Page 9 of Presley's Christmas Catch
Brock:Classiest thing that guy ever did was to not try to have a relationship with me after I made it to the pros.
Brock:No. We never talk. I don’t even know where he is.
Brock:Honestly, I don’t think I want to.
Presley:He’d probably be a disappointment after Tim.
Brock:No doubt.
Brock:I owe Tim so much. Even today, he’s still trying to help me. Telling me to remember why I play and why I enjoy it, even when things aren’t going great.
Brock:And being around the kids, who have all these big dreams, it keeps MY dreams alive. You know?
Presley:Sometimes remembering who we wanted to be when we could be anything is good for the soul.
I’m sittingon the porch that evening, book open in my lap but distracted by texting Presley and also by an amazing sunset being painted in the sky in front of me. Gorgeous shades of pink and orange slashed through with faint white puffs of distant clouds, and the mountains almost purple in the gathering darkness. My texting conversation with Presley has me thinking about our conversation the night of the wedding and the sense of trust I had in her thatcame so quickly.
Instead of responding to her text about dreaming big being good for the soul, I click over and start a facetime call.
She answers quickly, her expression bright. “Brock! Hey!”
“Got a second to chat?” It seems dumb to ask. She wouldn’t have picked up if she didn’t, but assuming feels like a jerk move too.
“Of course.” She pushes back a piece of hair that’s falling in her face from the riotous messy bun on top of her head. I should screenshot this and send it to Lincoln—further proof that there’s nothing between us but friendship. If she liked me romantically, she wouldn’t have answered like this. In fact, in all the facetime calls I’ve had with girlfriends or potential girlfriends over the years, I can’t remember one in the early days like this where the women didn’t look put together, trying to impress me.
“I know this is just an attempt to delay me from starting the next book,” she goes on, “but if anything, it’s flattering that you’re so threatened by my reading prowess.”
Laughter bursts from me, the way it has multiple times when we text. “I have no ulterior motives, except I wanted to show you my view right now—something I guarantee you’re not seeing in LA.” I flip my camera around to pan the view before me, making sure to include my mom’s picturesque porch with the swing as well as the comfy deck furniture I’m lounging in.
She sucks in a breath. “Oh, Brock…! It’s gorgeous.” There’s a pause, and in the small square in the corner of my screen, I see her eyes moving over the picture, taking it in. “Beach sunsets are awesome in their own right, but this is something else.”
I flip the screen back around, warmth in my chest at her appreciating one of my favorite views. When I make her the center of my screen again, I notice the way her eyes shimmer.
“Presley?” I furrow my brow. “Is everything okay?” The view wasn’tthatgood.
She chuckles nervously and swipes at her eyes with her fingers. “Oh my gosh, Brock. Of course you’re one of those guys who isn’tbothered by the idea of tears so you pretend not to notice.” She swipes again and sniffs. I think this is one of those times where the acknowledgement of her tears has encouraged them, but she’s right. I’m okay if she needs to talk about something.
“Single mom,” I remind her. “I’m comfortable with all sorts of things that lesser men fear—tampons, bras, UTIs? Come at me.”
She gives me a look I can’t interpret, maybe approval? “Hmmm.” She turns around and then pulls a plastic storage container onto her lap, tilting her phone for me to see it. “My aunt left me this before she died. I finally had the courage to open it today.”
My turn to suck in a breath. “Pres. That’s a big deal.”
She nods, her gaze on the box. “I was scared for a while, but not because I was afraid of being sad or grieving, you know? This is all I have left of her, and once I’ve seen it all, that’s just…”
“It.” I finish for her. “That’s all there is.”
“Yeah.” She breathes the word.
I quirk an eyebrow. “Anything good?”
Her smile returns, and I’m reminded of the beaming sunshine she is to my stormy sky. “Letters from her to open at certain times.”
“So … you still have more to discover.”
She turns her gaze to the box again. “Yeah. Aunt Shan was cool like that.”
Presley so easily discussing something difficult intrigues me. I don’t purposely hold back about my dad leaving or how hard it was for my mom to make ends meet, but it’s not easy for me to talk about either. I’m not saying that losing her aunt wasn’t hard, but she makes it seem like she’s good anyway. I need to learn from her. If I could take that attitude into playing for the Devils this season—I’m good anyway—it would temper some of my frustrations.
