We Don't Talk Anymore (The Don't Duet Book 1)

by Julie Johnson

  “Thank you,” I tell her, meaning it. “I do feel better.”

  “What are your plans for the day?”

  I glance out the freshly-cleaned windows. Across the expanse of grass, where Miguel is riding the lawnmower back and forth in regimented lines, I spot the American flag whipping around on its pole down by the boathouse.

  “Looks like a steady southwestern breeze. I think I’ll head out for a quick sail around the islands.”

  “Don’t go too far.” Flora clucks. “You know I don’t like when you’re out there by yourself.”

  I roll my eyes. “You worry too much. It’s not even that rough, today.”

  “Take your radio, anyway.”

  “Always.”

  “And your lifejacket!”

  “Flora.” The way she’s acting, you’d think I was a rookie.

  “Okay, okay. I’ll stop smothering.” She pauses a beat, then says lightly. “You could always wait for Archer. He should be home from practice in about thirty mi—”

  “Bye!” I call over my shoulder, already racing for the stairs.

  No freaking way do I want to sit around here, waiting for Archer to come home like a pining wartime widow.

  Frankly, I don’t want to see him at all.

  I yank the jib sheet tighter, grinning as I feel the Alerion pick up speed. Her sails are perfectly trimmed, catching the wind as we fly away from the dock, out toward open water.

  The secluded cove in front of Cormorant House is calm as a lake, shielded from the swells by a natural breakwater of rock and sand. With the exception of a brutal Nor’Easter that hit when I was nine, sweeping away our private dock and ripping all the shingles off the boathouse, we’ve luckily been spared the worst of the Atlantic’s hair-trigger temper.

  Clear of the cove, the water’s chop intensifies — as does the wind. My sailboat, Cupid, starts to heel, cutting through the side of each swell like a blade. She’s agile. Aerodynamic. Built for speed, no matter what conditions are thrown at her.

  I always laugh when people describe the ocean as peaceful; when they set a picture of it as the background on their computer screen, like some aspirational point of reference for serenity and calm. Anyone who spends time on the ocean knows there’s nothing peaceful about it. It is a chaotic monster, clutching with greedy hands. Do not ever mistake its still surface for serenity; it could swallow you up without so much as a ripple.

  Rounding the tip of Crow Island, I set my course for the spit of land that marks mouth of Manchester Harbor in the distance. There’s no need to consult a chart; I’ve been exploring these waters since I was old enough to hold a tiller. I know what areas to avoid, where lethal rocks lie in wait, ready to scupper an unsuspecting vessel.

  Leaving a wide berth around the shoals, I meander southward, keeping the white sands of the infamous Singing Beach to my starboard side. It’s still too cold for the sunbathers who crowd there in the summer months, clutching beach chairs and coolers, laughing as the dunes squeak musically under their steps. By late June, tourists will arrive in droves, forking over $40 to park for a single afternoon at the shore.

  Lobster bouys of every shade and pattern imaginable bob in the shallows, each marking the location of a trap on the sandy bottom below. They grow fewer and farther between as I head into deeper waters. So do the other boats — not that there are many out today, anyway. Besides a handful of commercial fishing rigs on the horizon, I have the whole stretch of coast to myself.

  I shiver as the wind picks up, spraying the cockpit with icy foam. I’m glad I layered a long-sleeved shirt beneath my sweater; by nightfall, it’ll be freezing out here. May can be cruel in New England — a tease of summer tempered by sheer unpredictability. One day, it’s eighty degrees and sunny; the next, you’re hunkered down in monsoon rains, hoping your lines hold.

  I clutch the tiller more firmly as the water wrestles with my rudder, trying to drag me off course. This far out, the swells are capped with white, cresting at the tops as they slam relentlessly into Cupid’s red sides. The wind has risen to a steady howl, whipping the hair around my face, stinging at my eyes.

  I should probably turn back.

  Head home.

  Retreat to calmer waters.

  Instead, I yank my sails in tighter, chasing the salty tang of exhilaration across the expanse of blue. The most myself I ever feel is out here, away from the world — reduced to no more than a distant red speck a stranger squints to see clearly from the safety of the shore.

  Sometimes, I wonder what would happen if I kept sailing, straight on through the night, across the Atlantic, not stopping until I either hit England or sank to the depths of Davy Jones’ Locker.

  How long would it take someone to notice I was gone?

  Would anyone care if I never came back?

  Sudden loneliness surges through my veins, panging deep in the chambers of my heart. I find myself wishing Archer was with me after all; that I wasn’t so alone amidst the vastness.

  For so long, he has been my most vital tether to the shore. He has kept me grounded, reeled me in whenever my sails began to overpower me. With that assured grin, those steady eyes, those strong hands… his hold on me was a lifeline I never knew I needed.

  Until I thought I might lose it.

  Even Flora can sense it. He’s pulling away from me. I’ve felt it for weeks now — long before he got tangled up with Sienna at that stupid party. Something is simply… off. I know it in my bones. But every time I try to bring it up, he dodges. He changes the subject. He shuts down completely.

  It’s infuriating.

  And painful.

  And a million other feelings I can’t properly put into words — not without unbearable thoughts creeping in.

  He’s grown tired of me. Tired of the way I rely on him. Tired of being the extroverted half in an imbalanced equation.

  He finally sees what everyone else always has: Josephine Valentine is not worth sticking around for.

  Leaning into the breeze, for just a moment, I close my eyes, drop the tiller, and surrender, allowing the elements to take full control. Growling gusts thrash my sails with wild fury. Merciless waves pitch Cupid up and down, spilling over the sides and into the cockpit, saturating my tan Sperry Topsiders. We churn sideways, veering off course like a spinning top on the surface of the sea, caught in a dangerous current.

  Over the cacophony of clanging of lines and flapping sails, at the mercy of howling winds and frothing swells, I wonder.

  How long will I survive without my tether to the shore?

  A rogue wave splashes freezing water into my face, snapping me back to my senses. I quickly pull in the lines. With the tiller firmly in hand once more, I point the bow back toward the distant outline of Crow Island, and the cove beyond. If I squint, I imagine I can see the glowing light of the boathouse, nested there against the dock, waiting for me in the lengthening shadows. And, hidden in the trees beyond, a dark-haired boy walking up the steps of a small cottage — dirty cleats on his feet, worn glove in his hand, secrets hidden behind his once-clear eyes.

  Chapter Eight

  ARCHER

  On the mound, the world narrows.

  Leather in my left.

  Ball in my right.

  Tension coils in my spine. My lungs yield, breathing now a secondary concern. I trace the ball’s seams with my fingertips, adjusting my grip. Weighing the familiar curve against my calluses.

  When you’re first learning to pitch, back in Little League, coaches tell you to focus on the catcher’s mitt if you want your ball to break in the strike zone.

  That never felt specific enough for me.

  I look harder. Closer. Using every bit of my concentration, until the brand name on the glove’s lower heel becomes legible. Until the mitt breaks into discernible parts — webbing, pocket, pads. I find the seams. The individual laces that weave their way up the finger stalls.

  I find one, single stitch.

  And when I have it in my sights, whe
n I’ve locked onto that tiny, far-off detail with the precision of a laser…

  I let the ball fly.

  In this game, there are as many types of players as there are pitches. Sluggers, runners, fielders, closers. Splitters, sliders, curveballs, changeups.

  I’m an ace.

  A power pitcher.

  A flamethrower.

  My four-seam fastball is already breaking triple digits on the radar-gun — unheard of in most pre-collegiate divisions. It’s not uncommon for me to pitch a no-hitter, striking out every batter who swings against me. They tremble when they step up to my plate.

  And it is my plate.

  My stadium.

  My team.

  That might sound conceited but it’s the truth. One I earned, one I refuse to be ashamed of. I worked my ass off to get here. I practice twice as hard as any other guy at Exeter. I had to — my parents couldn’t afford private coaching sessions, couldn’t rent out the cages for hours at a time, couldn’t pay for the best equipment, couldn’t send me away to training camp.

  To make the varsity team junior year, I dragged my ass out of bed at every morning at the crack of dawn and jogged six miles to the field before the sun was up. By the time the rest of the team showed up for practice at nine, still yawning into their gloves and wiping crust from the corners of their eyes, I’d been at it for hours. And when they called it quits for the day, heading off to play video games or make-out with their girlfriends, I’d still be there. Throwing until my arm gave out — or, until Jo arrived to drag me home for dinner.

  “That’s it, Reyes! Looking good out there,” Coach Hamm calls from the dugout, giving an approving nod when my fastball slams into Chris Tomlinson’s catching glove at bone-bending speed. Behind the cage of his face mask, I think I see him wince.

  “Hilton, you’re up!” Coach jerks his chin at Andy. “Snyder, in the hole.”

  Three quick sinkers, and Andy’s out. At his best, he’s no great hitter; with a hangover, striking him out is child’s play. He tosses his helmet to the dirt and storms off the field, looking like someone pissed in his Cheerios. I’m surprised he made it to practice at all. He was so drunk last night, if he blew a breathalyzer right now he’d probably still be over the legal limit.

  Ryan Snyder steps up, aluminum bat glinting in the sunshine. Judging by the glare he’s directing my way — and the mottled purple shiner surrounding his right eye socket — he’s yet to forgive me for punching him last night.

  Oh well.

  No big loss, there. We were never friends. Just teammates — brought together by necessity rather than actual camaraderie. If he wasn’t such a solid first baseman, I wouldn’t put up with his chameleonic bullshit at all.

  Snyder is a poser. When he’s trying to get into a cute girl’s pants, he becomes whatever, whoever, she wants him to be. The jock, the poet, the comedian, the tortured soul. Sensitive, quiet, funny, outrageous.

  He does it so skillfully, most girls never know they’re being played. But the moment they sashay away, titillated by his attention, that oozing charm goes up in smoke, replaced by cocky bravado. And once they let him under their bra straps, into their beds? Snyder uses the locker room bench as his personal stage, bragging to a captive audience about his latest lay. I’ve lost count of the times he’s chronicled his weekend conquests after practice on Monday.

  Gentlemen don’t kiss and tell; privileged white boys use more details than J.R.R. Tolkien describing the trees of Middle Earth.

  Smallest tits of all time, but she let me cum on her face!

  I’ve seen dogs with better teeth, thought she was going to chomp my dick off…

  Look at the scratches on my back! The girl was a total animal.

  I hit all four bases, then slid around to the dugout, if you know what I mean…

  When I think of Snyder talking about Jo like that, something inside me — something dark — stirs to life. My grip on the ball tightens, the red seams digging painfully into the pads of my fingers.

  “Let’s go, Reyes! We ain’t got all day,” Coach Hamm yells. He’s holding the speed gun behind the safety of the backstop, ready to record my next pitch. Every week, the scouts call to check in, wanting a full report. And every week, they ask the same question.

  Has he made his decision, yet?

  The metallic gleam of Snyder’s bat catches my eye as he swings it up into position. When our eyes meet, a smug smile spreads across his bruised face.

  “Better get going, Reyes. Don’t you know, if you move too slow, you’ll miss your opportunity? Things you thought were yours, things you took for granted… they’ll slip right out of your hands.” He pauses, smile widening to a full-fledged grin. “Say hey to Valentine for me, will you? I’m really looking forward to getting to know her better.”

  I start for him, nearly stepping off the mound before I catch myself. He’s baiting me — and, dammit, it’s working. I react without thinking, filled with the sudden desire to balance out his face with a second shiner on the left side. To pummel him until he realizes my best friend is off limits.

  I tell myself Jo is too smart to fall for him, that she’ll see through his facade in seconds… but then I remember how pissed she got when I hit him last night… how she moved to comfort him when he went sprawling in the grass…

  Great.

  I’ve made this jackass a martyr.

  “What’s the hold-up, Reyes?” Coach calls, sounding confused. “We got a problem here?”

  “Yeah, Reyes,” Snyder mocks, leaning into his stance. “You have a problem with something?”

  Hauling in a deep breath, I try to regain focus, but all I can think about are Snyder’s hands beneath Jo’s sweater, his fake charm working on her like a drug.

  My fists itch for violence.

  Get ahold of yourself, the voice of reason inside my head orders flatly. You did not work this hard to get tossed off the team for violating the Exeter code of conduct.

  Crouched behind the plate, Tomlinson is signaling for a curveball — two fingers, pointing down at the packed dirt between his feet.

  I shake my head.

  He signals again — one finger. Fastball.

  I nod.

  Taking my position, I let the world narrow until it all fades into background noise — Snyder’s sneering confidence, Coach’s concerned frown, the scouts’ pressure to choose. The nightmare that is my brother Jaxon. Even the mess I’ve made with Jo. All of it goes out of focus until there’s only one thing remaining.

  Leather in my left.

  Ball in my right.

  I crank back my right arm, hike up my knee, and throw with all my might — with every bit of my rage channeled into tensing muscles and blinding speed. The ball is a blur as it sails past Ryan’s swinging bat, straight into Tomlinson’s glove.

  Strike.

  Ryan blinks, looking dumbfounded. The smug smile is gone from his face.

  Behind the backstop fence, Coach is yelling. Holding the speed-gun in the air. Grinning ear to ear as he yells out the numbers on the screen.

  102 mph.

  It’s the fastest pitch I’ve ever thrown.

  I linger at the field after practice ends, running mindless laps around the track. I’m in no great rush to get home. Things with Jo are a tangled catastrophe; it’s easier to avoid her entirely than attempt to work out the knots with both hands tied behind my back.

  My teammates are long gone by the time I finally call it quits. I head for the dugout, rubbing the sore muscles of my pitching arm as I grab my equipment bag. After a night of no sleep and a full day on the field, I’m dead tired. A walking zombie. With any luck, that means I’ll fall into bed tonight too exhausted to dream, let alone think.

  The last place I want to spend time is inside my own head, second guessing all my decisions.

  My truck is the only one left in the parking lot. It’s already getting dark, shadows of each light pole stretching across the asphalt like skeletal fingers. My cleats echo with every fo
otstep, a solitary patter. My mind is far away — already back at Cormorant House, wondering what Ma made for dinner, how Jo spent her day, whether Pa ever got the lawnmower running. It was giving him trouble this morning.

  I don’t notice the men leaning against the cab until it’s too late. When they push off and step toward me, I go still, my arm freezing halfway to the tailgate, my stomach vaulting into my throat.

  “Reyes, right?”

  The leaner of the two men grunts the question at me. His eyes are shifty, darting back and forth across the parking lot for some unknown threat. Behind him, the beefier man stands in silent silhouette. One look at them — the tattoos, the low-slung jeans, the piercings, the vaguely menacing demeanors — makes it clear they’re not Manchester-by-the-Sea locals. The criminal element in this town is typically limited to speeding tickets and illegal parking fines.

  Still, I’ve seen them before. I’d bet my pitching hand they’re the same guys who’ve been following me around — an almost-indiscernible presence, shadowing my movements from a careful distance in a black Ford Bronco.

  I’m not sure when, exactly, they started trailing me. I noticed them for the first time about a month ago. We were on the way to school — Jo in my passenger seat prattling on about her parents’ latest, greatest save-the-world initiative — when I glanced in my rearview mirror and did a double-take.

  Wasn’t that same Bronco behind me yesterday?

  After that, I started paying better attention to my surroundings. Suddenly, they were everywhere I looked: parked in the woods by the front gate, driving in the lane behind mine on my way home from practice, idling across the street as Jo and I bought paper cups of sugary lemonade from a little kid’s neighborhood stand.

  I guess I should’ve known it was only a matter of time before they made actual contact. It’s not like Jaxon didn’t warn me.

  “Uh…” I clear my throat, trying not to sound intimidated. “Who’s asking?”