by Ginger Scott
“I told him the truth. You had me the first time I saw you, and I’ll be in love with Josselyn Grace Winters until I die.”
I draw in a long, deep breath, and the pain that I’ve felt in the middle of my chest since the moment my father told me about my mom subsides just a little—relief comes for this moment, and I consume it. My eyes close as Wes traces his thumb over my cheek in a slow pattern.
“You said you memorized my name. In class, when we were young. My full name. Why? Why were you waiting to hear my name? What was it about me?”
I feel Wes breathe in, the weight of his body balanced where our heads touch. His head rolls slightly back and forth.
“You sat at my table the first day I started at that school. Do you remember?” His voice is low. I shake my head because I don’t. I remember slices of time with him—small interactions and things I wish I could take back—and then I remember how he took care of me when I needed someone most. That’s when Wesley Christopher became the ruler of my heart. I regret it hadn’t happened sooner.
He chuckles softly.
“I get it,” he says. “I was a freak. I know. Weird kid who didn’t talk. I wore the same clothes every day. My life then…it was pretty awful.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say, but his thumb finds my mouth, the pad running over my bottom lip as he quiets me.
“No, it’s…don’t be,” he says, lifting his head up from mine, his hands cupping my face as he looks over me, adoringly. His mouth shifts into a soft smile. “That first lunch, when you sat next to me, I wanted to talk to you so badly. Introduce myself, or something. I don’t know. I didn’t know how, though. I was wearing these clothes that didn’t fit, stuff the Woodmansees gave me that didn’t fit their real kids anymore. The shirt had a stain on it, and I was embarrassed. So I sat there quietly.”
“You hummed,” I smirk. His eyes widen, and I feel bad instantly. “It was cute. Don’t be embarrassed.”
He rubs his hand over his face.
“It was weird, but you’re sweet to call it cute,” he says. He lays back and twists to his side, propping his head up on his elbow. I do the same.
“The next day at school, I had to wear the same clothes. I didn’t have a choice. I wore whatever the Woodmansees put out for me. And they pulled my clothes from the dirty pile and flattened them on the floor next to my sleeping bag, said they’d be fine to wear one more day,” he says, his eyes blinking as he looks down to my bedspread, his hand sliding the distance between us along the cloth. His lip ticks up on one side as his eyes meet mine again. “Kids are mean. I showed up in the same clothes, and some of the boys picked up on it right away. I had to walk to school because there wasn’t enough room in the car for us all. And when I started walking through the bike-rack area, a few of the boys pushed me over the rack, tripping me and pulling on my clothes.”
“They ripped your shirt,” I say, my own voice surprising me.
I remember. When he tells the story, the vision in my head fills in the rest. For me, it was just a regular morning—only a few boys were starting to pick on some kid, knocking my bike over in their quest to be mean. I screamed at them, and kicked the main boy in the knee, telling him he broke my bike. He didn’t, but the fact that he knocked it over pissed me off. My bike was new—my dad had just bought it for me. When they knocked it over, the paint chipped. The boys started laughing at me, and Christopher shoved one of them, telling them to stop. That’s when they started hurting him for real. That’s when they ripped his shirt. And that’s when I got sent home early from school for fighting because I leapt on the main assaulter, my fists pounding at his head and back until he got off Christopher and left him alone.
When it began, it was about my bike. But then it became about the boy being hurt and my need to save him.
“You fought for me,” he says, the faint smile drawing me close. I move toward him, my head nestling into his chest, his arms circling me. “This scrappy, scratchy, tough-as-hell girl was fighting for me! Nobody had ever done that.”
“I should have fought more,” I say, thinking of how Taryn and I made fun of him sometimes, how we dared each other to sit near him for a full minute. All he wanted was my attention, and I toyed with him. “I’m sorry if I ever…”
“You let me stay in the race. When nobody wanted me around, you made sure I could stay,” he says, sweeping my hair back again. “I know what peer pressure is like. I don’t hold it against you.”
“Still, if I could go back…”
He interrupts me with a soft kiss.
“There are dozens of things everyone would do differently if they could just go back. How about instead, you move forward,” he says, reaching down and taking the box in his hands. I sit up and take it from him, then stand and carry it to my bathroom. I dump the few remaining pills into the toilet and flush them away, watching the water swirl as they disappear. Except for this weekend, I haven’t craved them for months—but now that they’re gone, I feel weak.
“How are you so strong?” I ask Wes, my eyes still on the water. I need to know, because I feel so helpless right now, but I also still have so many questions about him.
“I’m not,” he says.
My eyes close as a breathy laugh escapes me. I nod slowly, but then begin shaking my head, moving to the bathtub edge where I sit down, my hands gripping either side while I look at him.
“You are. You know what I mean,” I say, my head sideways. He holds my stare for nearly a minute before pulling his hands from his pockets and looking at them, stretching the fingers out slowly, his face void of any expression at first, until his brow pinches and he grows pensive.
“I was helping TK change the oil on the truck last night,” he begins. My chest tightens, because I feel like he’s avoiding my question. I’m frustrated, and my eyes flutter while my mind races, wanting to beg him to stop avoiding my question. But something about the way he keeps telling the story halts me. I listen. “We were using the jack, the one for tire changing?” His eyes come up to meet mine, and he holds his breath for several seconds before looking back into his palms. “I was under the truck when the jack slipped.”
He steps forward, open palms facing me.
“I grabbed the axle and exhaust,” he says, his eyes on the same hands I’m looking at—the ones that are soft, no calluses or scars. His hands are virgin of any trauma at all. “I told TK I rolled out just in time. But I didn’t. It should have burnt the shit out of my hands.”
My gaze flicks up to him, but his eyes are still on his palms, his face wearing a hint of shock. I run my fingers lightly over his skin until my hands are flat against his. I let their weight fall into his hold and his fingers slowly curl around mine.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Joss. I don’t know why I don’t get hurt, or how I can anticipate things before they happen. The first time I did it was with you, when we were kids,” he says, his eyes squarely on mine now. He doesn’t blink, and his gaze burns through me. He looks scared.
“Maybe you’re just special,” I smile, standing up to be closer to him. I can feel his body shake slightly.
“Joss,” he whispers, looking back down at our hands, weaving them together more tightly, pulling them into his chest. “I’m not special. But I’m strong…I guess. Or maybe I’m fast. I don’t know. I can stop a lot of bad things from happening. But I can’t stop that…” he says, his gaze moving to the empty box on the edge of the tub, then to the toilet where I just flushed my pills.
“I can’t save you from that,” he says, his eyes drifting to our feet. “That’s my limit. I cannot keep you safe from you. You have to do that for me. And I’m so afraid you won’t.”
His confession slams into me. That’s why I brought him here, why I needed him to hold my hand through this, through getting rid of the poison I used to seek to take me away. I knew it would be hard. And I know I am inherently weak when it comes to feeling. I have wounds from my mother’s leaving and my father’s drinking that ha
ve been bleeding for years. The Band-Aids have only put off coping with the actual source of the pain. But I don’t know if I’m strong enough to keep walking away…not without him holding my hand.
“I’ll fight so hard, Wes. I promise,” I say, my eyes swimming in his. He doesn’t respond, but the way he pulls me tight tells me he believes me. He knows I’m a fighter. That’s what he loves about me—the way I fight.
He loves me.
He said so.
And I love him back so very much.
Fifteen
“Your dad is pisssssssed off!” Kyle says as I round the gym toward my locker room. He grabs my arm and walks me backward, until we’re hidden behind the maintenance shed and giant dumpsters.
It stinks here.
“Nothing really new there, and can we not have this conversation by the lunch leftovers? It fucking smells,” I say, folding my arm over my face. Kyle pulls me against the wall next to him.
“No, your dad is on the other side of the building—so no, we can’t. I just wanted to warn you,” he says, craning his neck and looking around the wall. He steps out a little and lets out a puff of air, his shoulders relaxing. “I think he went back inside.”
I smack him in the chest hard to get his attention.
“Owwww, damn!” he says, brow knitted as he looks at me, offended.
“What’s up with the kidnapping?” I ask, my arms out.
He purses his lips and shakes his head. “You went AWOL all day, and for once, your dad was looking for you. He tried to pull you out of third period,” Kyle says.
“What? Doesn’t he have some PE class or something during that time? And whatever. I went home, Wes was with me. I had shit to deal with. I kinda have a lot on my mind, and that’s kinda his fault…” I say, stopping when I see the expression fall over Kyle.
Wes was with me.
“I’m sorry,” I say, taking a deep breath. I let my gaze fall down to the ground and I kick my foot forward, swinging it. I look back up to find him sucking in his top lip.
“It’s okay,” he shakes his head.
“No, it’s not. It’s awkward, you hearing about me being with Wes, and I’m sorry I just blurted it out like that,” I say.
His eyes come up to meet mine, and his smile is crooked.
“Yeah, it’s…awkward. But still…don’t hide it. You shouldn’t have to hide it. And I’m good with Wes,” he says.
I hold my tongue and keep my gaze on his just long enough to know he’s telling me the truth. I’ll probably still try to shield him from Wes and me, but it’s good to know that he doesn’t resent me, or Wes, for our feelings. There was no stopping them.
“Speaking of the shit you’re dealing with. Are you…are you dealing?” Kyle lets the question linger, and it means so many things. He knows I like talking about my mom almost as much as he likes talking about his since his parents divorced a few years ago. Kyle and I turn to destruction to cope when life gets hard—and we’ve always turned to one another as allies for distraction. But it’s starting to feel like we can lean on each other differently now, without risk.
“I’m dealing. I haven’t done anything stupid either, if that’s what you mean,” I say, resting back against the large recycling bin hiding us from view.
“Well that’s a relief. I know how you like stupid things,” Kyle says, his familiar grin punctuating his response.
“I like you, don’t I?” I say, punching his arm lightly. He laughs, but it fades quickly.
“Yeah, well…I’m a pretty stupid thing,” he says.
The awkward quiet starts to creep in, but before it becomes too much, I return us to the reason Kyle dragged me back here.
“So why’s my dad looking for me? What’s wrong? Any other estranged relatives pass away? Or is he just looking for a designated driver?” I don’t bother to laugh through my sarcasm; it rings too true.
“Your dad quit the team this morning, Joss,” Kyle says, his lip pulled into his teeth while he looks at me as if this is something I should already know. My mind is still trying to understand the words Kyle just said. The thought of my dad giving up the team feels like a goodbye, it makes me worry—for him.
“What?” I ask, my wide eyes a direct reflection of the shock I’m going through.
“You didn’t know? Shit, I thought he at least told you that much. This morning, he told us all…damn…after you and Wes left,” Kyle says, piecing it together. “He said it was time, that he had to refocus on his life, and that the assistant coaches were ready, blah blah. I don’t know, the timing was all just really weird.”
“No,” I say, stepping away from him. I look around the corner, spotting my father’s car—it’s still in the lot. “It’s not weird timing at all. He’s shutting down. He was gone so much last week, Kyle.”
I scan the campus, but everyone has gone. I notice a few players starting to straggle from the boy’s locker room, and I know Wes will be coming out soon too, expecting my father to be there waiting for him, to mentor him.
I’m sorry, Wes. Eric Winters has just quit on you too.
“I’m sorry, Joss,” Kyle says, stepping up behind me, his hand on my shoulder.
“Thanks,” I whisper. “Hey, you should go get ready. I have practice too.”
Kyle slides around me, and takes a few steps backward, his eyes searching mine to make sure I’m really okay. I’m not. He knows I’m not. But I’ve also been worse. I shake his worry off, and he eventually turns to jog to the locker room and I cut around the back of the gym to go into mine.
The girls are all mostly ready, except Taryn, who’s manically trying to pull on her sliding pants over her cleats as she dresses in the wrong order. Even with her mad dash to get ready, the locker room is eerily quiet. My teammates are all sitting, waiting, with their gloves and bags in their hands, and there are a few whispers while I line my things up and get ready at my own pace. The way I see it, Coach is lucky I’m showing up to practice today.
I straddle the bench to put on my cleats, and my eyes lock with Bria’s across the room. She smiles at me quickly, the kind of smile filled with condolences. Shit. They all know about my mom.
I drop my gaze back to my hands and feet, tying my laces and shoving my regular clothes into my locker, dumping my equipment bag on the ground. The clanging sound when my bat bounces on the floor makes a few girls near me flinch.
“Sorry,” I say, to no one in particular. I pick my bag up and sling it over my shoulder, clicking the lock on my door with my right hand and walking with purposeful steps until I’m outside and away from the stares and uninvited sympathy.
I get all the way out to the field and begin my jogging, stretching, and warm-ups on my own. Several minutes pass before Taryn begins to make the long walk through the outfield. I notice Wes has already made it to the baseball field, and the boys are all circled with the assistant coaches—no doubt trying to figure out how they could possibly move forward without the genius that is Coach Winters.
The rest of the girls finally make it to the field, and Taryn and I begin throwing along the baseline. The quiet is still there. It doesn’t belong, but I don’t know how to end it.
“I wish people would understand that I’m fine,” I say to my friend. She holds the ball, tucking it in her glove and resting it at her hip. “What? I am. I am fine.”
Taryn looks down the line of girls throwing next to us and shakes her head, jogging over to me. I sigh as she gets closer.
“Stop it,” she says.
I flinch.
“I’m…sorry?” I begin to laugh, but I’m not that amused.
“Stop pretending you’re fine. Your mom died, Joss. And your dad just quit the baseball team. So clearly he’s not fine,” she says.
“I hardly knew her,” I say quickly. The power of that statement hits my chest, stripping my breath away a little. My eyes sting, so I look down and sniff. I won’t cry over her anymore.
“But she was your mom. And the fact that you hardly kne
w her has sort of been a big deal in your life for a long time,” Taryn says. I keep my eyes at the ground, because I can feel the others start to look our direction. The throwing sounds have stopped.
I do not want a group hug.
“Fine, all right? Whatever. I’m messed up about it. But I also don’t want to deal with it, and now that my dad quit the one thing he loved, I’ve probably got bigger problems on my—”
Taryn stops me mid-sentence, her hand wrapping around my arm. I look up into her confused face, her eyes over my shoulder.
“Hey, Joss? I think maybe…you…maybe do have bigger problems…” Taryn’s voice trails off, and I turn slowly, my face into the sun, to see my father standing next to Coach Adams. He’s dressed for practice.
“Motherfuck—” I breathe.
Taryn laughs once, the sound like a rim shot to the punch line of my joke of a life.
Coach Adams blows his whistle, but I don’t hear it. I only see him pull the small piece to his lips and watch as everyone else reacts, jogging over, whispering, nervous. These girls should be nervous. I am only sick.
I’m the last to join the circle around them, and everyone sits down, but me. I’ll stand in the back, ready to leave. I want to leave. This can’t happen. This field is mine. He can’t have it.
“Joss, mind taking a seat?” Coach Adams asks.
“I do,” I say, clearing my throat. “If it’s all right with you…I’ll just stand.”
“Joss, sit your ass down,” my father says.
This is why this won’t work. I straighten my posture and shift my glove against my body, narrowing my gaze on my father.
“Why are you here?” I ask.
His chest puffs slowly with the intake of breath, and his eyes shift to Coach Adams. His voice is low, but we all still hear him.
“I didn’t get to talk to her today. She was…out,” he says. He says it like I was out doing some illegal activity, like I didn’t have a good reason to leave the school, like I’m a disappointment.
“Sorry, finding out your estranged mother died sort of makes you act up. Guess it’s the same when it’s your estranged wife,” I bite.
