Switch Hitter

by Sara Ney

Her clear gaze bores into me. “What’s it like?”

  “What’s what like?”

  “The pressure.”

  For a second, I want to tell her that’s a strange fucking statement to make, but then I go quiet and think about it, really sit and think.

  She’s right.

  It is a lot of pressure, especially since mi familia is depending on me to make something of myself.

  All the money my parents sank into a lifelong baseball career that isn’t even an official career yet, that’s nothing but a goddamn hobby if I don’t get drafted.

  No one but mi mamá has ever asked me how the pressure makes me feel.

  And now Lucy.

  This—this right here is why I found myself really fucking liking her last weekend on our date. I think she might actually give a shit.

  “It’s heavy.”

  I don’t mind saying it, admitting with two words that I have a world of weight crushing down on my shoulders, broad as they may be. It feels…

  Whatever.

  It hardly matters; my life is mapped out for me, and there’s no getting off the path I’m already treading on.

  “So where would you want to live?” Lucy prods again, still wanting an answer. “If you could choose.”

  “I don’t know. I’m never thought about it.”

  “Well I have—I love the Midwest. I love the change of seasons. I’ve always wanted to live where I could ski in the winter and enjoy the sun in the summer, you know?”

  “You love the Midwest? Are you nuts?” I hate everything about it—the rain, the hot, muggy summers. The cold—every damn winter I come close to freezing my balls off.

  “You just said you wanted to move to Colorado to play for the Rockies!”

  I laugh. “For work!”

  Lucy shrugs. “No take-backs.”

  The server chooses that moment to appear with our appetizer salads: two plates of fussy lettuce, one tomato, and two cucumbers each. Rabbit food. Irritated at the small portion, I poke at the plate with the tines of my fork.

  A soft chuckle has my ears twitching.

  “¿Qué es tan gracioso?” What’s so funny? I want to know.

  Another laugh. “You. You’re pouting because the salad is so small.”

  “So?” I grunt, stabbing some lettuce with my fork and shoving it in my gullet—and just like that, half of it is gone.

  “Are you mad because there’s nothing on the plate?”

  My answer is a scoff.

  “How about I give you whatever I don’t finish?”

  This perks me up considerably. “Are you planning on not finishing the salad?”

  “No, but I figured the offer would cheer you up.”

  It does.

  I’m starving, ravenous, and her offer to let me finish her plate? Fucking adorable.

  “Hey Lucy?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Know what I’m going to do?”

  “What?”

  “I’m going to date the shit out of you.”

  Chapter Seven

  Amelia

  I’m going to date the shit out of you.

  That is not good, and now my pits are sweating.

  Dante isn’t just eyeballing my salad like he hasn’t eaten in days; he’s staring at me the same way, like he’s trying to figure out what’s different about me all at the same time.

  Lucy and I are night and day.

  Most people still can’t tell the difference, including our parents, so Dante’s intensity is throwing me off like a curveball. It’s unexpected in the best possible way.

  No one has ever been able to tell us apart.

  Dash is the opposite of everything I was expecting.

  It’s making me…

  Jealous.

  I’m jealous of my sister.

  I knew he’d be handsome, but I didn’t realize he’d be serious, or intuitive. He’s direct and open, and the longer we sit here, the chattier he’s becoming.

  I like it.

  I like him.

  I’m attracted to him, too, which is terrible, because Lucy, Lucy, Lucy.

  Because I’m here to break up with him, not charm him into another date. Jesus, I’m so bad at this.

  When the server brings our entrées, I feel Dante watching me, tracking the movements when I lift my knife. Cut a small piece of steak. Pop it in my mouth and chew.

  I’m afraid to look him in the eye, so I stare at the wall behind him. The curtains. The older couple at the table behind us.

  Cut another piece, take another bite.

  It’s hard work ignoring him.

  He’s big and intimidating and sexy.

  His gray shirtsleeves are pushed up to his elbows, muscular forearms flexing when he cuts the meat on his plate.

  “So what else do you do when you’re not studying fashion?” he enquires. “What do you do for fun?”

  I try to channel my sister; these answers are easy. “I like listening to music.”

  Oh God, that sounded so lame.

  “Listening to music in your free time? What do you do, lie on the bed and stare up at the ceiling?”

  A laugh escapes my lips. “Something like that. Um, let me think, what else do I like to do…”

  Lucy likes: traveling. Shopping. Getting her nails done. Going for coffee with her sorority sisters.

  It sounds so shallow, I’m embarrassed to let the words pass my lips. Shopping and nails and coffee? Ugh.

  “I love the stars, and I do a lot of hiking.”

  Lucy is going to kill me.

  First I slip and start speaking Spanish, and now I’ve gone and told him I love astronomy. Lucy hates it outside, hates the wind and cold weather and snow.

  If Dante takes her into the woods, she will throw a conniption fit.

  “You know that set of bluffs you can hike to? The one past Coleman Hall?” There’s a road you can take that winds around a huge hill, up and up; once you reach a certain point, you can park your car and climb the rest of the way up to a scenic point that overlooks the entire city. “I like going up there when it’s overcast.”

  Panoramic views so far, you can see into the next state.

  “Hiking?”

  I avoid his intense gaze by pushing a mushroom into the steak sauce on my plate then popping it into my mouth.

  “Yes. I, uh, went out west for spring break last year to Idaho and hiked a bunch of trails. Really anywhere with a view.” I love it that much.

  “I was in Montana for spring break.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Snowboarding.” He pauses. “Do you…” His voice trails off in a question.

  “I ski.” Lucy and I both do, something our parents insisted we learn. It’s something I love, but my twin would rather parade around the chalet in cute ski clothes, flirting with the ski patrol and instructors that periodically come through.

  “Why does that surprise me?” he asks, sitting back to study me.

  “I don’t know. Why does it?”

  He quirks a heavy brow. “You seem more like the chalet kind of girl.”

  Ding ding ding! He certainly has my twin pegged better than most.

  “You really shouldn’t judge me by my appearance, and I’ll try to do the same.”

  “You haven’t judged me by mine?”

  I give my head a little shake. “Honestly? Yes. I might have, just a little bit?” I hold out my thumb and pointer finger to illustrate the teeny tiny bit I judged him.

  Physical appearances are the way Lucy chooses all her boyfriends. She spends hours on her hair and makeup to go out on the weekends, spends free time at the mall when she’s not in class.

  “Is that so?”

  “Just a little.” Change the subject. “Besides baseball, what is it you do for fun? What are your hobbies?”

  “I work out a lot.”

  I crinkle my nose. “That’s your hobby? Working out?”

  He narrows his dark eyes. “Sí.”

  “Anything else? D
o you like to read, or watch movies, or, I don’t know…” I think for a moment. “Go to the county fair in the summer?”

  His expression is as blank as his tone. “The county fair.”

  “Rides, games, cotton candy…”

  “As a matter of fact”—the corner of his mouth curls—“I did go to the state fair this summer.”

  “Same. I’m freakishly good at the ring toss.”

  This information must surprise him because he laughs. “What else are you good at?”

  He’s purposely laying down the groundwork for an innuendo, but I ignore it. Best not to go down that path.

  “Darts,” I deadpan.

  “Darts?”

  “Yeah, like in a smoky bar. The more beer I’ve had, the better I am.”

  “I would pay to see that.”

  “It’s a sight. It’s like”—I wave around a fork with a chunk of steak on it—“my stupid human trick.”

  “Wanna show me? I’ll take you to Mad Dog Jacks and we’ll play darts.”

  Mad Dog Jacks used to be a biker bar, but for whatever reason, the college kids in town have decided it’s the perfect hangout on the weekends. Part dive, part…well, the place is a complete shithole no matter which way you look at it.

  Nervously, I push the hair behind my ears. “I-I’ll have to check my calendar.”

  Dash regards me quietly, eyes smiling. “You do that.”

  Before I know it, we’ve been here another hour, long after our food has been cleared away—so long I’ve completely forgotten myself and what I’m supposed to be doing here, ignoring all my sister’s texts—the ones blowing up my purse. It’s been vibrating for the past forty-five minutes.

  Dante pays the bill.

  Pulls out my chair and holds out my jacket so I can slide in. Guides me outside, hand at the small of my back, fingers gliding up and down my spine.

  It’s dark when we arrive outside, awkward when we walk to my car. The click of my heeled black boots against the concrete the only sound in the entire parking lot.

  “Thank you for dinner.”

  “You’re welcome.” When he comes at me, presumably for a goodnight hug or kiss or whatever, I put my hands out to stop him.

  “Dante.” I take a deep breath, lean against the driver’s side of my car, and look up at him. “We should probably finish the discussion we started inside.”

  “Which one?”

  Oh Jesus. He’s going to make me say it. “The relationship one?”

  “Okay.” His arms cross. “What about it?”

  I’m definitely doing a crap job impersonating my sister. She wouldn’t be having a conversation with him in a half-empty parking lot; she’d be leaning into him and running her palms up and down his hard chest. Planting her lips on his, no doubt sticking her tongue down his throat. Sucking on his neck and—oh my God, what am I even saying?

  “I don’t know if…” I clear my throat. Peel my eyes of the column of his neck.

  “You saying you want to take it slow?”

  “No.” I can barely shake my head. “That’s not what I meant.”

  He waits me out, silently—which is the freaking worst. If he was acting like an asshole or being demanding or pushing me into talking, I would have no problem kicking him to the curb.

  Unfortunately, he’s not doing any of those things. Dante is patient and willing to listen.

  It’s horrible.

  “Want to go downtown for a drink? This was fun.”

  “It was,” I admit reluctantly, feeling guilty for enjoying my sister’s date.

  Dash moves closer with purpose, and I propel myself backward until my ass hits my car door, sending me into a slight panic—he’s definitely going to try to kiss me.

  The problem is, I want him to—want him to so bad my lips are tingling.

  Everything on my body is humming.

  “But I should probably go.”

  I don’t have to go; I don’t want to go.

  I should go.

  Because he is not my date. He’s my sister’s, and I’m here to break up with him. I turn my back, unlocking the car to busy myself. Hand on the handle, ready to pull it open.

  “You don’t have a few more seconds to say goodbye?”

  And by say goodbye, I assume he means make out.

  “Not really—I should have been home an hour ago, sorry. Homework is calling.”

  “Darts then? Saturday? We can make asses of ourselves and you can show me how freakishly good you are.”

  “I can’t.”

  “What about another night?”

  “That probably won’t work either.”

  “What the hell is going on here, Lucy?”

  “I can’t do this anymore…with you. I’m not…” I take a deep breath, blurting out, “I want to see other people.”

  “Okayyy.” He takes a step back, jamming his large hands into the pockets of his dark jeans, brown eyes scanning my face, searching. “Not that it matters, but why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

  “I tried.”

  “When?”

  “Now?”

  “You know, most people just do this shit over the phone. You could have saved yourself a lot of time by texting me.”

  “It’s not my style.”

  “Really,” he deadpans. “Breaking up with people over text isn’t Lucy Ryan’s style.” Dante snorts sarcastically. “¿Por qué me cuesta creerlo?” Why do I find that hard to believe?

  All in all, this breakup is going great, considering…if you don’t factor in that I like the guy I’m breaking up with, he doesn’t know my true identity, and once he finds out I lied, he’s never going to want to speak to me again.

  But at least he’s not shouting. Or acting hostile. Or being a jerk.

  “I was really starting to actually fucking like you.”

  “I’m sorry.” My voice is small.

  “Trust me,” he scoffs. “I’ll get over it.”

  It’s not mean or rude, but it stings.

  Hurts.

  Still, he doesn’t walk away as I climb into my car and buckle in. Doesn’t walk away as I back out of the space, shooting him one more longing glance through the rear view mirror, tears threatening to blur my vision.

  He stands in the parking lot, in the same spot my car was just parked in, watching me drive away.

  Watching Lucy drive away.

  He likes her.

  Me.

  I like him.

  And I hate myself for it.

  ***

  Dash

  When Lucy pulls out of the parking lot, I do something I haven’t done in ages.

  Go on social media.

  Log into Instagram.

  Search: Lucy Ryan.

  Scroll through her account. Scan the dumb pictures of her partying, hanging all over her friends. Frat parties. There are several of her at our house on Jock Row, another on what looks like a girls weekend. Starbucks cups. Photos of her nails. Other random stupid shit sin sustancia. No substance.

  Then.

  There, in living color, is a photo that has me seeing double. I do an actual double take, eyes practically bugging out of my fucking skull.

  Holy. Shit. There are two of her—two of them.

  Twins.

  I fucking knew it. I knew something was off with her.

  My fingers slide apart so the picture expands—the shot of them together, standing with their arms around each other’s waist, long, tan legs playing peekaboo beneath flirty dresses. Under a flower-wrapped archway, there’s no denying they’re both beautiful, the caption reading Aunt Victoria’s wedding #RyansTieTheKnot

  The really fucked up part of this whole thing? I can tell exactly which one I’ve been spending time with lately, and it sure as hell wasn’t Lucy Ryan.

  It was the girl on the right.

  Under the dim lights of Zin’s parking lot, I study that picture, zooming in on that face. Her hair. Her eyes.

  They’re identical, but it’s their expr
essions that give them away: Lucy’s trying to be confident and cocky while her sister is gorgeous and easygoing, letting her twin hog the camera.

  I zoom again.

  There’s that dimple I love so goddamn much—one of them has it, the other doesn’t. Lucy’s hair is lighter, layered around her face, and cut a few obvious inches shorter.

  And their chests? I was right about the tits.

  Her twin is beautiful. What was she doing pretending to be Lucy?

  They’re nothing alike; any moron with a modicum of sense could have figured it out eventually—it only took me two dates with her to distinguish the differences.

  Except I’m not fucking dating her anymore.

  She dumped me.

  Which is such bullshit, because after our last date together, I envisioned myself getting serious with a girl like her, doing all sorts of fun, outdoorsy shit together in the off season. Hiking and skiing and snowboarding, whatever she wanted to do.

  I’d chase her anywhere.

  We had a connection I’d bet money she felt, too. I would stake my ball career on it.

  I’m a planner—always have been—so once the wheels get turning, there’s no stopping this train.

  I close Instagram, immediately tapping my phone to make a phone call.

  It only rings twice.

  “Uh…hello?” The reluctance in her voice makes me want to laugh.

  “Lucy?”

  “Hey Dash. What’s up?”

  I waste no time throwing down. “Why did you send your twin sister to break up with me?”

  There’s a long, pregnant pause on the other end. “My what? What are you talking about?”

  She sounds so bewildered and confused.

  “Cut the bullshit, would you? I saw a picture of you two on Instagram.”

  Nervous laugh. “Oh, that sister! I was confused for a second.”

  “How are you confused—just how many sisters do you have?”

  “Um, just the one?”

  “The one you had pretend to be you,” I deadpan.

  Lucy sighs like she’s had this same conversation before, like the speech is rehearsed. “I’m sorry Dash, it just isn’t working out between us. I’m already dating someone else new, so…” The sentence trails off, unfinished. I swear to God she’s filing her nails and not even paying attention.

  “Too chicken shit to break it off yourself?”

  “Oh my God, admit it, you didn’t like me that much either. Ugh, get over it.”