Never Too Late by Robyn Carr Page A

as he prepared to leave. But she hadn’t thought it would be this easy.
    While the team ran off the field and the managers were busy stuffing supplies into big canvas bags, he walked toward her. She didn’t think her heart could pound any harder, but it did. He leaned on the railing in front of the first row and said, “Hey. I’ve been wondering about you.”
    â€œHey, yourself. I heard you called Maggie. That was nice of you.”
    â€œIt made the paper—the accident. Jesus, Clare—that was an awful wreck.”
    â€œI came through it pretty lucky. You have a couple of minutes? To talk?”
    â€œSure,” he said. But he stayed right there, the railing safely separating them and, with him standing on the ground and her sitting on the bleachers, he was looking up at her.
    â€œI took a teaching job at this high school,” she said. “English. Sophomore English.”
    His face brightened, no question about that. That gave her encouragement if not courage. So maybe he didn’t hate her so much anymore?
    â€œWow,” he said. “That’s great.”
    â€œSo—we’ll be running into each other.”
    He smiled happily. “I wouldn’t mind that a bit.”
    He was such a fine-looking man. Not like Roger, who was too handsome for his own good. But in so many ways Pete’s good looks appealed to her more. His light brown hair was cut so short it wouldn’t even need combing, and he had stayed fit—flat belly, strong shoulders and arms. Sweat stained his torn T-shirt and dirt and grass marked up his sweats, but he looked good like that. As though he’d been working hard. And there was rough stubble on his cheeks and chin—he hadn’t shaved before coming to practice. Rugged looking, that’s what he was. All man. She remembered. She shivered.
    â€œLook, this is hard, but I want to talk about something. Something I know you don’t want to talk about.”
    â€œTake your time. I’m not going anywhere.”
    â€œYou know what it is. Nineteen years ago. We have to put that to rest.”
    He ducked his head uncomfortably for a moment, then looked back at her. “I’m sorry, Clare. I’ve been meaning to say that for nineteen years. I’m sorry for what I did to you—it was entirely my fault.”
    She was brought up short by that. “I…Ah…It’s just that, I thought I did it to you. Put you in that position of hurting your brother. I know how much you worshipped him.”
    â€œYou didn’t do it to me,” he said.
    â€œOkay, maybe we were both at fault. And, I think, carrying around that guilt and pain all this time. I reallywant to let go of it now. I’ve been having trouble since it happened. Enough is enough.”
    â€œI’m sorry,” he said again.
    â€œStop saying that, it was both of us.” She took a breath. “Have you been struggling with the guilt, too?” she asked.
    â€œOh yeah,” he said, with a chuckle that did not come from being amused. “But I don’t think the same way as you. This isn’t going to get me any points, I’m pretty sure, but I didn’t have that much guilt over what I did to my brother. Some, sure, especially right after he died. I felt like a real slimeball, you know? But then he was gone and missing him was so much more real than feeling guilty about anything. The thing that worked on me for nineteen years was that it hurt you so much.”
    â€œI’m still not sure how it all happened,” she said. He looked away briefly so she hurried on. “Wine, opportunity, loneliness—whatever.” Then more quietly. “I’m sorry, too.”
    â€œThere you go,” he said. “We’re both sorry.”
    Something about that was odd. She didn’t understand. She said, “Every time I ran into you, you looked so damn uncomfortable, I thought you couldn’t stand to