Leanne Davis - Natalie (Daughters Series #2)

by Natalie (Daughters Series #2)

  I soon have the entire table rolling in laughter, which leads to a discussion of some crazy things Jessie saw pet owners doing to their pets. She tells about some lady who had a taxidermist stuff and mount a dozen cats. As if that weren’t odd enough, she then tried to bring them in to Jessie for their exams once a year! The craziness of that had us all laughing. Later on, her sister, Lindsey, and her husband, Noah, come over. I am swiftly introduced to an attractive couple, both tall and lean, with dark hair. Lindsey has a quick smile, and seems worldly. She has a world–weariness about people, however, and is somewhat reserved, which I totally get.

  But eventually everyone leaves and it is time to go to bed. I walk with Sam in total silence to the apartment. I shut the bedroom door without a word that night. The next day is simply more of the same until Max gets off school and shows up. He and some friends are playing a softball at a nearby field. “Any takers?” he asks, glancing around. Sam glances at me and I don’t fail to notice the gleam in his eye. I give him the death stare. No way. I have no desire to play sports with these people, and especially with him.

  But Sam stands up. “We will. You won’t believe the arm on Natalie.”

  Christina gets up as Melissa squeals, “Oh, I totally suck. But can I come anyway?”

  “I want to too!” Emily glances at me before making a rude face at Melissa with her lip curled up and her cheeks squished weird. “Except I totally don’t suck. You’ll be dust under my heels.”

  “That sounds like Nat,” Sam says with a grin. So it’s a sister thing. Sam is daring me. I can feel it in his gaze and raised eyebrows, as if to say, Your call, Nat. “What do you say?”

  “Fine.” I keep my glare at bay until everyone else is busy getting up to grab their shoes and change their clothes. His smile expands even wider. How can he be such a cheating, two–timing ass and still have the nerve to smile at me like that? Even worse, how can my heart still thump so painfully in my chest over him?

  The baseball field is well–tended. Short grass, raked dirt and the lines are decent enough to delineate the diamond. The back fence has no graffiti. Farther off, kids are climbing on toys and being pushed on swings. People are walking, picnicking, and enjoying the pleasant sun and air. The sky is clear blue and goes on forever here. I breathe in the smell of freshly cut grass. Is there any scent that makes one feel more like it’s spring? Or more alive? I have a borrowed mitt on my hand. I’m wearing sneakers, leggings, and a t–shirt, and a baseball cap completes my outfit. There are a bunch of young people here. All of them seem closer to Max and Christina’s ages than ours. Friends from high school, I learn. They must know the entire school; how many kids could there be? But the teens are all lithe, slim, athletic and most of all, young. Youth. In the last week, it feels like I’ve completely lost the last remnant of what I once considered my youth.

  Whatever. The teams are chosen and I make sure I’m on the team opposite Sam. Oh, Sam… How predictably the young teens and twenty–somethings start fawning over him as he gives them pointers. He even does a few physical demonstrations, instructing the girls to widen their stances, or showing them how to properly grip the baseball bat. Does he miss the one who’s rubbing against him suggestively? Honestly? I think that might be possible. His gaze remains on her feet as he intently tries to position the girl from nearly standing on home plate. But she’s too busy trying to rub her body on him to notice his instructions. Sam and I take our recreation seriously. I know her lack of seriously trying irritates him more than her sexiness could possibly interest him. Finally, we start to play. After three innings, we’re tied, so we play through to four. The weaklings are done. Sam and I make eye contact a few times, both of us slightly annoyed when the others decide to cut the game short. We don’t do that. Never. But we’re quiet and hold our tongues politely, being guests and all.

  Christina is terrible, but Melissa is worse. They can’t hit, run, catch, or throw. They pretend to try, but look like typical, uncoordinated, stereotypical “girls” doing it. I play first base. I throw accurately and my catches are spot–on. Playing sports starts to warm me up, and gives me more confidence. I know how to do this stuff. I hit a double, then a triple, and finally, a homerun. I make the most of the outs, or at the very least, instruct and coach the other teammates on how to improve. I watch Sam attempting to do the same thing with his own team, although with more finesse than I possess. I catch him tightening his lips in annoyance, despite all his seemingly supportive instructions and calls. He’s as intense in sports as I am. He likes to win as much as I do. And right now? Even with all the shit between us, he won’t let me win. I almost respect him for that. Because another man might feel so haunted by fresh guilt, as Sam claims he is, he might be tempted to just let me win. Out of respect. Or care. Or just trying to please me. Not Sam. I nod at him with genuine respect for not doing that.

  “Damn, girl. You are something else,” Max says to me when I tag him out at first. He’s yet to get past me.

  I grin, until I see Sam is up next. He stares at me, kicking his feet against the metal bat. That’s his ritual. He taps his right, and then his left toes, and then each heel. Every single time. In that exact order. Since he was ten years old, he has done that exact ritual before he bats.

  He takes the position. A girl named Jayne tosses in a lame, underhand, slow pitch. I ache to grab it and lob in an overhand fast pitch. That’s the kind Sam, Dustin and I always played. That’s why I’m not pitching. I can’t take this slow crap. It’s like listening to an orchestra play a symphony when all I really want is some damn rock ‘n’ roll!

  But the next pitch is good enough and Sam easily hits it and connects. I see it and back up from my position, hoping his famous hook comes my way. He hits it mid–field. The fielder misses and goes after it. Sam is running hard with a huge grin on his face; heading for home. I know it. I run to home base and yell and scream to the fielder to throw the ball to me. He finally manages to grab it and throws it to me. I catch the crazy, too-high throw with a jump as high as I can stretch. As Sam’s barrels down at me. I land on the base, just as his foot crosses it.

  I had it! I’m sure I landed a millisecond before he crossed. I grin triumphantly to tag him out and glance all around. No one else is cheering. They aren’t sure if I got the out or not, and there’s no umpire to rule. Or anyone who even knows the damn rules. Max kind of shrugs, acting as an unofficial judge. “Uh, wow. Close. But I think Sam had it… just barely. I think we won.”

  Throwing my mitt down, I rail, “Are you blind, Max? Jesus H! I had that. I caught it! He is so out. I can’t believe this shit…” I begin to rant. Max’s expression goes from amiable to shocked. He glances around, looking for help, or perhaps an explanation as to why this is suddenly happening to him. I feel a hand on my shoulder. It’s Sam.

  “Hey, Nat. It was close. Fair call. We won.”

  I whirl on him and push his hand away. “Bullshit! You did not.”

  “We did too. It’s fair.”

  “Fair, my ass. Let me tell you what’s fair. And this? This is not fair. I had you. You are out. You didn’t win. Unless, of course, you insist on cheating? Always the preferred method, huh?”

  We are staring at each other. Outside noises, colorful flashes of clothes on the other players, the sun on my arms, all of those things fade as we stare each other down. I am transported. I see him. I see him with her. Doing with her, what he should only ever do with me, exclusively. My nostrils flare, my eyes widen. I become wild. The familiar rage bubbles just beneath the surface of my skin. All it takes is one little scratch or prick before it gushes out of me.

  “I had no idea you were so competitive. Okay, we’ll replay the point.” Max’s voice chimes in behind me. It’s a fair, level–headed solution, but I can hear the falsity in his tone. He’s probably wondering why anyone would care that much. But since I do, fine! I get to have my way. I close my eyes as I realize I’m standing amongst a bunch of kids, all strangers, even my sisters, with my fists
clenched, my lungs heaving, and my eyes on fire. All while participating in a deadlocked staring contest with my husband over a single point in a for–fun softball game.

  Only it was not just a softball game. It symbolizes my entire life with Sam.

  But no one else realizes that. I look and sound crazy, stupid, competitive, and belligerent. I act like the poorest sport in history. I open my eyes and exhale a deep rush of breath from my mouth. Calm. Act calm and normal. I must not be like that. I loosen my fists and glance around finally. “Oh shit. I’m sorry. Sam and I have an ongoing competition. We’ve been playing since kids, keeping track of who wins, he has four more than me. It’s stupid, really. A contest. A lark. I got overheated for no reason. You all won.” What I say is true. We do have an ongoing tally of our wins. But my overheated poor–sportsmanship is actually no more than a sad cry for my husband, as I mourn my devastation at his betrayal.

  Max cracks up. “Holy shit! You two are hilarious. And damn, Natalie, you are one chick I would never mess with!”

  I turn and sock him in the shoulder. “Don’t call me chick. It’s degrading and juvenile. Haven’t you—”

  His grin is huge. “Yeah, I got your number. You are so easy to get going.” Now, he is full on laughing. I see nothing but fun in his gaze. He’s razzing me. He’s doing what I usually do, trash talking. Competitor dissing. Not too serious. But enough to end a good game.

  Christina finally laughs and comes over to me. “I thought you were going to punch Sam, or maybe even Max. And not like I punch. If you punched them, they’d need first aid.”

  The tense situation is defused as I dip my head in a small smile of acknowledgement. I know that I’ve overreacted and shown my way-too-competitive side. Sam uses the opportunity to swing his arm around my shoulder and pull me closer. I push away, but he’s got me firmly. It looks casual, but it’s not. He grips the back of my neck and presses his lips into my hair. I try to push him off me, but he holds me steady. I can’t get away from him without being super obvious. Why should I cringe and fight my husband’s affections?

  Then he whispers into my ear, “Fight me. Keep fighting me. Because that way, I know you haven’t given up on us.” He lets me go and keeps walking to grab some water off the bleachers. I stare after him, but no one else notices me. He likes my unattractive attributes? I get so heated about games and competition, especially winning, I’m ridiculous sometimes. How can anyone find me tolerable? Let alone attractive? But I know I’ve given myself away here with Sam. I might hate him, but nothing can conceal the fact that he’s broken my heart and I don’t know how to deal with it.

  ****

  The group of teens we’re with decides we should all hang out; and Christina is Sam’s and my ride. I can’t believe I’m stuck with them, hanging out like a damn high school freshman with the wrong crowd. They eat and laugh and joke. There are a lot of jokes about Max and Christina, so their cousin thing doesn’t earn my comments alone. There’s joke after joke of family inbreeding and they take it all with smiles and good humor.

  We eat hamburgers and fries at a favorite local place. It’s good and I like the special sauce. I hear a bunch of stories about my sister in high school and the trouble that Max got into often. His famous stint the summer before last in illegal fighting managed to raise him to god–like status with the guys his age. Even Sam perks up and asks all kinds of questions about it. The most offensive is, how could short Max win his fights? Max merely laughs off all the innocuous ribbing.

  We stay there for a long while until another couple wants to go to the beach, wherever that is. Max and Christina consult with us, explaining how it used to be their hangout, and since this is the first time they are all home together since last summer, do we mind?

  I do. Extremely. Because it prolongs my presence in Sam’s company. But I smile and nod as if it’s just another way to spend the evening. Melissa and Emily get permission to come also and we are soon out on a darkening beach with a rushing river nearby. It makes lapping background gurgles. We are on private land and people are sitting around a large bonfire. It’s a relaxed atmosphere as they reminisce. There are even a dozen or so lawn chairs available. We sit for a while. Finally, the crowd depletes until it’s just Sam and me, my sisters and Max. I sit on the ground, drawing my knees up while staring into the fire. Sam sits in a chair near me. I’ve had enough of his presence. And close proximity. I can feel every single time he moves his arm, or leans forward. I am hyper-aware of every single move he makes and all the words he says. I am acting almost like I used to with him.

  It felt a bit like being a teenager again hanging out together the way we are surrounded by them. However, we never found a secluded beach in the middle of nowhere and had a bonfire, of course. We usually went to the field near our apartment, or behind one of the old, abandoned buildings on the block whenever we wanted to hang out undisturbed. We still had the same idea.

  “How did you two meet?” Christina asks Sam. My head is down and I am nearly hypnotized by the waning fire’s glow. I don’t raise my head. I feel Sam rustling his butt back and forth before he finally leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

  “We were childhood friends. Always.”

  “So were we. The best of friends,” Christina says, her voice warming up. I see her glance at Max and he at her.

  “Nat and I were always close too.”

  “How old were you when you met?” asks Emily, who rarely speaks. Her gaze is fixed on Sam, and I don’t fail to notice the pink flush in her cheeks. She has a total crush on Sam.

  “I was eight. Nat was five. She was walking with her parents, and my brother asked her why her skin wasn’t the same color as her parents’. I boxed him on the ears and called him something…”

  “Twerp. You called him a twerp, and told me not to listen to the ‘bottom feeder.’” I jerk my shoulders back. I was not intending to speak. But there I go, joining in with all the pointless and hurtful reminiscing. Stupid, right? What better way to sadden me more and make everything hurt even worse?

  Lifting my gaze to Sam, I see the small smile of nostalgia on his lips. He nods at me. “Yes, that sounds right. Anyway, from that day on, Dustin and Natalie followed me everywhere. I was their babysitter for years at a time. But Natalie quickly outshone Dustin, as well as every other boy in our neighborhood, with her speed, coordination and agility. She and I started to compete when she was eight. For a few early years, we were well–matched, until puberty gave me a biological advantage.”

  I bristle. It still annoys me. “That’s the only damn reason. Stupid boys,” I mumble.

  I notice Melissa smiling from across the fire at us. Sam’s warm hand is on my shoulder. He’s taking advantage of my unwillingness to let anyone know how much I currently loathe him. So now he thinks he can touch me? To try and… what did he say? Start somewhere? Well, screw him. No amount of pretty memories could ever undo the horrifying one I now possess of him with another woman.

  “When did it change for you guys?” Christina directly asks me.

  I stare hard at the fire, trying to ignore Sam whose focus narrows on me. I casually dig my hands into the sand and let the cold grains run through my fingers. I do it again and again. I’m stalling, and letting the repetition slow my racing heart.

  “The summer he graduated from UCLA. He came out with an inflated ego, he was so high on being a frat–boy idiot and so smug and sure he was better than all of us. But by then, my mom was dying and he was my oldest and best friend… so I told him about it. And…”

  “And?” Emily urged. I had her complete attention. She is always hanging on what I say, like a hang glider grasping the wind. Our story entrances her. She probably envisions Sam as the noble hero of a romance novel. She also, no doubt, thinks we are some kind of happily ever after story. She has no clue of the tragedy that now taints my whole life with Sam.

  “And she told me about her mom one night in my parents’ apartment. And I think that was the first time I saw h
er as a girl. She was always a friend, sure, as well as a competitor. But a pretty girl? No, not to me anyway, which was crazy stupid because she was. I remember more than one of our mutual friends making a play for her.”

  I sharpen my gaze on his. He grins when he notices my stunned look. “You didn’t realize that? Sure, Ty and Jackson and Asher. I shut them down pretty quick. They noticed you before I did, when you blossomed and turned from a rival to… a girl they wanted to date. I never told you that?”

  I nod in the negative. He lifts one side of his mouth. “Anyway, until that night, when I saw her so hurt and trying to remain so strong about her mother, that was when I first realized she was all grown–up. I was no longer her big brother friend, or protector or the guy who’s always trying to poke fun at her just to see her reaction. Suddenly, she’s a beautiful young woman and I didn’t know what to do. It was never that way for us before, not until that exact moment.”

  “I was always the tomboy; never once did I become the graceful swan,” I add with an impassioned tone. “And I still haven’t.”

  Melissa nearly claps her hands. “That’s so awesome. I can’t imagine having so much confidence in myself. For me, it’s almost impossible to be… comfortable. I always want to be the way people want me to be. You know? I mean…” She stops talking and glances around. Only then does she realize all of us are listening to her. She drops her head, shaking it, letting her long hair fall over her face. There are obvious self–image issues with her. My heart aches. I remember that age. It was so hard. Young girls are so beautiful, but they never believe their beauty is the right or desirable kind.

  “I say, if a guy doesn’t like you for exactly who and what you are, especially when it comes to your looks, then fuck ‘em, Melissa! They don’t deserve even a skinny slice of time from your brain. Discard them along with any rude comments as if they’re no more than trash you’re tossing away. Got it?”

  She lifts her head and we stare at each other. I have a strong personality. I know that. Especially about women in general, and how I think we should feel about ourselves. I might come on a tad too strong, but Melissa’s eyes fill with tears as she nods in agreement.