Page 118 of Never Stop
Our phones didn’t stop blowing up that night. People weren’t asking if we knew if it was a tumor or scar tissue. Why would they assume we knew? They were asking how Brooke was feeling and I suspected they were asking her the same thing. Every time her phone went off, she would groan and text something back. I didn’t say anything. Instead, I tried to act as if it was just another Monday night. I went to Cheyenne’s softball practice, came home and had dinner, and then Brooke and I watched TV together while Cheyenne did her homework.
Now we were all in bed, and I was wide awake. I knew Brooke was too because it was as if I could hear the thoughts running through her head. I wanted to reach in her head, take them all out and throw them across the dark room. Women were all the same. They all overthought shit. The only time they didn’t think and just felt was when they were fucking.
I knew what I needed to do, and only if it were for an hour or so.
Brooke’s back was to me, and I rolled onto my side toward her. Running my hand along her arm, my fingertips traced lazy circles. She didn’t move. We didn’t say anything. It was late. I was tired. But I loved my wife more than I loved sleep. She needed this. She needed to relax, to forget and to know I would be here no matter what.
My gentle touch turned into pressure, and I started to massage her neck. I could feel the tension beneath my fingertips as my hand worked to relieve her stress.
“Let me help you.”
“How?” she asked.
“Think about me. Think about the way my hands feel on you. My mouth, my tongue. Forget everything except me.”
“How can I forget?”
“Concentrate on how I’m about to make you feel.”
She turned over onto her back and looked at me. “You can’t be serious.”
I rose up and hovered above her. “I’m dead serious. I want to take the pain away.” I touched her chest where her heart was beating. She may not be in physical pain like before, but it didn’t mean she wasn’t hurting.
Brooke stared at me for long seconds as we looked at each other in the dimly lit room. “Then kiss me,” she finally said.
I didn’t hesitate. My mouth connected with hers and it was all I could do not to rush things. There wasn’t a question in my mind that I would never stop wanting her—needing her—we just had to get over this little bump in the road.
And I was going to start by making love to my wife.
During the day the air was warm, but at night it was still crisp. It was good because our final softball game would be over before the humidity stuck to you like a chick in heat.
Our team placed first for the season, and therefore, played the earlier game of our doubleheader. We won, of course, and even though we had a later game that would run past Cheyenne’s bedtime, I still allowed her to stay. This was for the trophy, and seeing the look in her eye when she saw me play was one of the best feelings in the world. She looked up to me, and it wasn’t only because I was her father.
I was her hero.
Another reason I was looking forward to our season ending was that Brooke was having surgery again. I enjoyed playing ball again, especially with Avery, but I didn’t like the thought of spending time away from Brooke when she needed me. My parents would check in on her while I was at work, and then I would be home in case she needed anything. Brooke was strong, and I knew she could care for herself, but it didn’t mean I wanted her to.
“How many home runs are you going to hit, Daddy?”
I chuckled and turned my head toward my daughter. The second game was about to end, and my team and I were waiting in the stands. “Five.”
Her eyes widened, and I saw Brooke stifle a laugh.
Hey, it could totally happen.
“Don’t let him fool you, C.C.” Avery shoved me slightly. “Your dad talks a big game.”
“Is that right?” I asked, grinning at him.
“Are you going to hit home runs, too?” Cheyenne asked him.
“Hell yeah.”
“Who’s talking a big game now?” I narrowed my eyes, challenging him to keep telling lies.
“What?” he asked. “I hit home runs.”
“Yeah, but not every game.” I shook my head and laughed.
