Pitcher

by Kristy Marie

  Is there a billboard somewhere with a countdown until Von Bremen leaves?

  I narrow my eyes at the man who I would have totally gone for had Von Bremen never wandered into my life. Although, I may need to adjust my standards after he leaves.

  “Umm, I’m moving back home to Madison, my hometown,” I admit with a baby shrug. It’s Theo’s hometown too. I’ll be stranded alone in a town where the memories will be thick and rich with our history.

  Rhys nods. “What kind of doctor do you want to be?”

  Please, Rhys, spare us both from the terrible small talk. Holding back a cringe, I smile instead and answer him like Grace would have wanted. “Sports medicine.”

  A career working with the athletes of the sports I love so much.

  “That’s cool.”

  Yeah, real cool, Rhys.

  Standing, I try not to look uninterested at anything he has to say. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to check on Theo.”

  Brody is quick to answer me, his eyes darting to the kitchen. “He’s fine. Just getting another drink. Sit. Let’s play.”

  Uh, let’s not and track the sounds of laughter coming from the kitchen until we find the source.

  It’s a girl I haven’t seen before.

  “Vanessa is Seth’s sister,” Brody supplies.

  I don’t care if she’s Mother Theresa’s sister. The way her hands are rubbing down his chest have me enraged.

  Calm down, Anniston. Calm your crazy ass down.

  You’re friends.

  So what if he helped you come so hard you saw stars? So what if you love him?

  So what if he’s leaving? He never made you any promises. You were the one reading too much into this.

  This is what happens when you think you found your soul mate at fourteen.

  Disappointment.

  A warm hand lands on my arm as I watch Theo standing there, hands in his pockets, while Vanessa gets close enough she could slobber on my damn dimple.

  I hope her breath smells like butthole.

  “Want to get out of here?”

  I whip around and stare at the tan hand on my skin. I stare at that hand like it holds all the answers in the world.

  Maybe it does.

  Maybe it’s the shove I need.

  Theo and I are friends.

  Just. Fucking. Friends.

  It was stupid to attempt to build anything with Theo when he’s about to leave.

  Slowly, I raise my face and stare at Rhys’s green eyes. He’s cute. He’s chatty. At least I won’t spend my birthday alone.

  “Yeah.” I sigh. “I want to get out of here.”

  “Anniston—”Brody starts, attempting to calm the situation.

  But I’m done. So freaking done.

  “Thanks for having me over, Brody. I’ll see ya around.”

  Ignoring his pleas to stay, I let Rhys pull me out the front door to his Jeep parked on the curb.

  “Rhys! If you take one more goddamned step, I will break your fucking leg.”

  My head falls forward at the sound of his voice. I feel like I have whiplash. This back and forth is exhausting.

  “I’ll make sure she gets home, Von Bremen. Enjoy the party favors.”

  Bad move, Rhys.

  Theo bounds down the steps—where did he get a bat—and eats up the space between us. His eyes are hard and unforgiving.

  “Get in the fucking car. We’re going home.”

  Say what?

  “Rhys can take me home. You’ve been drinking.”

  And you pissed me off.

  “Anniston, no one has time for your pettiness. Get in the goddamned car!”

  My heart. It just stopped.

  Am I being petty by leaving? Am I being petty because I feel betrayed by my best friend on my birthday?

  Is he being petty by not allowing me to save face and leave with Rhys?

  I guess it doesn’t matter. Tonight has just gone to shit.

  I clear the knot blocking my airway and hold my head up high and meet Theo’s angry glare, his jaw clenching with barely contained rage.

  “I don’t want to go home with you, Theo.”

  He reels back like I hit him. His head cocks to the side and grins like something feral.

  And then I cry.

  I tried to hold it in but nothing, not even pinching my hand, makes it stop.

  “Let me go, Theo. Let me leave with Rhys.”

  A harsh breath whooshes out as the shock of what I said sinks in.

  I can’t believe I said it myself.

  Rhys has been quiet up until now, and the idiot he is decides now is the best time to step in. “I’ll get her home safe, Theo.”

  That shocks him out of it, and he slips back behind his trademark asshole.

  “You know what you can do, Rhys? You can take your subpar ass back in the house and spit bullshit lines at the rest of the gullible girls in there. This one—” He looks at me, his mouth tight at the corners. “—is mine.”

  If I didn’t just feel like I was put through a meat grinder, I would be able to appreciate that he said I was his. Instead, I choose the fact he thinks I’m gullible and can’t function without him.

  When did I become that girl? When did my whole life revolve around one person?

  I hear steps behind me, and then as Rhys passes, he murmurs out a hateful, “Asshole.” When Rhys is inside the house, Theo’s shoulders slump and he drops the bat to the ground. “Ans,” he whispers, but it’s too late.

  It’s far too late for an apology.

  “I just want to go home.”

  He sighs, raking his hands through his hair, and nods, digging his keys out of his pocket.

  “I’m driving,” I tell him. He’s had far too many. I don’t give a shit how much he loves his car; he isn’t driving drunk.

  “Okay,” he concedes quietly, passing me the keys. We walk in silence to the car, and when I crank it up, we ride in that same silence until I’m parked, up the stairs, and at my bedroom door.

  “I—” he starts.

  “Do not say you’re sorry,” I clip. “We both know you would be lying.”

  He nods.

  I knew he wasn’t sorry.

  “Goodnight, Theo.”

  I push open my door, and his tortured voice stops me. “Wait,” he pleads.

  I am so done with this day. So. Damn. Done.

  “What, Theo? What is so damn important that it can’t wait until morning?”

  He swallows, his throat working hard before looking at his watch. “It’s 10:02.”

  Motherfucker.

  Do not do this. Do not make me love you anymore than I already do.

  He shoves into my hand the same package he gave me in the car.

  “Just know, you’ll always be my girl.”

  I can’t deal with this.

  “Happy Birthday, Anniston.”

  The fucking tears are back, dripping all over the terrible wrapping he did with the school’s newspaper.

  I try sucking it up, but when I fail, I leave it at, “Goodnight, Teddy.”

  The next morning, I feel like shit. A big, steamy pile of shit. And Thad has been happy to remind me of it with a steady stream of texts.

  Thad: What did you do?!

  Thad: She’s not answering!

  Thad: Brody said you acted like an asshole. Theo, talk to me!

  Thad: I can’t believe you. It was her birthday!

  Thad: You don’t deserve her.

  He’s right. I don’t deserve her. Especially after what I let happen last night. But that’s the thing, I never deserved her. Ever. And yet, she loves me anyway. I know she does. But I’m trying to do the right thing. I’m trying to set her free, even if I don’t want to.

  I hated spending her birthday at the team’s house. I hated sharing her with all those other guys. So I tried drinking it away. And when Rhys kept staring at her tits, I had to get up or I was going to level his jaw with Brody’s baseball bat.

  And then fuckin
g Vanessa had to join the festivities.

  I can’t even remember what she said. All I could do is glare at Brody and Rhys, who were seconds away from having to jerk off in the bathroom because Anniston smelled that fucking good.

  And… she wore the shorts.

  Any time she wears the cutoffs, she gets attention.

  Every. Single. Time.

  They are her lucky charm.

  The ace in the hole.

  Her precious.

  And she wore them last night in the midst of my horny teammates. I couldn’t deal. I could not fucking deal. At all.

  So I entertained Vanessa’s ramblings. I let her invade my personal space and make Anniston jealous like she was making me. I’m supposed to let her go, and I can’t.

  I tried.

  I tried acting like we’re only friends. I tried to see if Vanessa made my dick hard.

  She didn’t.

  The only thing she did was get in my damn way when Rhys thought he was about to take my girl home and get lucky.

  Not a freaking chance.

  Not while I’m still here.

  So fuck Rhys.

  Fuck the entire baseball team who thinks they are going to take a run at my girl when I leave.

  It’s not happening.

  Getting up and choosing to ignore Thad’s texts, I throw on some sweats and a semi-clean shirt, while I wait for Anniston in the kitchen. She has to forgive me after the birthday present I obsessed over for months.

  She has to forgive me, right?

  Sighing, I pour Anniston a cup of coffee just the way she likes it. Anxiety courses through me as the minutes tick by and her bedroom door never opens. The irrational part of me wants to barge through her door and tell her she’s being ridiculous. We fight all the time. Last night got a little heated, but I didn’t mean it. I was wrong; I know that. I embarrassed her—made her feel unwanted and unloved. She should know she isn’t though. I can’t take back my actions or the words I let free.

  I’m sorry for what I did.

  When I hear the remarks the guys say about her… I can’t handle it. Rage overcomes me, and all I want to do is snatch her up and run. Flee to the mountains or take an impromptu road trip so the guys will forget her. Hell, I’d even support her if she wanted to wear baggy clothes. But that’s wishful thinking. Anniston is unforgettable. I know that, and now guys are making their move since I’m so close to graduating.

  I scrub a hand down my face and scowl at her still closed door.

  Don’t do this, Ans. Don’t leave me.

  Unable to deal, I throw her now cold cup of coffee into the sink and hear the cup shatter. I pause, listening for the click of the door to see if she comes out to yell at me.

  She doesn’t.

  “Mr. Von Bremen, can I see you for a moment?”

  Motherfucker.

  I nod to Professor Cline and sling my laptop in my bag with more force than necessary. After Anniston blew off our run together for the first time in years, my day went to shit. Everything went wrong. First, I ran out of shampoo and had to use hers. Now, all I can smell is her, and it’s driving me fucking crazy. As if that wasn’t enough punishment, I forgot my shake—because Anniston didn’t fucking make it!—and I was starving. So I figured, fuck it, today was shot anyway, and bought a jelly-filled doughnut, which I promptly spilled all over my shirt. I had to change into my dirty workout shirt from yesterday because, again, Anniston didn’t change out my bag!

  And now, to top off the shit-tastic day, Professor Cline needs to see me after class. I already know what he wants to talk about, and I’m not in the mood. This is all Anniston’s fault. Sure, I said some mean shit and made her feel like an STD in a church choir, but seriously, she knows I didn’t mean it. My temper gets out of hand sometimes. This isn’t the first time this has happened.

  Professor Cline clears his throat, and I realize everyone has cleared out, leaving the two of us. Grudgingly, I lumber down the steps to the front of the room where his desk sits off to the side. I slide my bag down to the floor, certain this won’t be a short conversation.

  “You wanted to see me, sir?”

  I’m uncomfortable, okay? Anytime a teacher wants to discuss my condition, I break out into hives. Maybe he doesn’t want to talk about my ADHD? Maybe he wants to tell me he appreciates my lack of discipline this morning and wants me to help teach next week’s class. It could happen.

  “Yes,” he starts, lowering his glasses and matching my gaze.

  He doesn’t want me to teach a class.

  “I wanted to talk about your quiz this morning.”

  I nod, remaining nonchalant as if I have no idea why he wants to talk about my quiz. I showed up to class and partook in the quiz and even turned it in. If you really think about it, I’ve handled my shit today. I really don’t see an issue.

  When Professor Cline realizes I won’t be much of a contributor to this conversation—I’m no fool—he sighs and tries again. “Theo, you seemed very…” ADHD? Hyper? Pissed? Fucking lost? “—distracted this morning.”

  Distracted is a nice way of putting it. I’m a fucking wreck. Fighting with Anniston has a way of fraying my soul—unravelling it slowly so it reminds me when I leave for Washington, I won’t keep but a thread with me. All of it will remain here, wrapped around Anniston’s finger. I will be lost and without the only person who has ever given a shit about me.

  “Yes, sir,” I mumble, masking the aggravation with a cough. “I had a rough morning and forgot my medicine.” Because Anniston wouldn’t open her damn door!

  The professor flashes me a look like he understands it’s Anniston’s fault too.

  “How about you come back tomorrow and retake it? I’ll average the two scores.” He frowns, scratching his beard. “I’d hate to see all of your grades decline at the end of your senior year.”

  I don’t really give a shit, but grades mean a lot to Anniston and my father, so I work hard to make them proud.

  “That’d be great, sir. Thank you.”

  Professor Cline smiles, the lines of his forehead prominent, and stands, extending his hand to me. “You’ve been a refreshing change in my class this year, Mr. Von Bremen. I wish you luck in the minor leagues.”

  I nod, swallowing down the ball of dread that settles in my stomach. The date on my plane ticket is a constant reminder of what I’m leaving behind.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Yeah, that’s all I can say.

  I want out of this room.

  I want away from this school.

  I want to go home and grab my girl and shake her.

  She deserves it.

  I don’t shake her.

  She’s not even home when I get there. It pisses me off further. So rather than taking the high road and study or run off the aggression, I drink.

  I’m a simple man.

  One beer turns into four, and since I didn’t eat—again, Anniston’s fault—I have a good buzz going on by the time she finally graces me with her presence. The door clicks shut softly, and I keep staring at the TV like I don’t hear her come in.

  “What are you doing home? Didn’t you have practice?”

  Yep. Blew that off.

  Again, her fault.

  I don’t answer her and, instead, take a swig of beer.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see her set her bag down on the table and pick up the quiz I bombed.

  “You failed your economics quiz?”

  And the award for the most observant person in this room goes to…

  “Theo.”

  Her tone goes from soft and concerned to hard and angry. Good. I want her angry. I want her to feel just like me.

  “Are you planning to ignore me all day?”

  Yes. Yes, I am. How do you like dem apples, Anniston? Sucks, doesn’t it?

  I turn the volume up on the TV, purposely drowning out the sigh she drags out for my benefit. The next chug of beer goes down bitterly. I hate being an asshole to her, but dammit, she start
ed this. She fucked up my whole day by being mad at me. Anniston knows I act like a dick when she’s around other guys. Shit. Why does she think she doesn’t get asked out very often? Everyone in this town knows she’s mine.

  Yes, I don’t deserve her.

  But I’m selfish and I don’t give two shits what anyone else thinks. I want her, and when I pull my shit together, I’ll have her. Just not right now.

  The door slams, and I realize my tactic of drowning out any more of her attempts to talk to me worked all too well.

  Way to go, Theo. Piss on the last few days you have with her.

  Argh!

  My fingers squeeze around the neck of my beer. I want to throw the fucker into the kitchen. I feel sure I could get it into the sink. The shatter will make me feel better.

  But I don’t.

  Don’t ask me why.

  Maybe I’m tired of acting like a dick, throwing tantrums when Anniston doesn’t see things my way. Or maybe I don’t want to clean up the mess I would make by throwing the bottle. Not only with the glass, but between Anniston and I. Something has embedded itself into our relationship, and frankly I’m curious and scared to see where it takes us.

  My body, tight with anxiety, flexes when I fold over my knees and stand. Yes, I’m throwing the bottle away like a good boy. Someone should tell Anniston. I could use some praise right now. My mood sucks.

  Passing by the table, I see my test glaring back at me, but one thing is different. My name, scrawled in blue ink, is smeared like someone spilled something on it or someone was… crying.

  Fuck me.

  He made me a memory book out of all the old photos. Dozens of photos scattered the pages in the most unorganized way. There weren’t any cute captions or sweet sentiments. Just photos. As many as he could fit on the pages.

  It was a complete mess.

  But it gutted my soul.

  Because in the back, scrawled in his terrible writing, was a note.

  Ans,

  I know you don’t always like to celebrate your birthday. So I made you a book that celebrates something different instead.