by S. E. Hall
“All right,” he slaps my leg, “I’ll hang in her room ‘til curfew then, let you get some rest. We’ll have to work out a schedule one of these days, ya know. Socks on the door don’t work; jackasses think it’s funny to grab them off. My old roommate had the whitest ass you’ve ever seen.”
“You don’t have to worry about that with me,” I groan.
“Oh yeah?” His brows shoot up mockingly. “Your ass is tan, huh?”
“Yeah, that’s exactly what I meant.” I laugh, more at my own sad state of affairs, of lack thereof, than the conversation. “Just let me know, though. I can make myself scarce.”
“Evan, man, you gotta get back out there. This is college. You’re young, wild, and free. You want me to hook you up?”
Going to regret this, no doubt.
Jumping in like a blind, lonely fool anyway.
“Actually,” I sit up and let him see I’m serious, “I do. I kinda already decided I was gonna start dating, so if you have somebody cool in mind, I’m down.”
“Atta boy,” he offers his knuckles for a bump, “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Yup,” I mutter, bumping him back weakly, “you do that.”
Date #1—Friday night
Conspirator: Zach
Girl: Tiffany-blonde, Junior, Phi something something, in Zach’s Anatomy class
Problem: Mannish
“Whitley?” I whisper, though I have no idea why. I’m pretty sure She-Man didn’t follow me into the men’s bathroom. Then again…
“Evan? Where are you? I can barely hear you,” she whispers back, not realizing she’s mimicking me.
“Listen, woman, I need your help.”
“I thought you were on a date?”
“That’s what I need your help with. What do you do when you’re on a date that you really want to get out of…like five minutes ago.”
“I have a friend call me and fake an emergency. But that’s a girl trick, so she’ll know what you’re doing.”
“All right, then what else ya got?”
“Hmmm,” she mulls it over, “what do I get out of it?”
“Extortion?” I choke out, shocked. “Whitley, I’m appalled.” I used appalled, a word pretty foreign to me, to cut at her root; she appreciates Whitley language.
She giggles in my ear, getting way too much enjoyment out of this. “You have to tell me everything. Deal?”
“Yes, woman! Now help me!”
“Where are you?”
“The Red Door.”
“Go back out there with her and act normal. God, you owe me.”
I walk nervously back to the table, apprehensive of exactly what I’ve just put into play. “Sorry about that, there was a line,” I mutter to my date.
There was a line? I suck at covert ops. If I manage to not blurt out a confession of “the plan” before Whitley gets here it’ll be a miracle.
Her big, freakishly large man hand keeps inching closer and closer to mine on the table, so I shove my hands in my lap. I don’t see an Adam’s apple, but I’m still looking—it’s gotta be there somewhere. Then, all at once, the heavens open and the angels scream.
“Evan Allen, how could you?”
Splash! Cold ice water to the face. What the hell?! I don’t know that props were completely necessary, but who am I to complain? I pick up my napkin and wipe my face, eyes clearing to see Whitley standing over our table, glaring.
“Who is she?” she points at my date.
“Um—”
“Don’t even try it!” she screeches. “You promised! No more cheating!”
Man, Bennett better look out, ‘cause Whitley could easily steal her spot in the drama club. Look at those big, fake crocodile tears. Note to self—Whitley can cue waterworks on a dime.
She pulls out a chair and throws herself down, slamming her hands on top of the table. “Why, honey? Why? We just made love before you left! Aren’t I enough?”
Everyone in this restaurant is staring at us now, and my date, well she’s…she’s leaving! But not before her water lands in my face. Small price to pay.
I finish wiping my face, again, and hesitantly peek over my napkin, scared this isn’t over yet.
“She’s gone,” Whitley says, voice back to normal, tears gone as quick as they’d appeared.
“Damn, Whit, that was something,” I say in shocked, but tickled, gratitude. “Thanks, though.”
“You’re welcome. Now what’d she order? I’m eating hers and you’re still paying.”
Date #2: the next Friday night
Conspirator: Avery
Girl: Rae
Stats: After my last date, Avery assures me the name “Rae” was not because she was in any way now, or previously, a dude, and is in fact a very nice girl from one of her study groups.
Problems: I almost don’t believe it myself.
Rae is pretty with a big smile and straight white teeth. Her hands are proportioned perfectly to her body and gender, which is also very attractive, more so than ever. We met up at the campus library, where she aides, and had a nice, easy conversation from there to my truck.
I’m actually having a pretty good time and even starting to relax while we wait for our food. Do I feel any five-alarm chemistry? No, but she’s pleasant, and maybe I could see her again.
When our food arrives, I ask her if she wants to try some of my lasagna, which she eagerly does, then offers me some of her Alfredo. We don’t feed each other or anything, just scoot our plates toward one another, but it’s still nice.
I still can’t believe I’m just starting to date. I’m almost twenty years old and never dated? Well, she lived three houses down…that’s exactly how that happened. She didn’t like to go to the theater, our town didn’t have a bowling alley and…no other girl within miles compared to her. This is crazy; I’m grown and need to snap the hell out of all these feely schmeely BS thoughts, so I scoot my chair a little closer to Rae’s, leaning in, smiling and laughing a bit more at things she says.
And then…she covers her mouth and tips her chair over in her jump and run to the bathroom, calling a barely audible “I’ll be right back!”
Shit. I hope the shrimp wasn’t bad. Do I go ahead and eat? Do I go check on her? I really have no idea what the right answer is, so I sit there until the waitress comes over to check on me. “My date’s not feeling well. Can you bring the check?” I ask her.
“Certainly. I hope she feels better.”
She’s laying the tray with the slip on the table when Rae comes back and sits down, her eyes watery and face chalky.
“Are you okay?” I know she’s not, I can smell the hint of vomit from here, but you’re supposed to ask, right?
“Oh, I’ll be fine now. Is that the check? We don’t have to leave. I won’t get sick again for a while.”
She knows when she’ll get sick? My money is on some weird make yourself throw up thing. Oh, and I also wish she’d quit talking, because her breath is not okay. There will be no goodnight kiss happening.
The waitress shoots me a questioning look and shuffles away as Rae merrily starts eating again.
“Do you think it was the food? Maybe you shouldn’t eat any more of it,” I suggest.
“The food’s fine,” she assures me, “finish yours. It’s just morning sickness, except mine comes at night. It’ll go away in a few more weeks.”
Come again?
Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me. This is the kind of shit that happens to Deuce Bigalow or victims on those punking shows, not real life schmucks like me. I’m tempted to look around for cameras.
“I’m sorry, what?” I choke out through a sweating throat.
“Don’t worry,” she grins and pats my hand, “me and the dad are broken up.” She rolls her eyes. “We’re so over.”
“You’re pregnant?” I’m not sure if I cough or laugh really.
“Yeah, Avery didn’t tell you?”
That’d be a big hell no.
“No, no s
he didn’t mention it.”
“Huh, well I am, but that’s not gonna stop me from finding Mr. Right.”
No, really, camera guys, go ahead and jump out. Right now. Please.
Date #3- Kiss my ass, not happening.
No way, no how. I could stand some real good company though.
Evan: Whatcha doing?
Whitley: Painting my toenails. You?
Evan: Nothing. Zach wants the room 2nite and I’m done dating. Wanna hang out?
Whitley: Wish I could but I’ve actually got plans later. Raincheck?
Evan: Sure, I’ll holler at you later. Have a fun night.
Whitley: U2, night.
Evan: night.
What’s she doing later? Does she have a date? Nope—this is none of my business. I’m the one who declared we wouldn’t go there. We’re just friends. I have her rescuing me from dates…time to sleep in the bed I made.
Or the bed my mom made. I’m packed and on the road in 15 minutes, headed home for the weekend.
“Shit, man, stop talking or I’m gonna piss myself.”
Parker’s just cracking up over my dating stories. Hayden’s snuggled up to his side, trying hard not to laugh with him and failing miserably.
“Who was the pretty blonde with you at the funeral? She looked nice, and not with child,” she says, somehow with a straight face.
The diamond on her finger twinkles as she rubs her hand on Parker’s thigh, always touching him in some way. He’d done it—he asked her to marry him, move home with him, and she said yes. She’ll be finishing school online, helping him run the farm, and taking his name soon. I’d love to tell them again to slow down, that they’re too young, but what the hell do I know? I think my glowing track record speaks for itself—I know jack shit.
“That was Whitley. She’s a good friend, a sweet girl.”
“Well, she’s very pretty, and it was nice of her to come and support you.” Hayden smiles, her eyes mischievous.
“Yeah, she’s beautiful, and awesome, and…” I shut my mouth before I say too much, grabbing the remote to concentrate on the TV.
“Not Laney?” Parker asks.
“That’s not even it. Laney’s happy, and some days I don’t even think about it. Can you believe that?” I ask him, my eyes big with my own shock. It’s true. I never thought I’d see the day, but some days I don’t think about Laney.
“Evan, you’re so handsome. Sorry, honey,” she kisses Parker’s cheek and gives him a sheepish smile, “but you are. And kind. I don’t understand the problem.”
“Evan’s a romantic,” Parker jokes, “always has been. No hit it and quit it for that one.” He tilts his bottle towards me. “He’s a big softie. He wants to hear music and see stars when she walks in a room. Don’t ya, Ev?”
“You mean like what happens to you when I walk in a room?” Hayden glares at him teasingly, her lips pursed, just daring him to deny it.
“Exactly like that,” he growls, diving into her lips.
“Fuck off,” I mumble, knowing he’s right…and no longer paying attention to me.
Hayden wrestles him off her, catching her breath to turn to me. “Well, what do you hear when Whitley walks in a room?”
I laugh to myself just thinking about it. “Actually, I usually do hear music, because she’s usually humming or singing to herself.”
“Ahhh.” Hayden’s clearly a romantic as well.
As fun as this is, I’m no fool, I know how to get out of the hot seat and give Parker the proverbial finger. “So, Hayden, tell me about your wedding.”
How ya like them apples, Park? I can just sit and nod, but Parker will have to interact while his starry-eyed girl rambles on and on.
Evan wins!!!
Finally.
Chapter 19
Third Base
~Evan~
Today is the first conference softball game for the Lady Eagles, hosted at home. I do love to watch some ball, but I probably wouldn’t have gone, kinda awkward despite the rest of the “Crew” thinking we’re all cool…but Laney had arranged it so Whitley will be singing the National Anthem.
The newfound whatever between Whitley and Laney mystifies me; if only it were that easy for me. Sure, I miss Laney, and care about her, and have even managed to be around her amicably a few times, but it still jabs me in the gut sometimes. It may always. But the whole group is going to this game and Whitley personally asked me to come watch her sing, so I’m going.
She sings beautifully, her voice, melodic and captivating, ringing out across the park. And I must say, to only myself, seeing her stand out on the mound in a ball cap, jersey, and little shorts…oh boy. My whole “date anyone besides her” plan seems like a real jackass one right about now.
“Pssst, Evan!” I hear from my left and look over to see a nervous Laney standing at the fence. She begs me over with a “hurry, come here” hand, so I make my way down the bleachers and over to her. “He’s got me playing third, Evan. I don’t play third. What’s he thinking?” she asks, her voice panicked.
I chuckle at her, never understanding her lack of faith in herself; she’s an amazing ball player. Third isn’t her most practiced point, but she can do it if she doesn’t psych herself out.
“Laney, you could play third in your sleep. What are you so worried about?”
“This is college ball, Evan. I don’t move fast enough for third. Why wouldn’t he put me on first and Cassidy at three? Oh my God, Evan, I’m gonna make a fool of myself in the first game.” She rests her head against the fence in premature defeat.
“Hey,” I poke her in the forehead through the fence, “look at me.”
She slowly lifts her head, eyes rimmed with doubt.
“Knock it off. You are a great baller, Laney. Get your ass out there and make it happen. I mean it.”
She nods firmly, gritting her teeth, and heads for the dugout. I go back to my seat in the bleachers, Sawyer to my left and Whitley now settled in at my right. We’re all kinda clumped in a group; Dane, Tate and Bennett right behind us and Zach on the other side of Sawyer. One big, happy family.
“Down and ready, three!”
I turn quickly—I know that voice. Laney’s dad is here somewhere. I look around, but I can’t see him.
“What was that about?” Dane’s voice comes from behind me.
“Huh?” I turn around, not sure if he’s talking to me…yeah right, of course he’s talking to me.
“Laney; what’d she need? And why’s she look like she’s seen a ghost?”
“Oh,” I shrug, “she’s worried about playing third base. It’s not her usual spot.”
“Hmm…” is his only reply, so I turn back around.
Laney didn’t get a single ball hit to her in the first, but she did lay a good tag on an out, putting the Eagles up to bat. She’s fourth in the lineup—cleanup—smart coach. Smart pitcher, too, done her homework, ‘cause she draws the swing and miss from Laney on a high, outside first pitch.
Seven pitches later and Laney’s still battling, fouling them off like a champ. Whitley’s nails are probably bleeding she’s biting them so much and Bennett’s in tears, clearly not used to watching softball. Good God, it’s gonna be a long season.
I nudge my elbow backwards into Dane’s leg and he leans down to me. “Yell at her to quit dropping her hands,” I tell him. “Hurry.” He stalls, so I elbow him again. “Now!”
“Quit dropping your hands!” He cups his hands around his mouth and yells, and I hold in a laugh. He has no idea what he just said or why.
I should have made him yell something stupid and look like a fool.
Not really.
I think.
The next pitch is a change, which falls short, and Laney’s almost out of time. This at-bat has surely met its shelf life when the next one comes right down the middle, just a smidgen low. I take back what I said before. Not smart, Pitch.
“That’s gone,” I say to the group, almost subconsciously.
Crack!
I don’t even bother watching it. I stand and cheer, grabbing Whitley’s shirt so she doesn’t fall down the bleachers in her bouncy celebration. Sawyer’s got two fingers in his mouth, whistling, and I finally spot Jeff in the crowd, a proud smile plastered across his face. Laney just hit a two-run homer in her first college at-bat. No one, not even Kaitlyn, can ever take that from her, and my heart feels like it’s about to burst with pride.
Laney just went yard. I couldn’t be happier for her.
“Thanks, coaches!” she yells at Dane and me as she runs past us to home plate.
I don’t turn around and look at Dane, but I do manage to hear him over the crowd as he leans in to thank me.
“That was so fun!” Whitley shrieks, wrapping her arms around me in a hug. “I hope she does that every time!”
“I don’t know about that.” I hug her back. “It wouldn’t be as special if she did it all the time, right?”
She pulls back and scrunches up her nose. “No, it’d be cool every time.”
“Yeah, I guess it would,” I agree, taking her hand to sit her back down beside me. “Now watch the rest of the game, happy girl.”
Avery strikes out two batters later, so our group goes from rambunctious and pumped up to solemn in a flash, but we do all laugh when Zach turns around and slaps Dane upside the leg. “Where’s all the tips for my girl, huh?”
It’s the bottom of the fourth when time stops.
I see the hit, and where it’s heading, my body bracing in tension until she plays it through. But instead, I see her misstep. She was nervous about playing third, psyched herself out and misjudged the bounce. The harsh smack echoes, sickeningly, and Laney drops like a rock, face forward in the dirt.
“Time!” The ump screams.
Barreling down the bleachers, I make it to the fence, searching frantically for a way in when a hand lands on my shoulder.
“Stay back, boy, let them check her out.” Jeff. So calm, so collected. “She’ll be fine, just a punk knot. It got a bounce first, took the heat off.”
Then why’s she lying face down in the dirt?
