was good. If he knew what had happened the night of Destiny’s prom, he would try to kick my ass. Try being the operative word. No way in hell could my little brother get the jump on me.
I decided to change the subject. “How’s life, Trace? You seeing anyone?”
It didn’t work.
After opening the fridge, he grabbed a couple of beers, handing me one, before he pulled up a stool at the island. “You done with physical therapy? What are you doing here?”
“Just came down for the festival. Still have another month of PT.” As I took a swig of the cold beer and swallowed, I realized that I’d drunk beer all over the country—hell, the world—but nothing tasted as good as a cold one on a hot day in Wishing Well.
“Why?”
Damn, did I really need a reason to come home? Had I been so out of touch that a quick visit required the third degree? If my mom and Trace were any indication, then the answer was yes. Of course, my mom had been happier to see me than my little brother seemed to be, but she’d grilled me before her stylist had arrived and she’d headed upstairs to get ready for the party.
“I was homesick.” It was the truth. Well, a version of the truth, anyway.
“For Wishing Well? The Spoon? Or Destiny?”
All of the above. Not that I was going to share that with Trace.
“How are things going at Colton’s?” I asked.
Colton McCord owned Circle M Ranch. My two youngest brothers, Travis and Trace (nicknamed TNT because of how much trouble they’d gotten into with fireworks as kids), had been working there since Colton’s recent stint on a reality dating show had meant a lot of travel and extended periods when he wasn’t able to be home. I’d been happy to hear that my family had stepped in to help out McCord. I’d always liked Colton. He was a good guy, and he and his family had been through the wringer when Cara McCord—Colton’s little sister—had been diagnosed with juvenile leukemia. She was doing better now, but it had not been an easy fight. Colton and Cara’s parents had retired to Florida a year ago, and Cara had moved in with Colton after she graduated college. I was happy that TNT were there for backup.
The look in Trace’s eye told me that he knew exactly what I was doing—trying to move the conversation in another direction. Before he had a chance to answer or call me out, the door to the mud room, which was attached to the kitchen, opened and a mountain of a shadowy figure stepped into the doorway. The afternoon sun brightly framed the imposing silhouette, making it impossible to see any details on Sawyer’s face, but it didn’t matter. I knew that it was him.
Sawyer, my oldest brother, had always been the biggest and baddest of the Briggs boys, coming in at a whopping six foot six and two hundred and thirty pounds of pure muscle. It wasn’t only his stature that was legendary though—and not just to the small town of Wishing Well, but hell, to all of Clover County—it was also his badass-ness. Sawyer Briggs did what he wanted to when he wanted to, and he did not take shit from anyone. He’d been in more bar brawls by the time he was a senior in high school than most men saw their entire lives.
I’d always looked up to Sawyer, idolized him—not that I’d ever let him know that.
“Hey, bro. Check out who decided to show up and stalk Destiny,” Trace announced as Sawyer wiped his boots on the doormat.
Sawyer ignored Trace, walked into the kitchen, and pulled me into a one-arm, two-pat hug. “Good to see you. How’s the arm?”
The arm. My second-least favorite topic of discussion—right after Destiny.
“Good.” It was, but I didn’t feel like getting into specifics, like mobility and strength.
All anyone, including my family, gave a shit about was if I was okay and when I was going to be back up on the mound.
After quickly washing his hands, Sawyer snatched two sandwich triangles and shoved them into his mouth. “I need to go get cleaned up. You staying for the party?”
“Yeah,” I answered.
He nodded and turned towards the stairway at the far end of the kitchen. My shoulders, which I hadn’t even been aware had been tensed up, relaxed at the sound of his heavy boots as he strode across the tile floor. The last thing I needed was shit from him.
“Hey, JJ?” Sawyer’s deep voice filled the cavernous kitchen space.
Damn.
“Yeah?” When I looked over my shoulder, I saw Sawyer standing at the bottom step, a smirk on his normally unreadable face.
“Next time you want to stalk a girl, maybe do it from your car or online, not front row center at her job for the entertainment of the entire town.”
Trace practically fell off his stool laughing.
My only answer, though, was a one-finger salute.
I’d been prepared for Destiny to be less than enthusiastic and highly suspect about showin’ back up here unannounced, but I’d highly underestimated everyone else’s reaction to it. Small towns were worse than tabloids. At least, when those people wrote about you and readers read about you, they didn’t actually know you. Here, when people talked and rumors spread, it was personal.
That used to bug the shit out of me. Everyone being in everyone else’s business. Now, the only thing that truly bothered me was the hole a certain redheaded, blue-eyed girl had left in my chest.
I used to think that baseball could fill it. It didn’t. I’d thought that maybe money would make it disappear. It hadn’t. I’d been sure other women could, if not fill it, at least shrink that sonofabitch. They’d just made it bigger. Sure, they were fun distractions, but that was it, and afterward, I felt emptier than ever.
No one and nothing had come close to making the empty ache go away. The only person who could cure it was the person who had caused it. But, for the life of me, I still couldn’t figure out how “the one who got away” could be someone I’d never had in the first place.