A Boy Like You (Like Us Book 1)

by Ginger Scott

  “Don’t bother. He won’t remember any of this,” I say.

  “I remember everything!” my dad interjects. I shake my head no, because he’s just mirroring our conversation. He never remembers this. He only remembers the things I do wrong.

  I climb into the truck first, and Wes helps my dad onto the seat, buckling his safety belt for him and shutting the door carefully around his feet. I shake my head to myself as Wes rounds the cab and climbs in next to me, his body pressed against mine. I wish I could enjoy this instead of survive it.

  Jim’s isn’t far from our house. It’s why he goes there. He walks—every Saturday, practically jogging on his way there in the late afternoon and filling his body with whiskey until he can no longer see. Sometimes he can get back home on his own. But that’s happening less and less.

  I keep my eyes focused out the windshield as we pull along the curb of my house. I’m done being sick, but my head is starting to pound now. And I’m not drunk enough to forget any of this, which makes it all hurt more.

  “I’ll go get the door,” Wes says through a slow, steady breath. I feel his chest lift next to me, and I wish we were attached so he could breathe for me too. He closes the door behind him, and in the time he walks around the front of the cab to my father’s door, my dad lets the word bitch fall slowly from his lips. I’m glad Wes didn’t hear it, because he wouldn’t understand. I know my father doesn’t mean it—he doesn’t mean any of this. He’s drunk, and when he’s sober, he’s strictly indifferent toward me, but never hateful. The hate only comes out when it tangles with him missing my mom and blaming me.

  “Come on, Coach,” Wes says, pulling my dad’s arm over his body and lifting him from the truck. My dad fights the help when his feet hit the sidewalk, and he swings his arms wildly. I climb out and move to him, and he shoves me away too.

  “You’re not even mine!” my dad seethes, his eyes having a hard time focusing on my form as he wobbles backward on his unsteady legs, tripping in our dead lawn. I know it’s a lie, because as soon as my mother left, my dad followed through with a blood test. It still hurts. It hurts every time he says it.

  Wes steps closer to me, and I pull my arms around myself, holding one hand up to the side, urging him to just let this all be.

  “It’s fine,” I say.

  I always say it’s fine. My mantra—fine.

  I’m a liar.

  “We’re home now, Dad. Time for bed,” I say, treating him like a toddler. I reach for him again, and he shrugs me off, standing sloppily on his knees and eventually pulling himself back up to his feet. As much as I want to hate him, I can’t. I miss him. And I don’t like Wes seeing him like this.

  “You waste your time,” my dad says, holding his unsteady finger at me. For a brief second, his eyes fade into reflections of the man lost inside, and they tear. I think for a moment he’s going to cup my face and reach for me, but just as quickly, that warm feeling is gone, and he bends forward, vomiting on himself as he collapses into sleep on the ground.

  “Fuck!” I yell so loudly that my voice reverberates off everything around me. I grip at my hair and close my eyes, but all they do is twitch, fighting to stay open. I couldn’t escape my nightmare if I tried.

  Wes has my dad in his arms in seconds, and I part my lips to protest because I’m ashamed, but give up quickly and let him carry my father inside. I drag my feet behind them both, unlocking the door and nodding toward the long hallway in the back.

  “Last room at the end. Just lay him on the bed,” I say. Wes marches down the hall, setting my father on top of the quilt my grandmother gave them when they first married. It was always my mom’s favorite, and the fact that it’s all he’ll put on that bed is so telling of the many, many things wrong in this house.

  Wes starts to pull my dad’s shoes off, but I touch his arm lightly. He freezes at the feel of my fingertips on his skin.

  “Really, just leave him. He’ll erase all of this in the morning,” I say.

  Wes’s jaw is working with his thoughts, but eventually he nods slowly as he swallows and faces me, his eyes holding mine. They’re full of pity.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” I say, turning and walking back to the front door to guide him out.

  He’s slow to follow me, and when he reaches the door, he pauses again, his lips opening with the intent to speak, but no words coming. His eyes stay on me for a few more seconds, and I dive into them, finding the familiar. I don’t even care if it’s make believe at this point. I’m dizzy, and I’m my own mess, and something about Wes makes me feel better.

  I give in, and I step into him, letting my forehead press deep into the center of his chest as I bring my limp arms around him, my fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt on the back. His chin slowly falls to the top of my head and his own arms circle me tentatively at first, until finally they lock around me, his palms sliding in slow tender circles along my skin. I’m overcome with his strength and the feel of his embrace, and I do something that I regret the moment it starts.

  I cry.

  Four

  Sunday was for hiding. Taryn called to check on me. She knows the Saturday routine. I told her I was fine, but not feeling well. I wasn’t feeling well. As much as Saturday nights numb things for a few hours, they also suck to remember the next day. The bad parts greatly outweigh the good.

  The one solace was Wes. By the end of Saturday night, when he finally stepped away from holding me and typed in my phone number, texting me, begging me to call if I needed anything, I was satisfied with him simply being him, not some ghost from my past. I didn’t call him. I wouldn’t. I don’t want to need him. I don’t need him. But I think of him. I think about him a lot.

  When Monday came, everything in my life reset, just like it always did. My dad left for school early, opened the gym, and Taryn picked me up so she could meet TK after he was done lifting. The routine carried through the week, and my father and I were cordial, at best, when we passed each other coming and going from our house. Saturday’s scene a blur to him, and just one more in a long line to me.

  It was…fine.

  I’m also starting to get comfortable with life in the library early in the mornings. It’s peaceful in there. I suppose an empty room can be that way, but being in there without being forced to go there feels nice. I’ve even started reading again—something I loved to do when I was young, and quit when stories weren’t offering enough of an escape from my reality. A few teachers who have seen me in the library have even commented on how proud they were to see me working hard. I let them believe whatever they want, because it feels good, even if I’m just here because I have nowhere else to go.

  Last semester, I would kill time smoking while sitting on the abandoned brick and wood scraps in the alley behind the school. Sometimes, I’d miss most of my morning classes smoking and drawing with a marker on the brick wall. The tardiness always landed me in detention, which brought me to the library anyhow. I’m just skipping steps now. I also haven’t smoked in days.

  I guess I’m quitting too.

  The week has been on a pleasant mode of autopilot. I’m actually excited about softball, and I’m almost enjoying my teammates. Almost. They’re still young and bubbly and insistent that I let them braid my hair before games. With ribbons—ginormous ribbons. I doubt I’ll ever understand the ribbons. But for the first time…well…ever, I considered saying yes.

  I spend practices working hard, and watching Wes with my dad in the small breaks in between activities. He’s like a compass for my eyes, drawing my gaze to the point where I seem to know where he is and what he’s doing at all times. Wes and I have only talked a few times, in our first period English class and in photography, which so far has been nothing but lecture. I have yet to take a picture. Wes never brought up what he saw, and when I thanked him, he shook his head and gave me a look that said I needed to forget about it too. What I didn’t tell him is I’m normally good at forgetting those moments with my father, but I can
’t seem to shake this last one—and it’s because of him.

  My father loves Wes. It’s different than when he works with Kyle, and I think Kyle sees that too. I can tell it’s hurting him. A year or so ago, Kyle was the golden it boy. He hasn’t been that boy in months, and he was starting to get used to it. Seeing my father fawn over Wes has brought things back to the surface. I haven’t said this to my friend yet, but I think my father would have favored Wes no matter what Kyle had said or done. It’s about what they’re both capable of. My father looks at Wes like he’s his own—he sees himself, only better. He’s even skipped the bar every night this week, instead watching slow-motion video he’s taken of Wes and going over new workout techniques online.

  “We’ve been replaced,” Kyle says, pushing my feet off balance. They fall to the ground from the wall I’ve propped myself up on. He straddles the wall next to me, lying back and tossing a ball above his face into his glove.

  “It’s a wonder you have teeth,” I tease.

  “Ha ha,” he says, not missing a beat and continuing to toss the ball while kicking me gently with his right foot.

  I’m waiting on Taryn to get out of the locker room so she can give me a ride home, and I’m also watching my dad and Wes out on the field.

  “You’ve been replaced. I’m still just the girl who plays this silly little sport they have for girls, in between partying and throwing her life down the drain.” My voice is monotone, my attention devoted to watching Wes stand tall on the mound and go through his motions slowly, my father tweaking and adjusting inches along the way.

  “You’re better than all of us,” Kyle says, sitting up and leaning into me. The funny thing is, I know he means it. He would never say it in front of others, but with me—alone—he’s always been my biggest fan.

  I let my head fall to the side to look at him and give him a lopsided, closed smile. “Thanks,” I say, glancing down at my nails, the dirt wedged underneath, scratches on my hands from sliding practice today. “You know, he’s never seen a single one of my high school games.”

  “Who, your pops?” Kyle asks, leaning back on his hands, spitting sunflower seed shells off to the sidewalk.

  “Not a single one,” I answer. It’s quiet between us for a few minutes, and we both watch my dad shake Wes’s hand and pat him on the back. My dad makes the slow climb up the hill to where we are, but Wes stays out there, working alone, the sun barely up and dark clouds closing in on what little light is left.

  My father gets closer, and our posture shifts into that of two grade school kids sent to sit along the wall after getting in trouble on the playground. In an act of defiance, Kyle spits one more shell out toward my father’s feet as he nears us. It makes me chuckle.

  “Wes is starting Monday,” my dad says. I look down, wishing I could disappear and give Kyle privacy. I can feel disappointment radiate from him without looking. He knew he wouldn’t start, but my dad is rubbing it in by saying it in front of me.

  “Okay,” Kyle says, his voice even, despite the rage I know is brewing underneath.

  “Joss,” my dad says, not moving, waiting for me to look up. I take my time, because the only thing I can do to show Kyle support is make my father wait. After a few seconds, I flutter my eyes open on his and sigh. “You had a pack of cigarettes in your jeans. I found them in the laundry. You said you were quitting.”

  “I did quit,” I say. I glance to Kyle, who smirks at me because I gave him shit for quitting a week ago. I shrug then look back to my dad.

  “I’ll believe that when I see it. You have a pattern of not following through with things,” he says, pulling his phone from his pocket and checking a message, no longer looking at me while insulting me. He walks away without another word, but before he rounds the corner, I fire off something brave.

  “I’ll quit when you quit,” I say, just loud enough that he pauses at the edge of the building, rolling his shoulders and pulling one hand from his pocket to make a fist. I hold my breath and wait for him to turn around, but he doesn’t. I hit him with his own flaws, and there’s no comeback for that.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” Kyle says, leaning forward with his hands on the handles of his gym bag. “I knew Wes was going to start and not me. Really, I’m fine with it.”

  “He was still being an ass,” I say, rolling my head to face him. He gives me a quick grin and leans his head in my direction. “And no offense, but that was more for me than you. Last weekend…got ugly.”

  Kyle nods slowly, standing and walking over to me, resting one hand on my knee while leaning forward slowly to kiss my head. “I’m sorry, Joss,” he says, letting his forehead fall to the top of mine. He means it. When nobody is watching, Kyle is incredibly sweet.

  “Thanks,” I sniff out. “Wes…he was there. He…helped.”

  Kyle steps away, and I know it’s because I mentioned Wes’s name. I didn’t want him to find out from anyone other than me. If Wes were the one to tell him first, he would think I was hiding it from him for other reasons. I haven’t mentioned it, because I’ve wanted to forget. But my dad just brought the memory roaring back to the forefront of everything.

  “Glad you weren’t alone,” he says, his back to me as he picks up his bag, tucking his towel inside before zipping it closed. “Hey, I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah? We’re still on for Slasher Saturday?”

  Kyle, Conner, Taryn, and I have gone to the Bakersfield Nine Drive-Ins for slasher films every February first since we were old enough to pedal our bikes that far. When we were younger, we had to sneak in under the fencing near the projector building and pretend we were with our parents when ushers would ask, pointing at random cars and lying, saying that was our family. Last year, Kyle drove us there, and I fell asleep next to him to the sounds of chainsaws and screaming. He woke me when we got to my house, and he looked at me like he wanted to kiss me—really kiss me, the kind of kiss that meant something, different from the other times we’d hooked up just for fun. I haven’t kissed him again since.

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” I say. I feel a strange sense of guilt from the way he turns his body, careful not to look at me while he walks away. His words are guarded, and he’s hiding how he feels, but I still see it. I leaned on Wes instead of him. He holds up a few fingers and walks a little faster to the back parking lot, his gaze never lifting to me until his engine roars and he’s ready to pull away. He holds up a hand one more time to wave goodbye, but he doesn’t smile.

  When his car pulls out of sight, I let my eyes drift back to the field, where Wes is throwing balls to nobody, letting them hit the backstop. I push from the wall and throw my bag over my back, my cleats untied and loose around my feet as I trudge through the outfield toward him.

  “I can catch for you…if you want,” I say. He turns quickly at the sound of my voice, startled.

  “Oh…uh, thanks, but it’s okay, I was almost done ” he says, jiggling his arm against his side as if it’s sore and tired. He hasn’t thrown many pitches at all today, though. I know, because I’ve been watching.

  “You know, eventually you’re going to have to give in to the fact that I can handle you,” I say, my eyes leveling him with a challenge. He laughs lightly to himself, his lip held between his teeth as he tugs down on the bill of his hat, shadowing his face, until he finally nods at me.

  “A’right,” he relents, shrugging to home plate.

  I step over to the backstop and throw the dozen or so balls he pitched on his own back to him, and he drops them in his bag near his feet one at a time. I brush the dirt from home plate with my glove, then crouch down. I hold the pose for a few seconds while Wes stares at me, and eventually he shakes his head with a quiet laugh.

  “What?” I yell, dropping my arms to my knees. I hate catching; it’s miserable. I only did it because it was him—he needed help. No…I wanted to help. And now he’s laughing at me?

  He jogs toward me in long, slow strides, and I stand, leaning with my glove against my hip. He’s wearing d
ark blue shorts over black compression pants, and unlike the other boys on my dad’s team, he actually looks good in them—like a real ballplayer. I look away and take a step or two back when he gets closer, but he reaches for my arm, catching my elbow with his fingers. My eyes go right to his hold and then to his face where he’s waiting for me with the same expression I have.

  “Sorry,” he says, letting go of me quickly. I feel the loss of his touch.

  Kneeling down, he urges me to do the same next to him, shirking his glove from his hand and holding his palms on the insides of his thighs. “You are sitting like this. It’s unsteady, and you’re going to get tired…fast,” he says, his eyes gliding over to my legs. He licks his lips, and sucks in a slow but heavy breath, before putting one knee down and bringing his hand to my leg, glancing at me quickly for permission before resting his fingertips on my kneecap. His touch is cautious and purposeful. It’s also powerful, and I feel it.

  “If you just turn…like this, and then shift your weight,” he says, tugging my knee out gently before clearing his throat slightly as his eyes run up my thigh. He stands abruptly, and I let down one knee to rest my legs. “Anyhow, I just figured maybe you never caught before, and I could show you something. You probably already knew that though, so—”

  “Thanks,” I interrupt him before he steps away. I’m not warm and fuzzy. I make him nervous. And I regret that. “Really,” I add, as he tilts his head sideways over his shoulder, glancing back at me. “My dad use to show me stuff like that, but…it’s been a while.”

  His lip pulls up with sympathy, and he looks down before glancing back at me with a sideways tilt of the head, raising the ball in his hand. “Let’s try a few,” he says, walking back to the mound.

  I kneel just as he taught me, and my legs shake a little at first, so I adjust my knees more, giving myself a base. “I’m good,” I say, pounding the center of my glove and holding it out for his target.

  Wes nods, then winds up for a pitch. He throws a changeup, and I know he did it because he doesn’t want me to get hurt catching anything faster. The fighter in me wants to spit and tell him to give me the real stuff, but the girl I am—the one that likes the way he looks at me—is okay with the fact that he wants to protect me.