Breakaway, p.36
Breakaway, page 36
Her smile makes my chest ache. “I just like the idea of him being ours,” she says. “Or her. Or them. Whoever they are. Pieces of you and pieces of me.”
“One day.”
She shades her eyes as she looks at the view. We only have a couple miles left in the hike, so the river looks distant again. A few birds of prey circle lazily, looking for their next meal. I know that the river is what created this canyon, but it’s hard to imagine it cutting through the rock face. Millions of years of this, and it’ll keep going long after we’re gone. Maybe that would make someone else feel insignificant in a bad way, but I like it.
“I wasn’t sure what to say to her,” she says.
I look over. “Who?”
“My mom.” She takes a deep breath. “That’s why I wanted to stay here for a few days. I didn’t want to go and just . . . not say anything. I wanted to feel like I had something real to share with her.”
I just nod, reaching out to squeeze her hand.
“And I know what I want to say now.” She tucks her hair behind her ear. She isn’t crying, but her voice is thick with emotion. She plays with her butterfly necklace. “I’m ready. What do you think, one more night here and then tomorrow, we head down?”
“Sounds like a plan.” I rub circles into her back. I’m not sure what to expect, if she’ll be upset, or if it’ll be peaceful. I’m lucky, compared to her; both of my parents are in my life. Things have been better with me and Dad lately, too. Not perfect, but definitely better. It became a bit of a news story, the great Richard Callahan’s hockey-playing son playing in—and then winning—the Frozen Four, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him more excited to talk about me. I still can’t believe how many of my college games he’s watched. “I’ll be right by your side.”
She kisses my cheek. “I know. And I’m grateful.”
We continue up the path, pausing from time to time to take a break and chat. We have hours of daylight left, plenty of time to finish the hike and clean up before dinner. We made reservations at one of the hotel restaurants. Maybe we’ll play another game. Tourists about to have a vacation fling, getting handsy in the elevator. A couple at a breaking point that needs to fight and make up.
When we finally make it to the top, my body is aching pleasantly from the exertion. Penny’s face is red, but she’s smiling.
“I figured something else out, too,” she says.
“Yeah?”
She traces over the point of my Andúril tattoo. “For our commitment. Let’s get matching tattoos.”
“Seriously?”
“If you don’t mind getting another one.”
“Never.” I cup her face with both hands, kissing her deeply. We’re both covered in sweat, but I don’t care. “Do you have an idea?”
“It’s so dorky.”
“I’m listening.”
“I thought maybe . . . something in Elvish. Sindarin, I mean.”
I deliberately pinch my arm. “Red. Are you joking? Am I dreaming?”
She shakes her head, laughing. “No.”
“We can get something done in Sindarin or Quenya, but with Tengwar script.”
She reaches up and kisses me lightly. “This is why I love you.”
“I’ll ask the Lord of the Rings forum I’m in about the spelling. If you’re sure.”
Her eyes shine with excitement. “I’m sure. Let’s find someone to do it soon.”
“And this is why I love you.”
She pats my chest. “I know, babe.”
Chapter 8
Penny
I tangle my hand in Cooper’s as we walk through the cemetery.
We drove south early this morning, checking into a hotel near where I used to live. Being back in Tempe, a place I used to know so well, is strange. We got lunch at a café I’d go to with friends after school. The rose latte is still on the menu. Still delicious, too. At first, I was convinced that someone from my old life would walk through the door, but as time went on without some horribly awkward encounter, I relaxed. It ended up being nice, even though I have a knot in my stomach the size of the Grand Canyon that formed once we crossed city lines. At least it’s been hard to think of Preston—or really any part of that situation—when I have Cooper by my side.
I’m wearing a sundress with my old Birkenstocks to the cemetery, hair loose around my shoulders. When I stared at the options in my suitcase, everything felt just a little wrong. Cooper noticed my stare, the way I was digging my teeth into my lip until it hurt, and wordlessly held up one of my favorite dresses. He tugged it over my head and kissed me soundly as he fixed my hair.
Now, he lets me set the pace down the path. I still know the way, years removed from the burial.
Before we left the hotel room, I slipped a poem into my bag. I did a poetry unit during my creative writing class last semester, and while poetry definitely isn’t my thing, I wrote one semi-decent one, “Desert Rose,” about Mom.
Maybe some part of her will be able to hear it if I read it aloud.
I don’t know what to expect. During the funeral, I was too stunned to cry. The two times I visited before we left Arizona, I did cry, but I didn’t say much. I just stood and looked at the headstone, at the whole sea of them broken up only by cacti and trees, and felt a well of sadness so deep, I had no desire to dive for the bottom.
I take a deep breath.
This is different. I have the love of my life by my side. Marriage might not be on the table yet, but it’s our future. I have flowers in my hands and a poem in my purse. My poem.
She’d like what I’m doing now. The future I’m trying to create. I wish she could experience it all with me, but I have to hope that part of her soul lingers. That she’s able to see all I’ve done and all I will do.
I rub the skin around the bandage on my wrist, where my new tattoo is healing. We found an open tattoo parlor last night and didn’t hesitate when the owner said she could squeeze us in. Two tiny tattoos, one on my wrist and one on his. I love you, written in the pretty, curved script that Cooper described as Tengwar, spelling out the phrase in Sindarin. We could have gotten the same phrase in English, or another spoken language, but this felt right. It felt like us.
We come to the right curve in the path. My feet feel like a pair of bricks; I can barely force them up.
A couple more steps.
A palo verde tree with a twisted trunk.
I stop and force myself to look at the headstone. “Hi, Momma.”
Chapter 9
Cooper
Penny’s eyes are clear, as blue as the sky overhead. Despite not being here in years, she knows the exact path. When we reach the headstone, nestled underneath a scrubby tree I don’t know the name of, she stops. She lets out a shaky breath. I reach for her hand, but she doesn’t squeeze my fingers.
Her mother’s headstone is a simple, polished granite, with an engraving of a photograph underneath the name.
Evelyn York Ryder.
Dance, then, wherever you may be.
Even though the image is pressed into the stone, I catch small bits of Penny in the shape of her eyes, the point of her chin.
“Hi, Momma,” she says in a small voice.
I squeeze her hand, and this time she reciprocates. “Want me to give you a moment alone?”
She shakes her head. “Stay.”
She kneels in the grass, setting down the small bouquet of flowers we brought with us. She takes out the poem she wrote for her. “Dad chose the epigraph. It’s from a song, English I think—the funeral home had a book of examples, and it caught his eye. He liked to say that she was a dancer who chose ice as a medium.”
“It’s beautiful.”
She looks up at me. Her eyes are filled with tears now, and when she blinks, one escapes, running down her cheek like a tiny river. “She would have liked you so much.”
“Can I meet her?”
She holds out her hand.
I settle on the ground next to her, the dry grass crinkling. My family has never been religious, so I’m not sure what to believe here, but I do know I believe in the woman by my side, and that must count for something. “I wish we didn’t have to meet like this, Mrs. Ryder.”
Penny’s eyes widen for half a second before she bursts into laughter. “She would have insisted you call her Evelyn.”
“Evelyn.” Wind rustles through the air, ruffling our hair and the ribbon tied around the bouquet. “I love your daughter.”
Penny rests her head on my shoulder.
“And because I’m a lucky bas—really lucky, she loves me back. She tells me all the time.”
“After you say it once, why stop?”
I kiss her temple. “You can say it all damn day and I’ll never get tired of it.
“I wish I could have known you,” I add, speaking to the wind. “I think I’d have seen a lot of Red in you.” I hold up my wrist, where my new tattoo, matching Penny’s, is healing. “How she feels about me is imprinted in my skin. It’s everywhere. She’s everywhere. She’s the best person I’ve ever known. If you could see her now, you’d be proud of who she’s become.”
Penny’s holding on to my hand so tightly, I can’t feel my fingers. She throws herself into my arms, knocking us both onto the ground. She kisses me soundly, breath shuddering as she clings to me. I hug her back, just as tight, burying my face in the crook of her neck. Lavender. Mint. Salt.
“Gummy bear,” I murmur, so softly it’s barely audible. She hears it, though. She hears me.
We always hear each other.
“I used to tell myself I would give anything for five more minutes with her,” she whispers. “Five more minutes, and I’d give up anything in the whole world. Just to talk to her again. To hug her. To tell her everything I didn’t have words to voice then.” She sits up, so we’re looking each other in the eyes. I brush away a stray tear. “But things are different now. I wouldn’t give up you. You’re the one thing I can’t give up. And I think she’d be happy about that.”
I kiss her everywhere I can reach. “I love you.”
I love you. I love you.
The warm wind continues to blow.
It blows when Penny slowly untangles herself from me, poem in hand.
It blows when she reads it, her voice soft but steady.
. . . I saw you with skates dangling from your fingers.
I saw you with desert roses in your hair.
I saw you with dreams in your eyes and love in the curve of your smile.
I saw you, and I said goodbye . . .
It blows when Penny looks at me, strands of orange-red hair flung over her face.
It blows when she tells her mother everything that has happened since that day in the hospital. She talks about her past. About us. About her father, slowly and surely moving on with Nikki.
It blows when she turns into my arms, and speaks of the future. Our future.
It fades when we stand, but then, as we start down the path, there’s a caress against our faces. A hello and a goodbye.
“I love you,” Penny murmurs, and I know she’s talking to us both.
About the Author
GRACE REILLY writes swoony, spicy contemporary romance with heart—and usually a healthy dose of sports. When she’s not dreaming up stories, she can be found in the kitchen trying out a new recipe, cuddling her pack of dogs, or watching sports. Originally from New York, she now lives in Florida, which is troubling given her fear of alligators.
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By Grace Reilly
Beyond the Play series
First Down
Breakaway
Stealing Home
Wicked Serve
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
breakaway. Copyright © 2024 by Grace Reilly. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins Publishers. For information, address HarperCollins Publishers, 195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007.
Originally published as Breakaway in the USA in 2022 by Moonedge Press, LLC.
Bonus epilogue originally published online in 2023.
Cover design by Melody Jeffries
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.
Digital Edition FEBRUARY 2024 ISBN: 978-0-06-338713-3
Print Edition ISBN: 978-0-06-338710-2
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Grace Reilly, Breakaway
