But when he called late Saturday night after a loss, he was really upset. “I think I’ve messed up my shoulder.”
Boone never complained about pain, so if he said he was hurt, it was serious. She also knew an injury at thirty-nine could be devastating.
“How?” she asked, knowing they’d lost the game tonight, 7–2, and that Boone had struck out twice, and then, in his final at-bat he’d been walked, then thrown out trying to return to first base after taking too big a lead on a fly ball.
“I dove toward first. Overshot the bag, and felt something pop.”
“Is it dislocated?”
“No. But it’s not right. Now my arm’s weak. Can’t grip anything really well.”
“Have you talked to the trainer?”
“Yeah, but Gordon’s having a hissy fit. Said I deserved to get hurt if I was going to do a stupid move like sliding back to first.”
“Will you be able to play tomorrow?”
“Not sure.”
Sarah chewed on the inside of her cheek, remembering the injuries Boone had over the years. The knee injuries. The torn rotator cuff. The stress fracture . . . “You don’t think it’s the torn-rotator-cuff thing again, do you?”
Boone was silent so long that it made Sarah’s insides hurt.
“I’m hoping not,” he said at length. “We’ll know for sure when I get home. Monday morning they’ve already ordered the imaging tests.”
“Oh, Boone.”
“Don’t say it.”
She swallowed hard. “I’m going to be positive,” she said.
“Good girl. It might be nothing. Just a strain or a bruise.”
“That’s right.”
He hesitated. “Kids okay?”
“They’re good. Sleeping.”
“What are you doing?”
“Waiting up to talk to you, and then I’m calling it a night.”
“Well, go to bed. Get some sleep. I’ll be home late tomorrow night.”
“Love you, Boone.”
“Love you, too, babe.”
* * *
Sunday night Boone arrived home close to two in the morning and Sarah woke as he entered the room and undressed in their adjacent bathroom. She’d been dreaming when he’d arrived and it’d been a bad dream, one of those dreams where she woke frantic—panicked—and it was a relief to hear him in the bathroom, using the toilet, brushing his teeth, knowing that it was just a dream. Boone was okay, she told herself, heart still racing. They were okay. All was good.
She waited until he was in bed, settled under the covers and comfortable, before moving toward him. “Hi,” she said, putting her head on his chest and stretching out next to him.
“Hey.” He stroked her hair. “Sorry to wake you.”
“I’m glad. I like knowing you’re home. Makes me feel good.”
He smoothed her hair again, then dropped a kiss on top of her head. “Makes me feel good coming home to you.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
She smiled in the dark, and yet her eyes burned. “I was having a weird dream just now.”
“Weird, how?”
“You were missing. I don’t know if you died or you’d just disappeared, but I was looking for you everywhere. I kept running everywhere, calling for you, looking for you. I was searching and searching—”
“And here I am.”
She blinked and gulped air. “I can’t imagine life without you.”
“That’s good, because I’m not going anywhere.”
But she could still remember her panic in her dream, and she flashed to Meg and the kids, and how chaotic and emotional it’d been at the house in Santa Rosa the day Sarah flew out, following Jack’s funeral. She didn’t ever want to be in Meg’s shoes. Didn’t ever want to have to cope with what Meg was going through. “I wouldn’t want to raise Ella and Brennan without you,” she whispered, pressing closer to him. “I couldn’t do it on my own.”
His hand moved down to her shoulder, and he held her against him. “You could if you had to, but you don’t have to. I’m here.”
“What if something happened?”
“Nothing’s going to happen.”
“How can you be so sure?”
He didn’t immediately answer, just held her, his hand warm, his body warmer. “There’s no point going through life negative. You’ve got to be positive. Imagine me approaching the plate each time, thinking I’m going to strike out. If that’s how I really thought, I’d never hit the ball.”
“You can’t compare life to baseball.”
“Sure you can. It’s all about attitude. Training. Confidence.”