by Ginger Scott
I do my best to look tough, but my exterior cracks quickly, and my tight lips stretch into a smile with a breath of a laugh.
“You’re a fucking dick, Kyle. You know that?” I say, throwing my gear and backpack in the truck bed and climbing into the seat next to him.
“Yeah, you’ve called me that before too. Whatevs. I’m right, and you know it,” he says.
The sense of awkwardness kicks in after a minute, and the reason I avoided Kyle comes screaming back. I glance at him as he drives to my house, but he works hard never to turn his face enough that his eyes catch sight of me. His discomfort is all over his face, and I feel guilty. I’m kind of mad at him that I feel guilty, which I know isn’t really fair. You can’t help feelings, but Kyle is me—I need my other half. And when he opened his mouth, I feel like he took that half away, because I didn’t feel the same way he did.
“You can quit looking at me with pity too,” he finally says. I crack a smile.
“I wouldn’t dream of pitying you,” I say. I mean it. No, I don’t.
“Look, you and I—we’ve been friends for a long time. And I’m not stupid…ah…don’t you contradict that,” he says, holding up a hand. I laugh, because he caught me—I was about to give him shit. “I’m not throwing away my best friend just because she doesn’t love me that way. I meant what I said before—I’ll figure this out, get over it, or whatever. But you can’t ignore me and avoid me on top of it. That shit just hurts, and it’s mean. Like, meaner than your normal mean to me.”
We both sit in silence as I stare at him and watch his eyes dart around traffic, his jaw twitching as he chews at the side of his mouth. Finally, I breathe, and while the awkwardness is still there, it does somehow feel a little less.
“You called me mean, dude. That hurts…right here,” I say, pounding my fist on my chest.
“Yeah, well, you can be a real bitch too. How’s that for ya?” he says, his familiar teasing tone back.
I punch him in the leg and he swerves a little because of it.
“Oww! Fuck, Joss!” he chuckles, but he grows serious quickly, righting his hands on the wheel and sitting up straighter. “Don’t do that shit when I drive. I meant what I said to Wes too. I’m not going to do risky shit like that with you anymore. It scared me too much.”
This time, the weight I feel is different, the guilt different. The accident wasn’t Kyle’s fault entirely. I didn’t have to climb out his window.
“Why are you taking me to the beach?” I whisper my question.
Kyle glances at me a few times before looking forward again, his brow furrowed as he turns down my street.
“Why, Kyle? You know I only want to go because of Wes. You even said so. Why are you helping? Is it because you feel guilty about the accident and you want him to not hate you for it? Or because you feel guilty about me getting hurt?”
I hold my breath and wait for his answer as his truck stops in front of my house. I look over to my driveway long enough to register that my dad’s car is gone.
“Maybe a little of everything,” Kyle says, his arms gliding down to the bottom of the wheel as he sits back in his seat. He tilts his head to the side to take me in, and after a few seconds, he laughs a breath through his nose and shrugs. “And I also think McKenna’s a bitch.”
I let my grin slide into place and linger before moving my hand over to take Kyle’s. I squeeze it once, memorizing my hand on his, then move my gaze back up to his genuine smile waiting for me.
“I do love you, you know,” I say, my chest hurting when he takes a harsh, deep breath that lets me know he knows exactly what I mean—exactly how I love him. It’s not the same as his love for me, but it’s still real.
“Yeah, yeah,” he says, shifting in his seat and pushing the gear into park. “Go get your ass changed. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”
I nod and climb out the passenger side, reaching over and grabbing my things from his truck, patting the side of the bed when I’m done to let him know he can leave. He doesn’t look back when he drives away, but I watch just in case.
Within the few minutes Kyle is gone, I manage to go through seven possible outfits. I’m not good at this kind of stuff, and I wish I had Taryn here to help me with it. I finally settle on my original choice: my rolled-up loose jeans with holes in the knees, my Vans, and my black bikini top. I grab my white sweater to wear when the sun sets and the temperatures fall into the fifties, then sprint out to Kyle’s truck with my small backpack to hold my phone, wallet, and knit cap. I haven’t earned a dime from my new job, so the only cash I have on hand is in quarters.
“That’s what you’re wearing? ” Kyle says, nodding to my sweater when I climb into his truck. Layla and Conner snuggle together in the small half-seat in the back.
“What? It gets cold at night,” I protest. He doesn’t shift gears and keeps his stare on me, his forehead wrinkled as he waits on the brink of laughing at me. “Damn…fine. I’ll take it off,” I say, stepping out of the truck for a few seconds to pull my sweater away.
I climb back in and shove the sweater into my backpack, then buckle my safety belt before looking back at Kyle, who still hasn’t shifted into drive. This time he’s staring at me with his eyebrows high, so I hold my palms out in front of me. “Jesus…what?”
“Nothing,” he says, spinning to the front, shifting into drive and swallowing hard. We drive for a mile or two before he finishes his thought. “It’s just McKenna isn’t going to know what to do. No way she looks like that in any damn swimsuit she shows up in.”
My cheeks burn instantly. I’m not used to boys noticing things like that about me. I get noticed for being tough, for throwing hard, for being Eric Winter’s daughter, and walking the line between good and bad, often venturing beyond it. I do not get noticed for being beautiful.
“Thanks,” I say, my teeth nibbling at my bottom lip while my fingers play with the zipper at the top of my bag.
When I glance back at Kyle, he holds my gaze for a beat and rubs his hand over his mouth and chin, finally nodding slowly, returning his focus back to the road. He keeps it there for the next hour and a half, and we all let the music and Conner’s bad jokes fill in the empty space all the way to Pismo Beach.
We pull up next to Wes’s truck, and I can’t help but start searching for him the moment my feet hit the sand. I walk with the Marley boys and Layla to the fire pit about a hundred yards away from the waterline. Kyle brought an old blanket, and I help him stretch it out so we have a place to leave all of our things. My attention is constantly elsewhere though. I’m searching.
I don’t find Wes, but I do find Taryn and TK, and I can’t help but feel the sting of my best girlfriend ditching me to come here. I walk up to her and before TK can warn her, I cover her eyes with my hands.
“Guess who?” I say, doing my best to put on a flowery, girly voice full of pep and cheer.
“Joss, I can read right through whatever accent you think that is. Besides, your fingers always feel different,” she says, stepping out of my hold. I pull my hands in front of me and look them over, a little ashamed of the calluses and short nails with dirt underneath.
“So were you going to tell me you went to the bonfire after it was all over? Or were you just going to hope it never came up?” I’m standing with my hand on my hip when McKenna walks by, pausing to talk to one of her friends near me, her pose exactly the same. I let my arm fall free and shift my stance accordingly.
“I’m just as pissed that I’m here as you are. Believe me,” she says, kicking her feet free of her sneakers and holding them between us to dump out the sand. Her eyes flit to mine as she purses her lips. “My parents cancelled their getaway. They decided they wanted to spend their anniversary at home instead, having movie night with me…and my new fella.”
I can’t help but laugh, and she rolls her eyes at me when I do, stomping over to the blanket we brought and dropping her shoes on the corner next to mine. “We were about to…you know…when my paren
ts came barreling through the door with movies and steaks and plans. I snuck TK out through the garage door and when my parents told me their plan, I apologized and said I’d already told TK I’d come to the beach with him.”
“Aw, that’s sweet they wanted to spend their special day with you, though,” I say, my smile tight and holding back the floodgate of laughter.
“Yeah, great. Now I’m a bad daughter and I’m sexually frustrated,” she says, folding her arms and huffing. She frowns until TK moves his arms around her and kisses at her neck from behind.
“This beach plan ain’t so bad,” he says, his eyes moving to me with a quick wink.
“Yeah, I guess not,” she giggles, turning into him until their lips lock and I’m forgotten.
I excuse myself quickly and walk over to where Kyle and Conner are standing with Levi. My stomach tightens because Wes isn’t with his brothers. It means he’s somewhere else—with someone else. And it doesn’t take me long to spot him.
Wes isn’t standing next to her, but he’s close enough that she occasionally reaches forward while she talks, touching his arm and kicking at his legs as she laughs. He doesn’t seem interested, honestly. But he also doesn’t seem to move.
One of McKenna’s friends drives one of those giant Jeeps, and they’ve pulled it partially into the sand from the parking lot. I’ve seen people get busted for doing that before, but I have a feeling, with my luck, nobody will be patrolling by foot here tonight. And even if they were, I bet McKenna would bat her lashes and manage to worm her way out of any ticket or trouble for her friend.
The Jeep has a big speaker in the back, and that’s what’s sending the music over our growing crowd. The bonfire isn’t really lit yet, but the spots near it are already getting taken up by blankets and towels as people claim their space. I hope McKenna’s towel catches on fire when they finally light it.
I’m not being bashful about my stare, and when Wes looks my direction, I don’t move, instead raising my hand to the side and offering a stiff wave with my eyebrows high. Wes sets his cup down on the back of the Jeep and says something to McKenna, which causes her to turn and glare at me as he walks my direction. My stomach both sinks and beats with my heart’s rhythm at the same time.
“Hey,” he says, glancing back at McKenna, whose eyes are locked on us like lasers. I lean sideways beyond his profile to make eye contact with her and hold my hand out in an overly-enthusiastic wave. Her brow lowers as she picks up his discarded cup and begins to follow in his footsteps toward us.
“Your date’s a little pissed off that you abandoned her,” I say. When he bunches his forehead at me, I nod over his shoulder so he can see McKenna’s angry stomp in our direction.
“She’s not my date,” he chuckles.
I start to smile and breathe deep, but it’s cut short when McKenna steps up to his side and slides her arm through his, handing him his cup.
“You forgot your drink, babe,” she says.
Wes quirks an eyebrow at her, but takes the cup from her hand. “Uh, thanks,” he says, glancing up at me. I’m waiting with my smug grin, sorry to be right.
“Hey, Joss!” Levi yells, and I turn to give him my full attention. He’s holding a bat in his hand and a giant mushball in the other. “Whataya say? Quick game?”
“Hells yeah!” I say, ditching Wes and the bitch he says isn’t his date.
Taryn and I are the only girls who decide to join the game, and I insist we play on the same team. Levi gets mad when Kyle picks me first, so to protest, he convinces Wes to join his team. With teams of six settled, we toss a coin to see who hits first, and Levi wins. I offer to pitch, because it’s mushball, and there isn’t much to it other than tossing it underhand near the batter. Kyle’s fast, and we need him to catch and field the ball—he knows he can throw it to me at home plate.
I aim as Levi steps up next to the folded towel we use for our plate, and he hits the first pitch I throw. The heavy ball doesn’t go as far as a normal one, but Kyle still has to dive to make the catch.
“Keep that up, and I’ll tell coach you’re good at that shit. He’ll have your ass in center,” Levi taunts. Kyle runs his hand under his chin lightly, giving Levi the finger.
Wes steps up next, and I do my best to ignore the way he’s looking at me. I throw three pitches and he lets them all go by, so before I throw the fourth, I walk up to him and hold the ball out for him to examine.
“Those are all hittable. Don’t be a prick,” I say.
“I’m not being a prick,” he says, letting the bat drop to his shoulder as his head tilts down to meet my eyes.
“Then hit the damn ball,” I say, challenging him.
“You’re standing too close,” he says.
“Fuck that. I’m standing just fine. Now swing,” I say, spinning around and walking back to the line in the sand.
Wes sighs, then drops the end of his bat against the towel.
“Pitch it with an arc so I can hit it over you,” he says.
“Screw you. You don’t get to call your own pitch,” I say, throwing the ball flat and level. He lets it sail by him, and Taryn catches it then tosses it back to me.
“I don’t want to hit you, Joss,” he says, the bat once again slumped on his shoulder.
“If you hit me, I’ll catch it,” I say.
Several long seconds pass as we stare at each other in this standoff of the sexes. I’m making it about that. But I know it’s also about more than that. Wes legitimately doesn’t want to hurt me. I’m getting ready to step into my windup, even though he isn’t ready, and I’m going to lob one in with an arc, just like he requested, when McKenna actually cheers for him.
“Come on, Wes baby. You can do this!”
Baby.
I rear back and heave the mushball toward Taryn, another flat pitch. Wes shakes his head as it passes.
“If we had an umpire, you’d have struck out looking,” I say, clapping my hands in request of the ball. Taryn tosses it back to me, and I repeat the same pitch.
“Steeee-rike!” I shout. I’m almost pleased when Wes sighs, his chest falling with his disappointment in my behavior.
“Come on, Joss. Do you want me to pitch? Just give him what he wants!” Kyle shouts from several feet behind me.
I refuse though, and I pitch another ball exactly the same way. Wes lets four more pass—but every time, I see his muscles flexing more, his bat lowering, his body weight shifting and getting ready. I’m pissing him off, and I like it.
Finally, I send one to him, throwing it hard and fast, a dream pitch if it weren’t a soft mushball, and Wes boils over, swinging his bat through its center, slamming the heavy canvas ball straight at my chest.
My reaction happens in milliseconds—the ball slowing as it spins in the air, the trajectory right at me. I ready my hands and slide a fraction of a step to the right, giving my arms room to cushion the impact of the ball in my fingers, and when I blink, it’s in my hands.
“You’re out,” I say, tossing the ball a few times in the air. Wes steps away from the makeshift home plate and tosses the bat end over end into the sand.
“This is all such bullshit,” he mutters to himself. I start to feel guilty for pushing things so far, but then McKenna jogs over to him and places her hands on his shoulders, squeezing and giving him a massage, and my guilt vanishes.
We quickly get one more out and then it’s our turn to bat. Levi’s team isn’t as strong. All six of us get on base safely. We’re on our second pass through the lineup and the sun is cresting along the water, threatening to take away the last few rays of light and end our game. Wanting one more chance, I step up to the plate and hit the ball quickly, running to first, where Wes is playing, and sliding into the towel base when Levi misses his throw.
He swings his arm around a few times, making an excuse, like his arm is sore before complaining that he’s not used to throwing balls this size.
“You got schooled by a chick,” I tease.
“A
h, come on. Are you seriously telling me that a mushball is anything like a baseball? Please,” he says. He bends down and picks up a rounded rock from the sand, tossing it a few times before looking back at me. “I bet if I threw this, I could strike out your boy Kyle.”
“In your dreams,” Kyle laughs, tapping his bat on the towel and gearing up as if he’s really going to hit.
“Yeah, okay. But I know I could strike out Conner,” Levi says.
“How much?” Conner says, standing from his comfortable spot in the sand. He brushes the grains from his shorts and stretches his arms, taking the bat from his brother.
“Twenty bucks,” Levi smirks.
“Guys, this is a bad idea. We can hardly see,” Wes says.
“I see just fine,” I talk over him, ignoring his presence next to me even though I can hear the way his body shifts and his posture changes in his frustration with me.
“You’re on,” Levi says, moving to his pitching stance.
Conner steps to the plate, and Kyle picks up one of the folding chairs from nearby, aligning it so Levi has something to aim for. He throws the first one, and it sails by Conner, his swing almost a second late.
“I was getting my timing down,” Conner jokes, reaching his arms behind his back and twisting a few times.
“Yeah, sure you were,” Levi snorts.
Kyle tosses the rock back to him, and Levi readies himself to pitch again. This time, his delivery is slower. Conner’s swing is a little faster. Both of them adapt just enough that the metal clings against the rock, and just like that—nobody knows where it went.
Nobody.
Except Wes.
And me.
