Jagged Heart (Broken Bottles Series Book 3)

by Taeuffer, Pamela

  “Count your blessin's you have even one friend,” he held up his index finger as if demonstrating his meaning. “Until I get back home it's all acquaintances. I haven't made any friends since I didn’t get to go to college. Not really. So . . .”

  “You’re a jock,” I kidded. “You’ll be fine.”

  “Maybe,” he wore a shit ass grin. “That’s not the way it feels right now, though. I wish I had at least two years of college under my belt.”

  Yes! That’s exactly what I tried to tell Ryan.

  “Yeah, but like I said before, you have to be good to be drafted right out of high school and in professional baseball only two years later.”

  “That’s what happens when you’re driven like you and me.” He shrugged his shoulders. “We leave friends along the way.”

  “Will you stay over tonight?" I blurted.

  He choked on a sip of water.

  "Are you okay?"

  "You want me to spend the night?" He wiped his mouth.

  Chapter 7

  A Little Sarcasm With

  Breakfast

  “I know we should go to sleep; not to mention you probably want to go. The sofa in the living room opens into a bed. You can sleep there when we get tired of talking. Well, if you want. Do you? It's probably not the luxury of your place, but . . .”

  After I announced my invitation, I laughed aloud. Although it was bold, I felt good I had offered it. He was obviously shocked, which suited me fine. I was in the mood to stir the pot. Just when I thought I might have scared him off, his smile bloomed.

  “Talk about ballsy, Ethan. You only invited me for coffee. Here I am inviting you to stay over and we've only known each other a few hours! What do you think of me now?”

  “My opinion hasn’t changed,” he said confidently. “I’ll stay over. And by the way, I'm in an Extended Stay Hotel, so . . . hardly luxury.”

  “I’ll get you a blanket and pillow. Be right back. Grab the waters and I’ll meet you in the living room.” I ran upstairs and got two blankets and two pillows and then set them on the sofa. “One for each of us.” I wrapped myself in the blanket, stretched my legs, and rested my feet on the coffee table. “Have you ever been hurt by a woman?”

  “Nothing too terrible.” He kicked off his shoes, tucked his feet underneath his body, and sat on the opposite end of the sofa. “Even though I’m only twenty, I’ve had disappointments. I know the empty feelin's you have right now; it’s rough.” He hesitated, and then shared, “Do you think he’s too old for you?”

  You're not the first to suggest it. I still don't know.

  The more I was with Ethan, the more my ramblings grew loose and comfortable. It was easy to respond to the sweet innocence of a twenty-year-old boy who seemed open and authentic. His innocence was much different even than Jerry's; we were enjoying each other's conversation with no sex in the way.

  “Better get some rest if we’re gonna make breakfast tomorrow. Actually,” he looked down at his watch. “I mean, today.”

  I didn't realize another hour passed.

  “You’re not sick of me yet?” I was almost afraid to ask the question, fearing an answer I didn't want to hear.

  “Not even close.”

  Phew.

  “Do you want me to help you set up the sofa bed?” I offered.

  “That’s okay, I’ll just stretch out.” His long body settled in.

  You look cute all tucked in that blanket.

  “Okay, then. Thanks for talking with me.” I suddenly had an urge to kiss him goodnight on the cheek. Instead, I surprised him when I gave him a hug. “I’m so glad you asked me to coffee. You really helped me tonight.”

  “I'm glad, too. Night,” he winked and then closed his eyes.

  I ran upstairs to my bedroom. Although I still ached for Ryan, now that a little time had passed, I saw how letting go was the right decision. It was the best thing for both of us.

  "Sorry we didn't work out." I kissed the sterling silver charm he'd given me on my birthday. It was the number eighteen and I kept it by my bedside. "I'll always remember you."

  I crashed hard; getting a few hours of much needed sleep. It seemed only a few minutes had passed when my phone rang at 8:00 a.m.

  The sun was out.

  For a change there was no fog.

  “Morning."

  “Morning,” Ethan replied tentatively. “Sorry, the team called an early meeting and I need to be there at eleven. I know we were up late so it's okay if you don't—"

  “I want to go." I wiped the sleep from my eyes. "Where are you?”

  “Downstairs,” he almost whispered.

  “You’re calling me from the living room?”

  “I’m not coming up to your room,” he cautioned. “Your dad already looked at me weird when he left the house. I faked being asleep, but I saw his face. He freaked me out.”

  “He looks at every boy that way." I reconsidered what I'd just said, thinking it may have come out the wrong way. “Not that I've had anyone sleep over. Anyway, I’ll get ready now; it won’t take me long. Sorry, I should have set the alarm so I woke up before my father; I would've saved you some embarrassment. Do you want a toothbrush, some mouthwash, a pair of socks, or anything?”

  “No, I’m okay,” he laughed. “A pair of socks? Ya think my socks are dirty?”

  “I don’t know what to offer you.”

  “I’m fine," he went on quickly. “Hurry up. I wanna spend a few hours together.”

  “I’ll be down in a bit.” I ended the call and scrambled to get ready. Now that I was awake and facing a new day, I had time to think about Ryan and what we’d done. We’d handled each other so poorly I didn’t think our friendship was salvageable. I wanted to call him and apologize. Instead, I did nothing. I was afraid to say hello. I put on a pair of black jeans and a gray sweater, and gathered my hair back with a headband. It was 8:15 and quiet throughout the house.

  “Morning.” Ethan gave me a big hug.

  I hugged him back.

  “I’m going to start a pot of coffee for my family. It’ll only take me a minute.”

  “You okay?” He pulled back and looked me in the eyes. When I nodded and smiled, he announced, “I’ll go warm up ol’ Betsy.”

  I could see the happiness in his eyes. There was something great about meeting a new friend. It was as if my heart had filled with joy. I imagined he felt the same way. In fact, it looked as if he might skip down the sidewalk to his car. I wondered what it might be like to skip after him. I turned on the coffeemaker, grabbed my backpack and keys, and headed out to Ethan’s VW Beetle.

  “The sun’s out! Can you believe it?" I was bubbling over.

  "Gorgeous," Ethan agreed.

  "Just a warning, when it’s calm to begin the day like this, it could mean a lot of wind at the ball park.” I wanted to educate him about the stadium conditions, in case he was put into the game. “Be ready for some crazy fly balls.”

  “Okay, I’ll watch out for them.” He opened the door for me. “You live in a nice neighborhood.”

  Is it really so nice? To a stranger’s eye, maybe, but now I’m not so sure.

  “Thanks. It was um . . . interesting growing up here.” It wasn’t my usual cover up. Fun? There was definitely a lot of it, but that word wasn't right. What was the best way to put it? Perhaps that it was a mix of everything light and dark. I knew as soon as I returned home I'd need to write about my new friend’s observation.

  “Which way?” Ethan climbed in, took the brake off and shifted out of neutral.

  “Make a U-turn and we’ll go down West Portal. If you weren’t so limited on time we could walk; maybe next time. Um . . . you know, if you want to do a next time. ”

  “Well, it’s not even 8:30. Let's do it.” He turned off the car. “How is it you look so awake? If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought you went to sleep early. You look great.”

  “Thanks, so do you," I admitted. “I guess we both have the adrenaline of meeting
a new friend rushing through us.”

  “Guess so,” he agreed. "About that next time you offered?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Definitely."

  We talked the entire eight blocks to the café. Over pancakes, I found out about his friends and family and shared how my mother was raised in Arizona and Dad in San Francisco. Of course I bragged about Jenise as well, and found out he had two brothers and one sister. We didn’t stop until we got back to my house.

  “Would you mind if I called you again?” he shoved his hands in his jacket pockets.

  “You still want to after all my drama?” I pretended to tease him, but I really was serious.

  “Oh yeah,” he affirmed. “After this series we fly out to Texas. How 'bout we get together when I get back in town?"

  "I'd love to! Here, let me give you my email. That way if you want to talk more and it's too long for a text, we’re all set. Am I being too pushy? Suddenly I feel like, well, you might as well know that when I’m comfortable, which I admit doesn’t happen too often, I want to know everything. It’s funny, but when I feel a connection, it's like my heart wants to soar so high I can't imagine coming back to earth.”

  “What a sweet thing to say.” The way he looked over my face suddenly made me feel bashful. It was an expression of warmth, and was genuine and intimate. I looked to the sky so I could have a few seconds to gather myself.

  “Yeah, and I might as well tell you now, I have a tendency to talk fast and a lot. So raise your hand if you want me to stop,” I cautioned. “Otherwise, I’ll keep going forever.”

  “Okay, I’ll raise my hand,” he seemed to appreciate my candor and laughed softly. “Thanks for having breakfast with me. See you tonight and have a good cheer!” He got in his car and rolled down the window. “Let your heart soar, Nicky.”

  I will! I want to!

  Waving goodbye, I watched him until he rounded the corner. For one of the first times ever, it didn’t bother me to see him disappear from my view like it had with just about everyone else. This time, with this boy, I wasn’t afraid.

  As I closed the front door, I could hear my family talking at the kitchen table. Jubilant sensations of roses and new places filled me. Instead of running up to my room and ignoring a chance to talk with parents, I walked in to say hello.

  “Thanks for the coffee this morning,” Mom acknowledged.

  “Just getting in?” Jenise asked. Her slippers flopped on the linoleum floor as she walked from the counter to the table, a cup of coffee in her hand.

  “No, I was here last night,” I answered. “I met a new friend yesterday. We went out for breakfast, that’s all.”

  “Someone was sleeping on the sofa.” Sarcasm lined Dad's words.

  By the way, still working, Dad?

  “Yeah and that someone said you went out early, but here you are,” I goaded. “And it’s Friday, so why aren’t you working?”

  “Day off,” he said defensively.

  Jenise and I looked at each other.

  I'll bet. Your bottle was empty. Wasn't that why you left?

  “No invitation to your room this time?” He continued trying to get a reaction from me.

  “No, not this time,” I responded with my own jab.

  “Going well with Ryan?” Jenise asked, making kissy lips.

  My mother looked up. She knew I’d been crying about him the day before. I was up one day and down the next. She probably thought I was crazy.

  I wasn’t ready to share anything—even with Jenise—until I analyzed what happened.

  I wonder if I’ll ever understand it.

  “Yep,” I answered as if I had everything together. “Everything’s going great.”

  “That didn’t look like Ryan on the sofa,” Dad said smugly.

  Jenise looked at me with concern. She knew something was wrong. For once, she didn’t press me.

  “It wasn’t.” I shot them all a fake smile and then escaped to my sanctuary upstairs.

  Chapter 8

  A Circle Begins To Close

  As often happened in times of trauma, the need to create something rose up from what I called, The Dark Place. It was a creative room deep inside of me, which temporarily filled with light and let me run free with words.

  I wrote a new poem.

  Jotted down some ideas for several stories.

  Considered my aunt's memoir.

  The words almost materialized in the air they flowed so easily.

  When I finished getting the immediate thoughts and voices I'd urgently needed to pluck from my body and onto paper, I took the time to write about Ethan’s comment: "You live in a nice neighborhood."

  Just how was it to grow up here?

  I thought back to the early days when our relatives came over to play Ping-Pong during a Saturday afternoon and poker in the evening. Bowls of crackers and cheese, deli meats with condiments, bottles of beer and soda on ice, and jars of nuts and chocolate-covered raisins were some of their snacks.

  When Dad was sober, the sky opened in magic.

  Mom was present and smiling.

  Jenise and I were welcomed to dig in and have as much as the adult's food as we wanted. The arms of my father surrounded the daughter that was often his nemesis—my sister. Auntie Barbara and I had pretend tea with one of the play sets she'd bought or me. Sissy and I were invited to play a few card games with the adults and even encouraged to join in some of their table tennis tournaments.

  Our home became a kind of "Neverland" in those days.

  I wrote about the nights us neighborhood kids played dodge ball, hopscotch, high jump with rubber band ropes, and of course, baseball.

  We didn’t worry about getting beat up, kidnapped or robbed—we were safe in our cocoon—a square of four blocks where backyards were shared by hopping a fence or two. It was so easy to connect, that if one friend couldn't play, we'd jump over a few fences and we'd find another.

  Running down to the beach, riding our bikes to the store, and putting on weekend plays for the moms were some of the activities which occupied our time.

  And then . . . there was the other side of living there—like hiding on the front stairs with Jerry to avoid the black and blue violence of his house. Or Dad’s rage, which we knew could explode at any moment. There was Jenise's rape, which happened right outside of our safety zone. Finally, there was Mom’s permanent detachment.

  Just as I finished writing, my cell phone rang.

  “You see the article in SF Gate?” I could hear the irritation in Colleen’s voice.

  “No, what's it about?”

  “Well," her voice dipped and then rose higher. "Let me read it to you.” She was angry and read it word for word.

  A few weeks earlier a local writer had invited high school graduates to submit an essay describing unique ways they’d gained admission to college. Her blog catered to young and new adults and she wanted to encourage them with out-of-the-box thinking. My high school advisor had called me, strongly suggesting I submit my story about how I created and presented my business plan to the Goliaths.

  The cheer team had already gained a small amount of notoriety from interviews on local radio, mentions in traditional print and online newspapers, and a nice write-up on the PLB (Professional League Baseball) website. So I wrote about the things that inspired me to create the team and how I put together my research. To bring an element of human interest, I included my love of baseball and a small background story of how Dad took me to the Goliaths games when I was six-years-old.

  I didn’t intend to dismiss or discount any of my teammates—I knew what that felt like. The anger in Colleen’s voice made me wonder if our friendship was starting to fracture.

  “What a joke,” she said sarcastically. “Of course, you’re featured.”

  “Oh, come on, Coll. The writer just wanted to know how I came up with the plan. I'd been thinking about it for a few years before I approached you to see if you were interested. Besides, I’ve given everyone on the team
credit numerous times.”

  “Why didn’t you let me know?” she drawled. “I could’ve written about my design ideas.”

  “Mrs. Gale phoned me because she knew I created the proposal," I reminded. "The focus was about creating the plan. My advisor was the one who found out about it and she called me. Don’t get your undies in a bunch. It wasn’t to exclude you.”

  “My undies?" she shouted. "My undies!”

  Oh, damn, I’ve flipped her button.

  “You wouldn’t have your fucking cheer team if it wasn’t for the work I do on all the routines, Nicky. Your idea would so flop if I quit, wouldn’t it?”

  “Well, yeah it would. You know it would. What's all this really about? It's just an E-zine article. You’ve done a great job and I’ve told you that dozens of times. That’s why you’re in charge of everything this year. When you submitted some of your costume ideas to Sony pictures, you didn't mention me or the team, right?”

  Stay humble, remain calm and deflect.

  “It makes me so mad when you take all the attention. Stanford, Stanford, Stanford—it’s all we hear about. What have you been doing that you’re always so busy? And what the fuck is going on with your Facebook?”

  “My Facebook?” I clarified. “What?” I pulled up the app on my cell phone. I've got to see what she means.

  “Your selfie with Ethan Mathers. What the hell is that? When did you meet him? I thought you and Jerry were together?”

  “No, we’re not—”

  “Your page is blowing up, Nick. Suddenly you're Facebook friends with an Avengers player? His family and followers are commenting by the hundreds."

  "Oh come on," I corrected.

  "Well it fuckin' seems like it. Shit even his fans are mentioning you—what the hell? And you have a picture of him being cozy on your shoulder on your Facebook?”

  How do I keep her engaged?

  “That was just a joke. I haven’t even looked at it; let me just . . .” I quickly opened the app and saw a few hundred new friend requests. “Oh, shit! All from a picture!”