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“Go back to bed, Cornell.”
He knocked again, but Cornell was only met with silence before he heard the shower running. Sliding down against the door frame, Cornell pulled his legs up to his chest, taking deep breaths, trying to both erase the sound of Ali’s voice and the picture of her face from his mind.
“No,” he told Mowgli, who butted his head against his shoulder. “Go lie down.” Cornell didn’t want to be touched, didn’t want the distraction. He wanted to sit with it—the fear, the pain, the guilt—you deserve it, he told himself.
So he sat while the shower ran, imagining all the worst things as Ali repeating his voicemail over and over echoed through his mind. Cornell didn’t know how much time had passed. He was so deep in the sea of horrible thoughts, he didn’t even hear the shower turn off, the patter of Ali’s feet in the bathroom. He jumped when she opened the door and looked up at her.
“I… I wanted to make sure you were okay,” Cornell said without moving.
Ali stood above him in her robe, her hair soaking wet. Her right hand slid beneath the terry cloth of her opposite arm. He tried to ignore the slight shake that seized her body and the urge he had to stand and tightly wrap her up in his arms.
But Cornell knew, he had to wait.
So they remained staring at each other until he couldn’t take it anymore—and apparently, neither could Ali. Cornell opened his mouth to speak, and she stepped over him, straddling his bent legs, forcing them straight. She sat and buried her face—warm and damp, from her tears or the shower, Cornell didn’t know—into his neck. Her arms didn’t wrap around him. She was the one waiting this time.
Cornell suppressed the sound that tried to escape his mouth as he held her—a broken, distressed cry he swallowed down because that wasn’t what Ali needed from him. You’ve got to be her rock. Her fucking mountain. He realized in that moment—in the earlier ones laced with her fearful crying—she needed Cornell to hold her like he always had, like he silently promised the both of them he always would. And when his arms enveloped Ali, pulling her as close as possible, she shifted in his lap, not just returning the embrace but anchoring herself to him.
Touch of all kinds—playful, sexy, loving—had always been their thing. It was what brought them together in the first place. But this kind of touch from Ali—a soulful clinging—was so foreign and new it made Cornell so uncomfortable he had to force himself not to squirm beneath her.
Look how much she needs you,he told himself. Man up. Be fucking happy she needs you this much.
There was nothing happy, nothing relieving about it. Because beyond Ali needing him, what Cornell felt from the way Ali clutched at him was the insurmountable fear she was drowning in. It was a painful reminder that despite the normal breakfasts, the small talk, and the daily pattern of their life, there was nothing normal in seeing, feeling, and absorbing the love of your life’s horror.
But if that was what Ali needed from him, Cornell would give it to her. Let me take this away from you, he wanted to whisper into her hair. In the dark of the night, Cornell wanted Ali to feed it into him—even though his heart ached, stomach turned, bones chilled—until she woke up tomorrow a little lighter.
And since it wasn’t tomorrow yet, Cornell held Ali in his lap on the floor until she fell asleep.
* * *
“Our ball, we won the toss,” Evan told Cornell as he approached the locker room where the team had gathered after warm ups, waiting to return to the field for kick off.
“Julian’s good.”
“Are you?” Evan asked as he leaned up against the wall across from Cornell.
“Sorry?”
Evan folded his arms across his chest. “I asked if you were good.”
“Of course,” he replied. I’m hanging by a fucking thread. “I’m ready to go.”
Evan raised an eyebrow at him. “Yeah?”
It couldn’t have been further from the truth. Because after Ali’s nightmare Cornell hardly slept. He fought the rest his body demanded, straining to keep his eyes open as she slept soundly beside him, afraid to miss something—a grimace of her face, a small whimper—anything that might let him know something was wrong.
Cornell straightened his slouch. “Never better.”
Nodding, Evan pushed off the wall and gave him a slap on the chest. “Good. Because you’re calling everything tonight.”
I’m what? The promotion to offensive coordinator entailed a lot more responsibilities for Cornell, but Evan had yet to hand over the reins to play calling during games. I don’t get a heads up?
“Excuse me?”
“Look, Cornell,” Evan said, pausing to look back at him. “You know how I knew you were a damn good quarterback all those years ago? You could read anything. Spread offense, a blitz. You checked plays like none other. You took whatever was thrown your way. I’m throwing something your way tonight. An opportunity. Don’t fumble it.”
Cornell shook his head. “I’m not following.”
“I’ll probably never have as smart of a coach below me with a team this talented. Maybe it’s time you stretched those legs. Let’s see how these guys can fly with you leading them. This is your team tonight.” Cornell began to object before Evan continued. “If I have it my way, this will be your team next year because I’ve got a beach house and a grand baby calling my name.”
