Play On

by Michelle Smith

  For the first time tonight, her face is peaceful. Maybe coming here wasn’t such a bad idea, after all. Sometimes the best remedy is a few minutes out in the middle of nowhere, away from everything. Being alone with an old dirt road is better than therapy. It’s one of the few things I’ll miss about this place in the fall. I have a feeling there aren’t too many dirt roads in Columbia.

  “Do you come out here a lot?” she asks. “Since it’s so far out?”

  And the lump’s back in my throat. I used to come a lot. Jamie and I would drive here when we wanted privacy for certain things, but I’m not about to tell Marisa that. “Not really,” is my answer, and at least it’s mostly the truth. It has been a while. Crap on a freakin’ cracker, I really shouldn’t have come out here.

  “Crap on a cracker?” Marisa says. “That’s new.” Wide-eyed, I turn to her slowly. She shrugs with a small smile. “And you can tell me that you used to bring your ex out here. It’s okay.”

  “Sorry, what?”

  She kicks her feet up on the dashboard. “Don’t worry, I’m not psychic. A little psycho once in a while, but not psychic. I just don’t think you realize you’re saying stuff out loud sometimes.”

  I shake my head. There’s no way. Jay would’ve called me out on that a long, long time ago. “I think you’re full of it. I think you’re hiding some psychic mumbo-jumbo up your sleeve.”

  “I’m tellin’ you, you do it all the time.”

  My jaw drops. “You just dropped a ‘g.’”

  She narrows her eyes. “Huh? No, I didn’t.”

  “You definitely just dropped a ‘g.’”

  “Maybe you should focus on the fact that you talk without even realizing it.”

  I can’t even be embarrassed because that was one of the most adorable things I’ve ever heard come out of her mouth. I toss my arm across the back of her seat and lean toward her. “Are you turnin’ into a Southern girl already, Marisa?”

  Her mouth opens, and I can’t hold back my grin as she fights her own smile and fails. “I hate to break it to you, Floral Prince, but a month in the South doesn’t create a Southerner. Besides, it wouldn’t work for me. The accent sounds so much cuter coming from you.”

  I’m pretty sure my cheeks just caught on fire. “I highly doubt that.”

  “See? Highly. I’m telling you, I’m kind of melting over here.” She looks down at her hands, tugging on her sleeves as she adds, “I bet it makes all the other girls melt, too.”

  My heartbeat stutters to an almost-complete stop. I don’t know what gave her that impression, but it sucks that she thinks I’m some kind of girl-hopping a-hole. “There aren’t any other girls. You’re the first girl in a long, long time.”

  She plays with the ends of her sleeves, fidgeting in her seat, but stays quiet.

  “The other night, at the shop,” I continue, “with the kiss? I asked because I wanted to. Because I like you. And I know plenty of other dudes who make out with one girl after another, but that’s not me. I thought you knew that.”

  Her eyes fill with tears. Whoa, whoa, whoa. Shit. She sniffles loudly as she hides her face in her hands. “God, I’m such a mess,” she whispers. She sniffles again and looks at me, all wet cheeks and gut-punching frown and tears that just won’t stop falling. “I’m sorry. I screw everything up. Even nights like tonight, when I’m supposed to be grateful and happy and—” Shaking her head, she presses her lips together. “I can’t do this.”

  I grab her hand, which is cold as ice. “What’s goin’ on? Talk to me.”

  More tears. Lord have mercy, if she doesn’t stop crying, my heart might explode. She looks down at the hand I’m still holding because, to be honest, I really, really don’t want to let it go. Not only that, but I have a feeling that she needs it.

  “What’s going on,” she says, her voice thick, “is that I’m a crazy, psychotic, certifiable mess. I shouldn’t have come out tonight, and I definitely shouldn’t have dragged you into this.”

  My pulse races. The last time I saw someone cry like this, it was when we found out about Dad and my momma was inconsolable. “Did someone die?”

  She coughs out a laugh and wipes her nose with her other sleeve. “You don’t want to know, Austin. Trust me.”

  “I do want to know. Seein’ you like this? It’s kind of destroying me.”

  She turns back to me, still sniffling, though the tears seem to have stopped for now. She pulls her hand from mine, and before I can say anything, she holds up her arm.

  “It’s not exactly something I parade around,” she says, barely above a whisper. “And it’s a secret that no one down here knows about, and I’d really like to keep it that way.”

  “You can trust me with anything,” I say without hesitation.

  With a deep, shuddering breath, she closes her eyes, pulls up her sleeve, and holds her arm out for me to see. The word “love” is tattooed in cursive on her wrist, and while it’s nice and simple enough, that’s not what snatches my attention. At least a dozen scars cover that wrist, along with the section of her forearm that’s exposed. Some are tiny, some are long and jagged. Those kinds of scars don’t just come from anywhere. Did—did she actually try to kill herself?

  I can’t breathe.

  I lean back against my door, staring at her as seconds, minutes, hours pass. I have no clue how long it is before I’m pretty sure someone drives a knife through my gut. She won’t look at me. Instead, she pulls her sleeve down with a trembling hand, shoves open her door, and hops down from the truck. She walks to the pond and stops at the water’s edge, wrapping her arms around herself.

  I should follow her. I should make sure she’s okay. I should say something. All that would be a lot easier if I could breathe.

  Opening my door sends in a rush of freezing cold air, but it’s exactly what I need. I step down and start for the water, stuffing my hands in my pockets. Marisa was right; the stars do look like diamonds. Momma used to tell me to make wishes on them, as if little balls of gas hold some sort of magical power. I think I have too many wishes for those things to handle, anyway. They’d explode under the pressure.

  Like right now? More than anything, I’d wish to have the answer to a question I’ve been asking for two years: why the hell anyone would kill themselves. I don’t get it. I won’t pretend to get it.

  Twigs and rocks crunch as I step to her side. I glance over at her, but she’s gazing out at the water, arms still crossed. Pieces of hair have fallen out of her ponytail and blow around, crazy in the wind.

  I don’t have a clue what to say. Things seem perfect for her: perfect house, perfect parents, perfect brain, perfect personality. So why the hell would she try and—?

  No. Nope. I can’t do it. I can’t even think it. My throat tightens as I kick at the grass. Dad seemed pretty damn perfect, too.

  “Please don’t tell anyone else,” she says. I look up. She turns to me, arms wrapped around herself like a security blanket. “I’m okay now, I swear. But I don’t want people looking at me like I’m some sort of freak, you know?”

  I nod once. It’s all I can do. My words stick to my throat.

  “I won’t blame you for thinking I am a freak,” she says, the words tumbling out. “And I won’t blame you for running, or if you never want to see me again, or if you want me to quit the shop.”

  Hold up. How’d we get to that? I step toward her, but she keeps on.

  “I just thought that maybe you should know the truth because I like you. I like you a lot. And I don’t even know if I mean that I like you, like you, but I like spending time with you, and if we’re going to hang out or whatever, you deserve to know the truth. But if—”

  I grab her shoulders, silencing her. “Stop if-ing,” I tell her. “I want to see you again. I would never ask you to quit the shop. And I like you, too. A lot. So please, stop with the ifs. It’s just—”

  I search her face, which is equal parts hopeful and amazed and utterly confused. And I have a feeling that
what I say next will make or break whatever friendship we’ve built up over the last few weeks. I’ve known her for one freakin’ month, so I have no idea why I’m so invested, or why my heart feels like it’s about to jump out of my chest, or why all I want to do is hug her and have it be enough to make her okay.

  But I am. It does. I do. That’s all that really matters.

  “It’s just,” I continue, “that seeing that scared the hell out of me. It’s hard to imagine you not being here. To think about never having met you. Because you’re pretty awesome.”

  Finally—finally—she smiles. It’s tiny, but it’s there. “You have no idea how much I needed to hear that tonight.”

  She shivers, and I unzip my camo jacket and wrap it around her shoulders. Her smile stretches a little more as she slides her arms into the way-too-huge-for-her sleeves. I grasp her hands and pull her toward me and rub her arms, trying to warm her some more. Her eyes are full of secrets, full of trouble, full of pain, but there’s a twinkle of light in there. A month ago, I was convinced I couldn’t have room in my life for a girl. Now I wish to all that’s holy that she would make room for me.

  “Maybe you should take some time to think about this.” She gestures to herself. “About me, I guess? About whether you’re sure dealing with me is worth the moments like this one when I melt. Because sometimes, I do melt. This wasn’t the first time, and it won’t be the last.”

  I’m not sure about what the heck is in the future. What I am sure about is the girl standing in front of me, right here and right now, and the way she makes me want more. I want more seconds, more minutes, more and more hours with her.

  So when I tell her, “You’re so, so worth it,” I mean every word.

  She gazes up at me, her lips slightly parted. “Thank you,” she whispers.

  “For what?”

  “For staying here. For looking at me. Most people—most stop looking.”

  Ah, hell. I wrap my arms around her, bringing her to me for a hug. She rests her head against my chest, and I swear I hear her sniffle, which tears me all to pieces. My hold on her tightens, and when her arms wrap around my waist, I’m convinced that I’ll never stop looking, as long as it’s okay with her.

  Resting my chin on top of her head, I say, “Well, I promised to be one hell of a friend. Here you go.”

  She laughs, a genuine Marisa-laugh, as she backs away just enough to look up at me. “You’re doing a good job.” With a heavy sigh, she glances over at the pond. “We should go. This is gorgeous, but I’m not a fan of pneumonia. I never should’ve gotten out of the truck.”

  “Your parents aren’t freakin’ out right now, are they?”

  She shakes her head. “I texted them on the way up here, telling them that I ran into a friend. It took a whole lot of begging for them to agree on my being alone tonight, but—” She bites her lip. “I’m sure they feel much better, knowing I’m with someone now.”

  “And are you? Okay with me, I mean?”

  “Yeah. I am. Because you’re one hell of a friend.” She backs out of my hold and turns, heading for the truck. As I fall into step behind her, I can’t help but think that her arm isn’t the only thing that was wrong tonight. Maybe she’ll tell me one day. After all, we’ve got plenty of time.

  chapter eleven

  You know the number one sign that you’re, like, ten feet off the ground for someone? When you text her all day, every day, for two weeks, even though you see her most of those days. Even when you wake up at one in the morning because your phone buzzes with a new message. I never thought that I’d be That Guy. Hell, I’ll just say it: I’m whipped. And it’s even more pathetic than usual because she isn’t my girlfriend. She doesn’t even want to be my girlfriend. But she likes me. And I like her. So that’s as good a start as any.

  The sun’s dipping behind the trees as practice winds down. All the other guys hit the parking lot while I walk around the diamond, picking up the bases, and Brett and Eric look for the balls that sailed over the back fence. One more week until those bleachers open up to the public. One more week until we get down to business. One more God-blessed week.

  With the bases tucked under my arm, I head back to the dugout, where Coach stands at its opening. I nod to him as he steps to the side, making room for me to drop the bases into the dugout’s storage closet.

  “You looked good out there today,” he says. “That arm’s lookin’ sharp. A lot better than the first day of tryouts. Had me a little worried.”

  Because that was before I’d found my own personal Chemistry genius. I close the closet’s door and toss him the key. “Thank you, sir. Chem had me riled up, but I’ve got it under control.”

  He watches me grab my gear bag. “I got the copy of your report card. I’m proud of you. I wouldn’t want anyone else on the mound next week. Make sure you keep it up.” He looks out to the field, where Eric and Brett are walking our way with the ball bucket. “Eric’s good,” he says, “but you’ve got your head in the game. He’s got a lot of growin’ up to do before he’s a solid starter, you know?”

  “Yes, sir,” I reply, and I do know. Eric’s a good buddy, but he’s a pro at being in the wrong place at the wrong time. You can’t lead a team when you’re either drunk or locked up in a jail cell every other weekend. There’s a time and place for everything. A starter needs to know which battles are worth fighting.

  “You doing all right?” he asks, his voice lower. “You and your momma got everything you need?”

  “We do. We’re good.”

  “Y’all ever need anything, just ask.” He slaps my back, his hand lingering until I step onto the field. Now, time to grab dinner and head to the shop. I’m in for a long, long night of homework if I want to keep the grades that Coach is so proud of. I sling my gear bag over my shoulder and follow him toward the gate.

  “Austin?”

  I trip over my own feet. Coach grabs my elbow, keeping me upright while Marisa, clearly trying to hold back a laugh, waves to me from the other side of the fence. What the hell is she doing here? She should be working. Coach holds the fence’s door open for her, grinning as she walks by.

  “Not too long, Braxton,” he says, sliding on his sunglasses. “You got homework to do, yeah?”

  “Yes, sir.” But if my tutor’s out here, can’t that count as homework? Tilting my head to the side, I shift my bag’s strap and ask Marisa, “Not that I’m complaining, but what’re you doing here?”

  She runs a hand through her hair, which is a mess of waves. “Your mom let me off early.”

  “Slacker.”

  She laughs. “So,” she says, looking at the ground, “I thought I’d come see you. See where the magic happens.” She peers up at me through those lashes, a smile creeping across her face.

  She got off early and came all the way here to see me? That can’t be right. Or maybe I should just shut up and take a miracle when it’s handed to me. “Really?” I ask.

  She nods. I step to the side, allowing her to walk past me and onto the field. Brett and Eric emerge from the dugout, laughing about something until they spot us. They stop short, each holding his own gear bag. Brett cocks an eyebrow. Eric looks her up and down, nodding appreciatively.

  “Nice,” he drawls.

  Brett smacks the back of his head and shoves him toward the fence. “Later, Braxton,” he says. I stifle a laugh.

  “Sorry ’bout Eric,” I offer. “He’s, well, Eric.”

  Marisa just shakes her head and starts toward home plate. I drop my bag at the fence, watching as she toes the dirt. She’s meticulous about it, being careful not to get any on the actual plate.

  “It’s been so long since I’ve been on a field,” she says, glancing over her shoulder. “I wanted to see the one you’re always going on about. It’s okay that I’m here, right?”

  Crossing my arms, I walk toward her. “It’s more than okay. You played? On a team, I mean?”

  She nods, her gaze passing over the field. “JV softball du
ring sophomore year. I was going to try out for varsity my junior year, but…” She trails off, holding up her arm. “You know how that went.”

  No, I don’t. She never told me the entire story. “What position?” I ask instead.

  Her smile returns as I step to her side. “Catcher.”

  Nice. “You know, I have a soft spot for catchers. They’re the backbone of the team.” Pitching a game without Jay would be like pitching without my glove.

  “But pitchers control the field.” She gestures to the diamond. “All this? It’s like your kingdom.”

  Well, the girl does have a point. I look down at her. I recognize that expression on her face, the magic a player feels when he (or she) is standing at home plate. When you’re standing on this field, you can hear the crowd in your ears. Feel the burn in your arm. Your pulse spikes and it’s almost dizzying, the rush you get.

  “Wait here,” I tell her.

  Her eyebrows scrunch, but I jog past her to the dugout, where Eric and Brett left the ball bucket. After grabbing one of the balls, I toss it to her. She catches it effortlessly. “Gloveless,” I call from the dugout entrance. “You’re a natural, Marlowe. How’s your swing?”

  Her face glows as she stares at the ball in her hand. “Not bad. My dad used to take me to the batting cages.” She clears her throat. “We don’t go anymore.”

  I take a detour to my bag, which is still beside the fence, and pull out my bat. If you want to gauge whether or not a girl is a true ball fan, see how comfortable she is with a bat. “Why not?”

  She holds up her arm again. “I’m not the only one who carries these scars, Austin.” She tosses the ball up and swipes it, mid-air. “He loves me. They both do. But I think they’ve forgotten that I’m still me, not some problem they’ve been assigned to fix.” She shrugs a shoulder. “He throws himself into work. And with this new job, it’s even more work. He tries, he really does, but we don’t talk like we used to. Now it’s all about meds or whether I’m eating so I can take my meds.”