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

by Julie Johnson

  I heave a sigh. “Might as well get it over with…”

  Walking into the adjacent room, I can’t help thinking that Blair and Vincent’s presents are a perfect reflection of their parenting style — practical, impersonal, and unadorned. No shiny wrapping paper or frilly bows. No oddly-shaped boxes to build anticipation. The gifts sit on the table, laid out in an orderly row.

  A fountain pen.

  A moleskin journal.

  A box of dermatological cream.

  A book titled Global Nutrition.

  How perfectly pragmatic.

  I carry the stack of gifts up to my room, telling myself to be grateful. So what if the notebook and pen serve as a not-so-subtle nudge to write my speech? Who cares about Blair’s slightly off-putting determination to erase my under-eye circles? What does it matter that Vincent’s idea of father-daughter bonding involves a book report on world hunger?

  Be grateful, Jo.

  Some kids don’t get any presents at all.

  I try to write the speech. I swear, I do. But the words simply will not manifest. The longer I stare at my laptop screen, the emptier my mind becomes. After a full hour of frustration, the walls of Cormorant House seem to press in around me, an ever-tightening vise.

  In desperate need of fresh air, I back the Porsche out of the garage and head for open roads. The wrought-iron gates swing closed behind me with a loud clang that reminds me of a prison cell.

  Free at last.

  Beneath the lingering disappointment at their departure, a small part of me is undeniably glad my parents are gone again. I’m not sure I could’ve survived another dinner of stilted conversation, putting on a brave face as they questioned me about my AP examinations. I don’t know how many more breakfasts I could’ve spent deflecting their inquisition into the status of my speech.

  Frankly, the burden of their disappointment made it difficult to swallow down my food.

  I’ve always found it annoying how Hollywood movies push the bullshit idea that your parents are supposed to love you unconditionally. (Maybe that’s why I prefer to watch reality baking shows.) Blair and Vincent made it crystal clear from day one that their fondness for me would rise and fall in direct proportion to my achievements.

  It’s a lesson I was glad to learn.

  Love is not a fixed constant in the equation of life, even if we treat it like one. Expecting anyone to love you invariably is foolish. Emotions are at best vacillating, at worst volatile. And always, always, always conditional.

  The summer sun beats down, warming my shoulders as I meander through town. I buy an iced macchiato at the Starbucks drive-thru, taking cooling sips at every stoplight. The picturesque June weather has brought with it the first tourists of the season. They wander in small family units, purchasing kitschy, nautical-themed knickknacks from overpriced boutiques. Couples hold hands as their children chase after ice-cream trucks, dollar bills outstretched. In the park, a caricature artist sketches portraits for passerby while a local guitarist busks for tips, his guitar case spread wide.

  I drive for about twenty minutes, selecting streets at random, and eventually find myself on the far side of town, not far from Exeter. I pull into the parking lot. It’s empty now, but in a few hours it’ll be jammed with tailgaters, their faces painted green for the big game against Xaverian Brothers High School.

  I park near the bleachers. I’ve already searched them once for my missing iPhone, but I figure it can’t hurt to check again. I was in a rush on Monday morning, with only a few minutes to spare before my Physics exam. I didn’t have the chance to be thorough. If my phone fell through the gap, there’s a good chance it’s still sitting there.

  The world is dim below the ascending seats. Sun slants through the rows at odd angles as I step into the dark. I weave around metal suspension poles, keeping my eyes on the ground. Cigarette butts are scattered every so often, along with crushed beer cans — evidence of more than one post-game celebration. My sandals crunch on discarded peanut shells and pieces of litter as I walk the shadowy length.

  It’s eerily quiet and cramped beneath the bleachers. Chain link fencing forms a cage at the back end, metal hangs close overhead.

  Lucky I’m not claustrophobic.

  Still, I increase my pace as the search continues, keen to return to the plentiful sunshine in the parking lot. The few belongings I stumble across don’t belong to me — a man’s empty wallet, a child’s pink stuffed bear, a baby’s dirty pacifier. Against the fence, a metallic glint momentarily gives me hope. Upon closer examination, it turns out to be nothing but a piece of aluminum foil.

  I sigh, defeated.

  No sign of my iPhone anywhere.

  Doubling back, I retrace my steps toward the parking lot. The sun-drenched asphalt is a welcoming light at the end of a shadowy tunnel. I’m so relieved to be out of the dark, I don’t notice I’m not alone until I’m halfway to my car.

  “Pretty sweet ride you’ve got there.”

  Startled, I whirl around toward the voice. Two unfamiliar men are standing on the bleachers, staring down at me. I squint against the bright sky, trying to bring them into focus. It’s difficult to make out their faces in silhouette.

  “Thanks,” I murmur, backpedalling a step. I’m not in any explicit danger, but for some reason my heart has kicked into high gear.

  “Is it for sale?” The man asks. “Our boss has a pretty sweet collection of vintage cars. I’m sure he’d love to add a classic Cabriolet to his fleet.”

  As he’s speaking, he starts walking down the bleachers. His companion follows in silence.

  “No, sorry.” Shaking my head. “It’s not for sale.”

  “Shame.” The man sighs. “If you like classic cars, you should take a look at our Bronco.” He points behind me. “She’s a beaut, huh?”

  Not wanting to appear impolite, I dutifully glance over at the boxy black vehicle, parked beneath a tree on the other side of the parking lot.

  “Cool,” I murmur, not knowing what else to say. “Looks vintage.”

  “Built way back 1970 — long before you were born, huh? What are you, seventeen?”

  I glance back just in time to see the men step off the bleachers, onto the asphalt. Without the sun shining into my eyes, I’m able to see their faces clearly for the first time. Nervous butterflies burst into life in the pit of my stomach. Between the copious tattoos, stacked muscles, and vaguely menacing demeanors, they’re not at all what I was expecting.

  I’m probably being irrational, but there’s something unsettling about the way they’re watching me. Like two cats eyeing a field mouse, moments before the pounce. I back up another few steps, trying to keep a safe margin of space between us. The car is still a dozen paces away.

  “Eighteen,” I blurt nervously. “Today, in fact.”

  “Happy birthday.”

  “Thanks.” When I bump into the side panel of my car, I reach blindly for the door handle, not wanting to take my eyes off the men still walking toward me in slow strides. “I, uh… I have to go, now. My parents are expecting me. Have a good day.”

  “Where are you running off to so fast, sweetheart?” His eyes slide to his friend and he gives a small nod. “We have some things to ask you about…”

  I yank at the handle, no longer caring about looking rude. Before I can get the door fully open, someone reaches out and slams it shut again. I scream as the man grabs me, but the sound is quickly silenced as his right hand clamps down over my mouth. His left wraps around my waist and lifts me straight off my feet.

  My teeth sink into his palm; he barely even flinches. Thrashing against his hold, my legs pedal uselessly at empty air. The man holding me might as well be made of stone; his chest, pressed against my back, is solid granite.

  My eyes scan our surroundings.The parking lot is totally deserted. Even if I could scream, there’s no one around to hear me.

  I’m on my own.

  The scrawnier man — the one who’s been doing all the talking — ste
ps into my view. He’s smiling at me like we’re old friends.

  “Okay, then. I’m Rico. This is my associate, Barboza. If you’re a good girl and you answer our questions, this birthday won’t be the last one you celebrate. Understand?”

  It’s difficult to breathe with the massive palm pressing down over my face; speaking is not an option. I stare at him blankly, trying not to cry. My heart is beating so hard, I’m worried it might combust.

  “Nod if you understand me,” Rico says flatly.

  Somehow, I manage a small nod.

  “Good girl. Now, we know you’re tight with the Reyes boys. Personally, I don’t care if you’re dating the younger one or the older one. Hell, for all I know you switch back and forth between the two. Whatever. I don’t judge.”

  Rage flares inside me.

  “Look at that fire in your eyes!” Leaning closer, he brings his pockmarked face within inches of mine. “No wonder those boys keep you so close. White as snow, but I bet you’re en fuego in the sheets. Am I right, mami?”

  My glare intensifies.

  “You ever get the urge to try out a real man, you let me know.” He sticks his tongue out and wags it rapidly at me.

  I go stiff as a board. Fear burns through me, a hot current.

  This situation could get a lot worse for me.

  Rico laughs, enjoying himself. “Oh, lighten up. The only thing I want from you today is information. Think you can you help me with that?”

  I give another small nod.

  “Excellent. Where is Jaxon?”

  Eyes going wide, I shake my head. My response is muffled.

  He jerks his head at his partner, and the pressure loosens enough for me to gasp out a few ragged words.

  “I don’t… know anything... about Jaxon.”

  “That’s not what I want to hear, sweetheart.” Rico sighs. “We saw you leave that party with him last weekend. But he’s a sneaky bastard. He managed to slip our net after he dropped you off.”

  I try to get my breathing under control. “I haven’t seen him since!”

  “You sure about that?”

  “I swear. I haven’t seen him.”

  “Did he say where he was heading?”

  I shake my head. “No. He just dropped me off.”

  “You notice anything inside his car? Maybe a receipt from a motel or a restaurant? Any clue about where he’s hiding out?”

  “No, I didn’t notice anything. But I wasn’t really looking.”

  Rico leans in and stares at me for a long beat, studying my face for signs that I’m lying. Eventually, he heaves an annoyed sigh. “Next time, pay better attention.”

  “O-okay,” I bleat. “I will.”

  “If he shows up again — and he will show up, make no mistake — we want to know about it. You understand?”

  “Y-yes.”

  “Good. Your little baseball star boyfriend knows how to get in touch.”

  He jerks his chin at his partner. Barboza releases me instantly. I drop like a rag doll, crumpling to the pavement in a pile of limp limbs. A heavy boot stomps down, directly beside my head.

  I flinch into the fetal position — curling my knees to my chest, shielding my head with my arms. Trying to make myself as small as humanly possible.

  Rico chuckles. “See you soon, sweetheart.”

  I don’t dare move until the sound of their footsteps has retreated across the parking lot, until their engine has rumbled out of earshot. When I finally find my feet, the men are long gone.

  I pick up my keys, climb into my car, and start the engine. I’m halfway home when I have to pull over again.

  My eyes are too full of tears to see the road.

  Chapter Twenty

  ARCHER

  The cameras flash from all sides, a blinding strobe. I grin as I lift the State Championship trophy over my head. My teammates are a blur of motion around me — jumping into the air, pounding their chests, howling at the top of their lungs.

  “WOLFPACK! AH-WOOOOO!”

  “STATE CHAMPS!”

  “UNDEFEATED, BABY!”

  The Xaverian team trudges off the field, disappointment ebbing off them in waves. They gave their best effort, but it wasn’t enough to beat us.

  To beat me.

  Tonight, I brought my A-game. I channeled every ounce of rage and fear and self-loathing into my arm; let it coil in my muscles like electrical charges in a storm cloud. Each pitch was a lightning strike, a bolt of pure power flying out with unstoppable force.

  No batter stood a chance.

  Inning after inning, they stepped up, determined to land a hit. Inning after inning, I sent them back to the dugout, unsuccessful in their efforts.

  A no-hitter.

  A massacre.

  HOME: 10

  AWAY: 0

  A perfect end to a perfect season.

  After the final score is called, Exeter fans flood onto the field — a mix of family members and significant others, alumni and school staff. I briefly catch sight of my parents in the mob, jumping up and down like enthusiastic teenagers. I lose track of them when Chris Tomlinson and Andy Hilton hoist me into the air. The whole team begins to chant my name.

  “REY-ES! REY-ES!”

  My body shoots higher toward the sky with each syllable.

  “REY-ES! REY-ES! REY-ES!”

  Aloft on Chris and Andy’s shoulders, I hold the trophy over my head for the world to see. The crowd yells their support.

  “AH-WOOO!”

  “WOLFPACK!”

  “AH-WOOOOO!”

  I know it’s stupid, but I find myself searching their faces for Jo. Seeking her out, despite every instinct in my body shouting at me to stop.

  She’s not howling with the Wadell twins.

  Not jumping with my parents.

  Not anywhere.

  My smile is slightly strained as I’m brought back down to solid ground. I fight the urge to pull my hat brim down over my eyes when a reporter with a Boston Globe press lanyard hanging from his neck shoves a microphone into my face. A cameramen stands beside him, filming the celebration.

  “Archer!” the reporter yells over the din. “Congratulations on your undefeated season. How are you feeling right now, after leading Exeter to a State Championship title?”

  “This trophy doesn’t just belong to me — it belongs to every guy on this team. I’m proud of the work we’ve done together. We had an unbelievably talented roster this season. Not to mention an amazing coach.”

  I turn toward Coach Hamm. His eyes are glassy with emotion as he holds out his hand for me to shake. I clasp his palm firmly against mine as cameras flash all around us.

  “Coaching you, Reyes…” His chest swells. “It was an honor.”

  “Honor was mine, Coach.” My Adam’s apple bobs as I work to clear the lump in my throat. “I’m going to miss being an Exeter Wolf.”

  The reporter leans in, microphone extended. “Archer, you are currently the top-ranked high school pitcher in the country, but you have yet to confirm where you’ll be playing next year. Do you have any plans to announce your decision? Or are you going to leave us in suspense all summer?”

  Dropping Coach Hamm’s hand, I turn to look directly into the cameras. “I consider myself supremely lucky to have had so many amazing offers. It would be an honor to play for any collegiate team. But I’m ready to announce my decision.”

  A hush falls over the crowd.

  People jostle closer, straining to hear.

  “Have you signed your National Letter of Intent?” the reporter asks.

  I nod. “Signed, sealed, delivered this morning.”

  “Where are you headed, Archer?”

  I take a breath, conscious of the many eyes on me. Trying to savor the moment — cameras rolling, press waiting breathlessly for an answer.

  One day, in the not too distant future, they’ll be taking my statement for the Globe’s Sports section after I pitch a no-hitter at Fenway.

  “Come next sp
ring, I’m proud to say I’ll be putting on the black and gold Bulldogs uniform at Bryant University.”

  Everyone applauds, clapping and cheering for me in a wave of sound that makes my eyes sting.

  “Any reason you chose Bryant in particular, Archer?”

  I swallow hard. “I want to be close to the people I love most.”

  As soon as the fans clear out, we break out the keg. Chris and Andy hoist it onto the field and place it on home plate. The entire varsity team huddles around, waiting for their chance to pump the tap into a red plastic cup.

  I’ve never been one for hazing rituals or cult-like team bonding exercises, but this one Wolfpack tradition feels like a fitting send-off to our season — and, for some, to the game in general. Most of these guys won’t play at the collegiate level. Certainly not in the minor or major leagues. Which means, as of tonight, their baseball careers are effectively over.

  When all eighteen of us have full cups, we gather in one final player huddle.

  “Wolfpack on three!” I yell, holding up my cup toward the sky, where a full moon is rising.

  A chorus of voices joins in, cups lifting to join mine. “One… two… three… WOLFPACK!”

  We chug until our cups are dry.

  Then we fill them up again.

  And repeat… and repeat… and repeat… until I’ve lost track of how many beers I’ve consumed. Until the world has turned into a tilt-a-whirl, spinning madly all around me.

  For one night only, I don’t worry about repercussions or responsibilities. I allow myself to be just another one of the guys, laughing at stupid jokes, reminiscing over our best plays, celebrating the end of something that, in many ways, defined my teenage years.

  My eyes sweep around the empty stadium. Without the bright overhead lights blazing, it’s lit only by moonlight. The bases glow in the dark, white squares shining in a perfect diamond formation. The pitcher’s mound is a dark hill at the center.

  There are many things I will not miss about Exeter Academy of Excellence. The god-awful green uniforms, for one. Don’t get me started on the demanding teachers. The pretentious students. The utter lack of diversity in the student body.