Not Your #Lovestory

by Sonia Hartl

  “I don’t want to be her,” I whispered to Elise, hating myself so much more than I had when I’d agreed to playing these stupid Twitter games with Eric.

  I’d never said those words out loud to anyone.

  “I know.” Elise kept stroking my back, not even having to ask who I meant. “I know.”

  She held me until I stopped trembling, until I could face what I’d finally voiced. What had always been in my heart. It made me feel sick and dirty. My mom had sacrificed so much to give me the best life possible. She’d raised me so I’d never know a day without love. While I’d gotten my spine and tendency to mouth off from Gram, every scrap of goodness and light I possessed had come from my mom.

  Elise pulled back and cupped my cheeks. “It’s okay to feel that way. It’s okay to want a better life far away from here. She wants that for you too. Why do you think she works so hard and worries so much? She knows you’re built for something else.”

  I knew that in my head, but it didn’t stop me from feeling as if I’d betrayed her. Like the sperm donor who’d knocked her up and breezed out of town without a care in the world. And here I was, trying my damnedest to leave too. Trying so hard that I was willing to sell out every decent bone in my body in order to accomplish that goal.

  I’d looked up the man I shared DNA with only once. I found him on Facebook. He had a wife and two kids, who I had no desire to meet, and a nice big house in the suburbs of St. Louis. His parents had moved out of Honeyfield when the paper mill shut down, and he hadn’t been back since Mom told him she was pregnant.

  I hated him. I hated his smile, so similar to my own. I hated his nice house and his new car and his family vacations. I hated that he posted the anniversary of when he and his wife went on their first date. I hated that it was a year before I was born. Most of all, I hated that easy life he got to have. The kind of life that could’ve, should’ve, would’ve been Mom’s.

  If it hadn’t been for me.

  Elise held my gaze, as if she could see my every thought. “Stop punishing yourself for the mistakes other people have made.”

  Because I never talked about my deeper fears, preferring to push them down or handle things on my own, I didn’t realize what I’d been doing, and how bad I’d needed to hear those words. The tightness in my chest eased a fraction. “I don’t deserve you.”

  “I am a precious pearl in a sea of clams.” Elise grinned.

  I grabbed her hand as she turned to finish up her closing duties on the repair side, conveying everything I felt without words. She squeezed my hand in response.

  Suddenly a bottle of peach schnapps clunked down in front of me. Midnight had stolen it from Butch’s stash for those days when we needed a little pick-me-up. She gave me a tentative smile and nudged the bottle forward.

  “I figured you could use a shot,” Midnight said.

  I unscrewed the cap and took a small sip. It burned my throat and warmed my stomach, and that tightness in my chest eased a bit more. “Thank you.”

  She shrugged. “It’s the least I can do.”

  CHAPTER

  SIXTEEN

  I LEFT WORK SO Midnight and Elise could close. If I’d been smart, I would’ve driven straight home. It was late. Paxton was probably already in bed. Or he was awake and pissed at me. But I hadn’t been doing anything smart lately, so why start now? I pulled my car up next to his front yard, shut off the engine, and rested my head on the steering wheel.

  If I laid out all my feelings, the way he had done, where would that leave me? What if we eventually broke up? Would I be able to stand working with him? Or what if we didn’t break up? What if we had an amazing relationship? Would I still be able to move to Chicago? His refusal to drive pretty much said he’d be staying put, and regardless of my recent revelation, I couldn’t do the same. I needed more than this town could offer.

  Even with all those questions racing through my mind, I wanted him. I didn’t want to be afraid of my own feelings anymore. I didn’t want to let my mom’s path in life haunt every step of my own. If she hadn’t gotten pregnant, she would’ve gotten out. She would’ve had her high-rise office and bearded boyfriends. And I could still get out too. Caring about a boy who cared about me wouldn’t ruin my future if I didn’t let it.

  I went through his back gate, prepared to tap on his window. This was a terrible idea. He’d probably yell at me for showing up in the middle of the night, like any normal person would do. I’d have to move to Canada, change my name to Maple, and take up curling.

  As I went around the side of the house, I caught sight of a faint glow. Paxton lounged on a lawn chair with Matilda on his lap. His computer sat open on a garden table, with Say Anything playing on the screen. He looked at me and jumped up, nearly dropping Matilda, grabbing her scruff at the last second.

  “What are you doing here?” His gaze slid over me, to the hemline of my dress, lower, and back up again. He swallowed hard. “I thought you had a date?”

  “It ended hours ago.” I took a step closer to him. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but it wasn’t, like, a real date. I didn’t even shave above my knees.” Oh my God. What was wrong with me? “Not that you asked about my pre-date rituals. Please say something so I’ll stop talking.”

  “Hold on.” He put Matilda in her hutch and walked back to me just as Lloyd held the boom box over his head. “It wasn’t a date?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it. It doesn’t matter.” Maybe it was the dark or what I’d confessed to Elise or most likely the peach schnapps, but I felt bolder than I had in a long time. I took another step, closing the gap between us. “Why haven’t you texted me?”

  “I thought you wanted space.”

  “I don’t want space.” I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and pulled him against me. Here in the dark, surrounded by bunnies and daffodils, with the feel of Paxton’s hands on me, I wanted something real. I didn’t want to be Fly Ball Girl. I didn’t want to be one half of the viral Internet couple. I just wanted to be me.

  He cupped my face with one hand, while the other slipped around my waist. His thumb grazed my jawline, and I pushed up on my toes and kissed him. His lips, so soft and careful, pressed against mine. I opened for him and his tongue swept over mine, slowly exploring at first, until I tugged him closer and deepened the kiss. He groaned, and the sound traveled all the way down my spine.

  My fingers tangled in his hair as his hands roamed. Up my back, over my stomach, and across my ribs. Everywhere he touched burned, followed by a pleasant shiver that went straight down to my toes. He broke the kiss and his lips brushed my ear, trailed down my neck, then back to my mouth. I couldn’t get enough. I rubbed his chest over his shirt, touched his arms, solid from working in the repair shop for the last year.

  His breath was warm on my neck as he murmured against it, “You taste like peaches.”

  “Do you like peaches?” My voice had gone breathless.

  He pulled back, his thumbs circling my sides. “I fucking love peaches.”

  His mouth covered mine again, and I was drowning in the scent and taste and feel of him against me. I wanted more. I wanted everything. He guided me over to his lawn chair and sat, pulling me with him. I straddled him, grinding against his hips. He was hard beneath me as his fingers dipped under the hemline of my dress. I smacked his hand away and he chuckled in my mouth. The gentle vibration nearly undid me.

  “I forgot you didn’t shave above your knees.” He traced the lines of my calves.

  “Believe me, if I’d known I was going to come over, I would’ve.” My hands rested against his chest, and it took all my willpower not to rip off his shirt.

  “Why did you come over?” He rubbed my arms. “Not that I’m complaining.”

  “I saw your note, with the flowers, in the trash.”

  His breath whooshed out of him. “That was an impulse.”

  “Picking the flowers and writing the note, or throwing them away?”

  “Both?” He let out a
shaky laugh and eased me off his lap to stand. Whatever he was about to say, he didn’t want to do it with me on top of him. “I meant what I said on the note, but then I saw the picture of your date. Or whatever it was. It looked cozy. I guess I didn’t want to get in the way. If you didn’t feel the same way about me.”

  I would never eat salmon again for as long as I lived. “That date was not really a date.”

  “What was it then?” he asked.

  “It was more of a …” I twirled my hand, trying to figure out how to explain Eric. Especially if we kept playing this game online. “A business arrangement.”

  “What?” Paxton had gone still. So still.

  Until tonight, I hadn’t told anyone about my and Eric’s plans to use each other to meet our own ends. Maybe before dinner part of me questioned if it could be real between us after all. Maybe a bigger part of me was ashamed of the levels I’d stooped to for YouTube subscribers.

  “Eric wants to be a big-deal sports blogger.” I toed at the browning grass under my feet, refusing to meet Paxton’s eyes. “All this media attention, it’s giving him an edge. His blog hits are through the roof, the Royals gave him locker room access, and I’m helping that along.”

  Paxton crossed his arms over his chest. “What’s in it for you?”

  “My YouTube channel just passed two hundred thousand subscribers. Once I post the video of us at dinner, it could go even higher.” I glanced up at his tense face. Not at all like the boy who’d been kissing me breathless minutes ago.

  “You’re dating him for views? Does your ego need that big of a boost?”

  His words were like a punch to my gut. “It’s not about ego. My videos are monetized, and my other videos are getting clicks too. I’ve always wanted to build my platform enough to maybe make a living at this, and for the first time, it might be a reality.”

  “And what happens when this wears off? When a piano-playing cat or an elaborate gender reveal party steals the attention away? Will you go on vacations together? Film an engagement special? Let CBS pay for your dream wedding? How far does it go?”

  Every question hammered against me. Every insecurity I felt about playing this game with Eric laid out bare. I knew it was wrong. So wrong that I’d lied to everyone I cared about. The shame of what I’d been willing to do to get out of this town, the shame of wanting to leave in the first place, all hounded me. I didn’t even know myself anymore. Still …

  “Why are you pissed?” I asked. “It has nothing to do with how I feel about you.”

  He ran a hand through his hair. “I’m not pissed.”

  I gave him a bland stare.

  “Okay, I’m a little pissed. But I’m pissed because I’m worried. Why are you inviting this into your life? Is it worth having voyeurs on your front lawn and people picking apart every word you say, just waiting for a chance to drag you until you bleed?”

  “What do you know about it?” I choked down the urge to yell. Lisbeth and Gigi would probably not appreciate my presence at this hour. “You aren’t online. You don’t even have Facebook. Half the Bees have Facebook.”

  “I know enough about it.” The hard edge in his voice made me pause.

  I dared a step forward and peered up at him. Underneath the hardness held an incredible amount of hurt. I wouldn’t let it go this time. Even if he kept pushing his past away, I needed to know. “What happened to you?”

  “Why do you want to know?” His tone was hollow. “So you have something else to exploit when all this baseball stuff goes away?”

  I reeled back, putting more physical distance between us. “That’s a bullshit thing to say to me, and you know it.” All the anger I felt toward him, toward myself, I flung outward. “I get that my sudden fame is an issue for you, though you won’t bother to tell me why, but I’m going to keep doing what I need to do to grow my subscribers. It’s my life and you have no say in it. You’re not even my boyfriend.”

  I couldn’t read him and it scared me. I’d always been able to get a feel for his moods. The distance between us widened. “You’re right. I’m definitely not your boyfriend.”

  That was all we had left to say. Scraping up the small amount of pride I had left, I turned on my heel and marched toward my car. He didn’t follow me or try to stop me.

  I waited until I pulled into my driveway to let the tears fall.

  CHAPTER

  SEVENTEEN

  THE NEXT AFTERNOON I hung out with Mom in the Hamptons. I picked at the dead grass and moped. She wore the gaudiest floppy hat adorned with plastic roses, and had a blush to her cheeks that didn’t have anything to do with the summer sun. She must’ve had a good time with cradle-robbing Roger. I wondered if I’d ever meet him, and if I’d be able to keep myself from calling him cradle-robbing Roger.

  “You look happy.” I nudged her foot with mine. “Did your date go well?”

  “Hmm?” Mom looked up from the book she’d been staring at for ten minutes without turning a page. “Oh, yes. We went out on the lake.”

  “You went out on the lake after the park closed?” I narrowed my eyes. “How?”

  “You think Paxton is the only who knows how to break into that shed and snag a boat?” She laughed at my scandalized expression.

  “Oh my God. My mom. The rebel teenager.” I did not want to know how she knew Paxton stole boats for our movies on the lake. I’d never told her about those nights, but I supposed moms had a sixth sense about those kinds of things. She went back to her book, and I opened the YouTube app to post the dinner video. First I wanted to check on my Dirty Dancing video. It still had a lot of thumbs-downs, way more than my other videos, and while I could admit it had been a rush job, I didn’t think it was that bad. I took a peek at the comments.

  EmilyChase: Boring

  MargHenry: Less movie talk, more Baseball Babe please

  AllySheridan: what does dirty dancing have to do with baseball babe?

  LincolnDunn: I’m only here for the porn

  KellyConner: wake me up when she talks about baseball babe again

  At least they had a running theme. Even Lincoln, in his own trollish way. The more I scrolled through the comments, the more they started to prove Paxton right—they wouldn’t care about my videos once the novelty of Fly Ball Girl wore off—which just pissed me off even more. I shut down the app and threw my phone into the grass.

  “How did your date go last night?” Mom asked.

  I wanted to ask which one, but I wasn’t in the mood to be cheeky or to talk about Paxton. “I don’t know. It feels icky. Like I’m playing into what other people want for me, not really what I want for myself. I wonder if it would be better if I left it alone.”

  It was one thing to play up this fauxmance online, but once I’d seen Eric in person, I’d crossed a very fundamental line. I kept telling myself it was worth it, long term, but now I wasn’t so sure. Elise didn’t seem to think so. Paxton definitely didn’t think so. I didn’t want to text him, because then I’d just look desperate, so I did the totally reasonable and normal thing by letting it eat away at me instead.

  Mom laid a hand on my arm. “For what it’s worth, I think Eric genuinely likes you. I got that sense at the stadium, and you both got caught up in an unfortunate circumstance that you can now make the best of.”

  She was too much of a romantic and a softie to see all the games people played online for their fifteen minutes. We weren’t two teenagers in love who’d met by chance at a baseball game. This ultimately wouldn’t be a story written in the stars. We’d gotten what many people tried for and only a few attained. Instant, viral fame. And playing it up, stretching it out, to meet our own ends didn’t make us good or right, but we did it anyway.

  “I still can’t believe you let me drive to St. Joseph on my own.”

  Mom set her book aside. “Are you saying that because you didn’t really want to go?”

  “No.”

  She gave me the Look.

  “Maybe a little,” I said sheep
ishly. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to see Eric again.” He was way worse off than me, anxiety and nightmares included. His obsession with likes and retweets bordered on masochistic.

  Mom tipped her sunglasses down. “Oh?”

  “There’s no story. It just wasn’t a love connection.”

  “I’m sorry, sweetie. He seemed like a nice boy.”

  They all seemed like nice boys, until they weren’t. I did my best to smile, if only to ease that worry crease between her brows. “It wasn’t a total bust. I did get a free meal at Pellegrino’s.”

  Mom brushed her hand over my cheek. “I worry about you.”

  “You shouldn’t. I’m fine.” Besides all the lying I’d been doing, the stress over my Twitter mentions and subscribers, the fight I’d had with Paxton, and everything I’d given up to chase something I wasn’t even sure I could hold on to.

  “Sorry, kiddo, I’m a mom. Worrying is what I do best.”

  “I know.” I slumped in my beach recliner. “Maybe Paxton was right.”

  “What was Paxton right about?”

  “Um.” I was five again and learning how to skate. The ice was so cold and slippery. “He wasn’t exactly thrilled about my date with Eric.”

  Mom pinched her lips until they were nothing more than a grim line. “I see.”

  My ankles wobbled in my skates. “You see what?”

  Her back stiffened and she’d become calm. Like eye-of-the-storm calm. “I don’t see why who you date is any of his concern, since you work with him.”

  And I fell through the ice.

  “Oh my God.” I threw my hands in the air. “He’s my friend, Mom. And who even cares if we work together? What if I did date him? I know how you feel about pregnancy—trust me, I know—but do you really think on the first day of work they hand all the guys a time card and a jar of sperm with a slap on the back and say, ‘Use it wisely, boys’?”

  As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I wanted to stuff them all back in. I’d never taken that tone with my mom. It’s not like we’d never been mad at each other, but we didn’t scream at each other. We always walked away to cool down before we got to that point. Or we’d go pick a fight with Gram, who lived to argue, just to burn off some of that frustration.