by Grace Palmer
“Oh, the irony,” Drew says, shaking his head. “You and I are not so different, oh sister of mine. I just got cut from the team for being too old.”
“You’re joking!”
“Nope,” Drew says with a grim smirk. “All those years of blood, sweat, and tears and then they just send me off to pasture like a lame horse.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Drew.” Tasha rubs her brother on the back. “You worked so hard.”
He shrugs. “I worked hard and I got shafted anyway. I guess that’s life.” He lifts his glass. “To all of life’s little failures.”
Tasha taps Drew’s glass. The siblings sit in silence for a little while, thinking and drinking. Drew has been rolling around the guilt in his stomach since he first heard the news, but it takes him until he’s halfway through his beer to clear his throat.
“Can I tell you something?”
Tasha sits up straight. “Yeah, of course.”
Drew winces. “I know this might sound crazy, but I’ve never really felt like Dad loves me the same as he loves you and Mel. I know Mom loves me unconditionally, but with Dad, it’s always felt like he views me a little like—shoot, I don’t know. Like a racehorse that got left out in the cold if he didn’t run well. Like, I had to earn love, whereas you guys just got it. If I had a bad game or I didn’t play well, it was the cold shoulder from him until I got things straightened out again.”
Tasha cocks a brow. “That is crazy. Why would you feel that?”
“Well, Mom was the one who wanted to have another kid, right? From what I understand, she basically had to talk Dad into it. He’s never said as much but I don’t think he wanted me, and then my whole life I watched how he was with you, and I don’t know …” He trails off, wrinkling his nose. “I was just the kid Mom insisted on, and for some reason I feel like this is all my fault. Like I’m what drove him away. Like he knew I failed and so he just gave up on me. On us. On everything. And just left.”
Tasha’s expression sours. “That’s absolute bull, Drew. C’mon, you know that’s crazy talk.”
“It’s just how I feel.” He shrugs.
He wonders how Dad felt that first day they brought him home from the hospital. It’s funny—he has no memories of that day, of course, so his imagination is free to run wild. He could dream up the moment any way he wants to. If he so chose, he could picture it going perfectly: a party waiting for his arrival as the guest of honor, his sisters and mom crying, his dad grinning in a That’s my boy now kind of way.
But he can’t figure out a way to make that vision work. Every time he thinks about that day—not that often, though it’s still more often than he’d like—he pictures Dad glowering in a corner and muttering to himself, “He’ll have to earn his place in this family.” It’s a grim picture.
Drew shudders and immediately orders another two beers, even though Tasha hasn’t quite finished hers. She’ll catch up. They’ve both got a lot to drink about.
When the latest beers arrive, Drew downs half of his in one gulp, and he wipes his mouth on the back of his sleeve. “You know what?” he announces with the air of someone coming to a big decision. “I’m really glad to be home. I missed the heck out of you, sis.”
Tasha smiles sadly. “I missed you, too, Drewby Doo.”
“Oh jeez. Can’t that nickname die already?”
Tasha grins and hits him with a quick wet willy in his ear. He’s too slow to block it, so he ends up with an earlobe full of slobber. “Never in a million years,” she giggles. “You’re Drewby Doo for life.”
The same thing happens again—laughter that fades away too quickly and leaves an uncomfortable sizzle in the air when it’s gone.
“Thanks, Tash,” Drew mutters.
They sit there for a while, not talking much other than to comment idly about what’s on the TV or some other random memory that coming back to town has brought to the surface. There’s more to be said, Drew thinks, but tonight isn’t the night to say it.
Tasha orders another round, but Drew decides it’s time for him to go. The drinking and chumming around isn’t doing what he thought it would. If anything, it’s only loosening his grip on his emotions. He bids his sister good night and heads out into the growing darkness.
The only thing keeping him sane is the thought that’s been bouncing around in his head since the cop woke him up tapping on his car window that morning. The thought that, maybe, if he goes back home and goes to sleep, Drew can slip back into the dream he’d been having. Then, he’ll be back where he belongs: at the plate, bat in hand, fans chanting his name, with a wide- open future ready to embrace him.
15
Drew
Drew walks out of the Lobster Trap and looks up at the sky. He feels small, but not in a comforting way. He feels small in the way a man does when he realizes that he is a speck of nothing on the crust of a massive rock, a speck that could be swept away in the breeze in an instant and nobody would know the difference. All those stars, glittering and beautiful—they don’t feel as though they’re made for him.
Drew doesn’t know why he thought drinking would help. It never does. Even seeing his sister, suffering in the trenches alongside him, didn’t help.
Maybe he was wrong about alcohol not being the cure, though. Maybe he just gave up on it too fast. That could definitely be it. He drank enough to push himself farther along his depressive tailspin, but not enough to yank him out of it.
Or perhaps it was Tasha being there that has him feeling unsettled, like her failures are holding up a mirror to his and they’re each just amplifying the other. Drinking alone could be a better fix.
Drew starts the walk home with a vague plan in mind, meandering halfheartedly up the sidewalk. He passes Willow Beach Sport Supplies on his left-hand side and grimaces at his reflection in the window. He remembers being a boy and going there with Dad. He needed new baseball gear for his first year of high school.
He wanted a top-of-the-line bat, a brand-new one that sat on its own gleaming metallic stand smack dab in the middle of the store. He begged and pleaded and Dad eventually—begrudgingly—relented.
When he’d struck out in his first game as a starter on the varsity team, Drew had come home to find that Dad had snapped the bat in half and tossed it in the fireplace.
He’ll have to earn his place in this family.
Drew keeps meandering past the shops, trying to think about anything other than the past. The taste of beer still lingers on his tongue. It’s a warm enough night but he can’t wait to be huddled up on the guesthouse couch in the dark with a drink and some mindless television. Anything to numb the thoughts.
Only thing is, he doesn’t have any beer. The only place still open is the gas station at the bottom of the street, so he heads over there.
He wanders inside and heads straight for the beer, hoisting a six-pack of pilsner out of the fridge. He’ll need something salty to soak up the alcohol, too, so he turns around the end of the aisle, heading for the snacks, and—boom—runs into the person who was trying to go the other way. Literally runs into them. He nearly drops his six-pack but manages to cling onto it as he catches his balance.
“Dang it, sorry!” Drew staggers backward.
The girl he ran into glances up at him with an apologetic smile. But, weirdly enough, her smile curdles into a wry smirk as soon as she sees his face.
Her golden hair is pulled into a messy bun on top of her head, and she is dressed simply in a green hoodie and jeans. But it’s her eyes that Drew is focused on. Slate gray, with a shimmer of perceptiveness there. Like she sees everything, not missing even the tiniest little detail. He feels skewered by her gaze, and it gives him a weird kind of exhilaration, a nervous energy, like she’s a wire stripper and he’s just been exposed, sparking in the open air.
“Well, well,” she murmurs, “what are the odds of us running into each other again?”
Drew is confused. He only had what, like, three beers at the bar with Tash? So why doe
s his head feel so thick and cloudy? He’s struggling to find words to say, to make sense of what is happening.
The best he can come up with is, “Uh, what?”
“Babe Ruth. The one and only.”
That’s all she says. But it’s enough to send Drew reeling backwards into a memory that he has buried along with everything else that has happened to him in the last week.
Everyone on the team knows where they’re headed after Drew’s walk-off homer. It’s not like they have a lot of options—Rock Hill, South Carolina, isn’t exactly Manhattan. But there’s only one place to go to celebrate with the town’s boozehounds and single women: Jimmy Buck’s.
Most of the regulars at Jimmy Buck’s Tavern know the team. A couple of them were even at the game, seeing as how there isn’t much else to do around these parts. They greet Drew and the others with whoops of congratulatory joy when the Rangers players walk through the door.
Drew glows from the inside. He approaches the bar feeling like a million bucks, surreptitiously glancing around the bar to see if there are any attractive women to catch his eye. He makes a mental note of a pretty little blonde thing at a table with some girlfriends.
“What can I get ya?” asks David, the weekday bartender.
Drew grins. “Pitchers all ’round. We’re celebrating.”
David starts pouring. “I’m guessing it was a big win?”
This irks Drew, even though he knows that’s a petty grievance. “You haven’t heard?” he asks.
David shrugs. “Guess not.”
Brock comes up from behind and claps Drew on the back with one of his meaty hands. He’s a new rookie, but he’s also tallest on the team, six-foot-five to Drew’s six-even. Drew finds himself a little irritated at that, too, for no particular reason. Brock choked today when the team needed him, and Drew had to tidy things up. He’s got nothing to worry about from the rook.
“Drew here hit the game-winning home run today,” Brock announces proudly. “His pitcher’s on me.”
Drew nods, satisfied. That’s the right attitude from the young gun. Pay respects where they’re due.
“Well, how ’bout that then? Good job, guys,” Dave hands over a pitcher and starts filling another. “I’ll have to get out there and see you play one of these days.”
“Yeah,” Drew remarks acidly. “You should.”
He takes his pitcher to the table where the team is sitting and pulls out his phone to quickly text the news to his parents and sisters. His mom would probably appreciate a phone call, but he’ll get to that later.
He knows he hasn’t been the best of sons recently. He can sometimes go weeks without talking to his parents because he’ll get caught up with his team and forget to return calls. He can’t help it. They’re all so far away, and he has a lot going on. Anyway, they understand, right? He’s busy making his mark on the world.
Drew washes down the faint guilt lining his throat with the first sip of cold beer.
When Drew first came to Rock Hill, he hated it. The town is a little bit bigger than Willow Beach but sits smack-dab in the middle of nowhere. Plus, the summers are hotter than a tinfoil sweater and there seems to be at least one pothole per resident. He can’t wait to get out of here.
Three or four beers and a few “congratulations” texts later, and Drew could walk on water. His gaze slides to the blonde in the corner, the one he spotted when he first came in. She is laughing at something, her tanned face tilted back, eyes closed, long blonde locks spilling over her shoulders like silk. It feels like go time.
“Excuse me, gents,” he says, standing and squeezing left-fielder Tom’s shoulder. “I’ve got a date with that girl over there.”
Tom follows Drew’s gaze. “You’ve got a date?”
“Sure do,” Drew replies suavely. “She just doesn’t know it yet.”
The guys all laugh and wish Drew luck, and he saunters across the bar. The two girls with the blonde are pretty enough, but nothing like her. She has delicate features: a little button nose, a pointed, almost elf-like chin. He is only a step away from the table when the girl notices him and looks up.
She smiles. Of course she smiles. Drew might not be the tallest on the team, but he’s the best-looking. His copper hair and dark eyebrows are striking and make him stand out from the crowd. He has wide shoulders, courtesy of daily morning workouts since he was old enough to first lift a barbell. He has a memory of Dad yelling at him, “One more rep! Don’t quit now!” but he winces and buries it. Tonight is a good night. No need to go rummaging through the past for uneasy recollections.
Drew addresses the table. “Good evening, ladies.”
The other two girls smile and chime a chorus of hellos.
“I’m sorry to interrupt your night, but I couldn’t help but notice that your friend here has an empty glass.”
The girls look at the glass in front of the blonde, which is half full of beer. “I think I’m good,” the blonde answers. “I can fend for myself with Davey at the bar, you know?” Her voice is like tinkling bells.
Drew grins and swipes the glass from the table, chugging down the rest of her drink in two gulps. He sets it back on the table, winking at her. “Now, it’s empty, and it looks like that’s my fault. Let me buy your next. But accompany me to the bar, will ya?” In the back of his head, he knows he’s being a showy jerk. But he just can’t help himself. He feels so freaking good. That home run must’ve been nearly four hundred feet. He won the game. Big things are coming. People oughta start seeing that in him—future stardom.
The blonde’s brow furrows. She shakes her head, but before she can say anything the table shakes and she hisses in pain. One of her friends has kicked her. “Ow!” she complains, glaring at the brunette across from her.
“She would love a drink,” the brunette says for her with a placid smile. “Wouldn’t you, Ashley?”
Ashley. Drew thinks that’s a good name for a girl like her. Simple, feminine, pretty.
Ashley sighs and gets up, pasting on a smile. “Fine. I guess a broke college girl can’t be too picky when it comes to free booze.”
She’s playing it cool. Fair enough; Drew is fine with that. He likes a challenge.
Ashley stands. She’s tiny, probably no more than five-foot-four, petite enough that Drew towers over her. He imagines gathering her tiny frame into his arms. She doesn’t give him long to check her out before she walks straight past of him toward the bar—no nonsense here.
Yet.
Drew strolls up and leans his hip against the bar beside her. “I’m Drew,” he says. “Drew Baldwin. I play first base for the Rock Hill Rangers.” He leaves off the juicy tidbits of the game winner and the man responsible. He’ll get to that shortly.
Ashley smirks, still staring down David, who is helping other customers. She answers without looking at Drew. “My friend Garett used to go to you guys’ games. He stopped going, though. Said you lose too much.”
Drew laughs. It will take more than that to faze him tonight. He’s still buzzing with game-winner good vibes. “Maybe we just haven’t had the right cheerleader.”
She glances up at him. Her eyes are slate gray. Beautiful. “You’re right,” she remarks, voice thick with sarcasm. “That must be the problem.”
This girl has spunk, he’ll give her that. It just makes him want her more. “What’s your story then?” he asks. “You’re awful dismissive of tonight’s big winner.” There’s a voice in the back of his head telling him he’s laying it on a little thick—maybe a lot thick—but he ignores it. He’s feeling way too good to be humble.
Ashley’s mouth lifts with the hint of a smile. “Nothing nearly as impressive here. Just a college girl with dreams of being a vet.”
“A vet, huh?” Drew’s smile grows. “My sister’s a vet.” Bingo. Common ground. It’s all smooth sailing from here, he’s sure.
“Is that so?” Ashley sounds like she couldn’t care less. She’s still trying to wave down David, who is engrossed in a conv
ersation at the far end of the bar. She growls in frustration and eyes her friends still seated at their table, no doubt wondering if she can retreat back to them without getting kicked in the shins for a second time.
Drew cracks his knuckles. “Why a vet?” he asks her.
“I like animals better than people.”
“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”
She turns around to look him fully in the face for the first time. “Because at least a donkey knows that it’s an ass. Present company, maybe not so much.”
Drew is too stunned to reply. Folks in Rock Hill are generally pretty laid-back, with that southern hospitality. This girl is a firecracker, though.
He likes it.
It feels like something shifts inside him. He can’t put his finger on what, exactly. All he knows is that this girl has suddenly made him feel a little bit different. Like she popped a hole in his airhead and all the steam came fizzing out.
He finds himself talking in a voice he’s never heard come from his lips before. “Maybe I came on a little strong,” he said. “Just get a little carried away sometimes.”
She tilts her head ever-so-slightly to the side and fixes him with a tight smile. “You know, that’s the first real thing you’ve said to me this whole time.”
He isn’t sure what she means, but he doesn’t have the opportunity to ask, because just then, David comes over. Ashley holds up two fingers. He hands them two bottles of beer over the bar.
Ashley taps the neck of her bottle against Drew’s. “So long, Babe Ruth. Thanks for the beer.”
And then she walks off back to her friends, swinging her hips, leaving him standing at the bar and wondering what on earth just happened to him.
A movie quote his mom used to say all the time runs through Drew’s head: Of all the gin joints in all the world …
It doesn’t seem real for Ashley to be here. Last time they spoke, they were a thousand miles south and worlds apart. But they’re just inches away from each other now, and Drew isn’t the All-Star-in-the-making he thought he was back then.
