Play On

by Michelle Smith

  I sit beside her, bending my knees. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so excited for a movie.”

  She hands me my burger and shrugs while opening the wrapper on hers. “Normal is something I’ve always dreamed of.” She gestures to the screen, which isn’t much more than a sheet hung on the side of Murray’s Mattresses. “This? A movie, burgers, and a night by the river with one of the sweetest guys in town? This is normal.”

  Her gaze locks on something behind me. She nods subtly, signaling for me to look. I turn just as old Mr. Joyner, the owner of Joyner’s BBQ, squats in the grass. He nods to Marisa and pats me on the shoulder.

  “How ya doin’, son?”

  I shake his outstretched hand. Because a shoulder-pat is never enough, obviously. “Hey, Mr. Joyner. I’m good, thanks.”

  “That was a hell of a game you boys played last night.”

  I smile. “Thank you, sir. Had a blast winnin’ it.”

  He laughs, the booming sound echoing around us. “You looked a lot like your old man out there. That change-up? Outstanding.”

  My jaw clenches. I nod once. Drop my burger onto the blanket. Appetite officially lost.

  “He would’ve been proud of that game. Reminded me of the no-hitters he pitched back in his day. Shame about his shoulder, huh?”

  He waits, expecting an answer. I muster a “Yes, sir. Real shame.”

  He shakes his head. “Y’all got that game against Beaufort coming up at the end of the month. Think this’ll be the end of that losing streak? You know, back when I was pitchin’ for the Bulldogs, a man’s curveball was the game-changer. I’ve got a few ideas about yours—”

  Music from the movie starts, sounding throughout the lawn. He mutters a swear and pushes himself up. “Better get back to Doris. You kids enjoy the show.” With one last pat on my shoulder, he waves to Marisa before heading across the lawn.

  My dad died over two years ago, but he’s still all over this town. He taught me how to throw, how to catch, how to bat. He taught me how to shake hands after a loss and congratulate the other team after a win. He brought me to the game. I owe my future to him. But it’s hard to be grateful when he won’t be around to see that future. When your worst memory is thrown in your face every day, it’s enough to drive you up a damn wall.

  Marisa places her hand on top of mine. “It’s not that bad, is it?”

  I stare at our hands. I want to grab hers and squeeze it tight, but—friends. “Just another reason why I’m countin’ the days until I leave for Columbia.”

  “Slow down,” she says. “Stop living every moment waiting for the next. Enjoy each moment. Make memories.”

  That’d be easier if the worst memories weren’t the loudest. I’ve had some good times in this town, but the God-awful moments always manage to shove their way to the front of the line.

  I look up at her. She holds my gaze, her own full of hope and sweetness and something I can’t really place. She inhales sharply and her hand disappears, making mine feel cold and lonely. She scoots closer. Closer. Closer, until her outstretched legs brush against mine. And finally, she rests her head on my shoulder.

  Okay.

  Hoping I’m not making a killer mistake, I drape my arm across her shoulders. She wraps her arm around my lower back.

  These moments? They’re pretty darn good. I’ll take more of these.

  The movie starts up on the screen. I have no clue what it is, other than it’s some black-and-white movie that probably is, in fact, fifty years old. But that’s not what matters. All that matters is the girl curled into my side. She said she wants to be friends, that she wants safety. I’ll be her safety net for as long as she needs me.

  “Can I ask you a question?” she whispers.

  “What?” I whisper back.

  Silence. I look down, catching her already watching me. I narrow my eyes. “What is it?” I ask. “Is it the arm? ’Cause I can move the arm.”

  She shakes her head. “No. Um…I was just wondering something.” She chews on her bottom lip. Glances at mine. “What happens when friends kiss?”

  Holy— My heart slams against my chest. “I—I think it makes them a little more than friends.”

  She nods once. Looks at the movie screen. Takes my breath right along with her.

  I can be friends. I can do the friend thing, if that’s what she wants. But damn it, I’m not even gonna lie. If that girl kisses me or even wants to kiss me—

  “Austin?” she says.

  I swallow hard. “Yeah?”

  She turns back to me, the tiniest of smiles playing on her lips. “Can we be a little more than friends?”

  Hell. Yes. We can.

  Rein it in, Braxton.

  I lean down, resting my forehead against hers while fighting the biggest grin I’ve ever had. “You’re sure?” I ask. This is her call. She wanted to take it slow, and I’ll take it slow as molasses if she wants. Or I’ll kiss the daylights out of her. Either way, I’m good.

  Her smile widens, the sweetest smile I’ve ever seen on that face. And her lips are on mine, soft and sweet and so. Damn. Perfect. Hugging her even tighter, I close my eyes, memorizing every curve of those lips. These moments? These are the ones worth remembering.

  She pulls away slightly, just enough to look into my eyes. Her smile’s still there, gorgeous as ever. “I like being more than friends.”

  Home freakin’ run.

  I run my hand through her hair and bring her back to me, pressing my lips to hers again. Seconds, please. And thirds. Fourths. Fifths. As many as she’ll give me.

  Maybe memories don’t always have to be so bad.

  chapter fourteen

  On our way back from the cemetery on Sunday afternoon, Momma won’t even look at me. It’s the first time we’ve been to Dad’s grave together since Christmas, and this visit went about as well as the last. After I pull my truck into the driveway, she stays put in the passenger seat, staring at our house through the windshield. Her disappointment is kind of a given. I just wish she’d say something, anything, because the silent treatment is the worst punishment ever created.

  “Momma,” I venture. “I’m sorry.”

  She scoffs. Shakes her head. Keeps her eyes trained on our house, the same house that Dad’s dad, my papa, built with his bare hands. And I’m sure she’s thinking about that, about how our house is full of so much heart and so many memories, and wondering how I can be so insensitive about my own dad’s memory, especially on his birthday.

  Her words from earlier. Not mine.

  “I can’t do it,” I continue, loosening the collar on my button-down church shirt. “I know today’s his birthday, and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, and I tried, but I can’t get out of the truck at his grave. I can’t—” I sigh. I can’t mourn someone I half-hate. But I’m not going to tell her that. “I just can’t.”

  She nods slowly, as if she’s thinking about my words, and unbuckles her seatbelt. “I know you’re still having a rough time with this. But at the end of the day, he’s still your daddy. One day, you’ll regret holding on to the bitterness. It’ll eat you alive.”

  It’s not the first time she’s told me that. It won’t be the last. “I think I have a right to be pissed—”

  She cuts me off with The Look. You know the one: the one that says to shut your mouth while you have the chance. She shifts in her seat, facing me. “You listen to me right now, Austin Michael, and you listen real, real good. You need people in your life. People you can count on, people who love you, people who you love. And when you find those people, you hold on to them for dear life. That’s why I still hold on to your daddy, and that’s why I make sure you get time with your friends. With Marisa.”

  Oh.

  “The way your daddy left this earth was horrible,” she says. “I don’t understand why, and I know you don’t either. But don’t you dare, for one second, speak ill of him now that he’s gone. Maybe you should think about the years he spent teaching you how to throw a ball. Th
ink about every single one of those games he showed up to since you started T-ball. Think about how that man used to be your idol. Think about how you were his everything.”

  My throat tightens. I can’t think about those things. I can’t, because they’d reduce me to a pathetic, sobbing mess. And I clearly wasn’t his everything, considering I wasn’t enough for him to stick around.

  “Do you hear me?” she asks.

  Say something. Say anything. “I—”

  “I said, do you hear me?”

  I nod once. “Yes, ma’am.”

  She gets out of the truck without another word, not that there’s anything left to say. I bang my head on the steering wheel. There’s no way in hell I’m going into that house for a while. I’d rather take my chances in hell, actually. Satan would be more welcoming.

  I pull my phone out of the pocket of my khakis and scroll through until I find Marisa’s number.

  Need to go somewhere. Wanna drive with me? Flopping back against my seat, I hit Send and wait.

  Friday night was amazing. Marisa was amazing. Everything about the night was straight out of a dream or something. I never thought a kiss could be so flawless, so perfect, so damn addicting, but she went beyond proving me wrong.

  My phone lights up. Marisa: Dad says no bc we’re going to church tonight.

  Dang it, it’s not even four o’clock yet. This day will never end if I don’t have something to do. How about the batting cages? Even bring the guys if it makes him feel better. Be done by church time. While I wait for her to answer, I send out a text to Jay, Brett, and Eric, telling them to get to The Strike Zone. I don’t even need a reply from them; those three have never turned down an invite to the cages. And I’m going whether or not Marisa does. Smacking the hell out of a ball is better than therapy.

  Right as I hit Send to them, her message comes in. Sure. Meet u there.

  What? Uh-uh. I’ll pick u up, I type back quickly.

  Marisa: Already in town with parents. They’ll take me. =)

  Oh. Okay, then. I back out of my driveway and head across town, which is quiet thanks to it being Sunday. There are only three cars in the parking lot at The Strike Zone, one of them belonging to Marisa’s parents. She hops out of their car right as I park.

  “You can drive me to church, right?” she asks while I step out of the truck.

  Uh, yeah. Duh. Her mom’s window is down, so I call out, “I’ll get her there, Mrs. Marlowe. No worries.”

  Her mom smiles, and Dr. Marlowe leans across her to say, “Not too late.”

  Backing away from their car, Marisa waves. “I’ll be fine. Bye, guys.”

  As they pull out of the lot, Marisa walks over to me, all smiles in her bright green dress and jean jacket. “We were eating at Baker’s Grill when you texted. You have good timing.” She slides her hands into mine and leans up to kiss me. Yep. Still perfect. “Are your friends coming, or—?”

  “They’re coming. Just takin’ their sweet time.” I search the parking lot and look out to the road, but there’s still no sign of them. “You want to wait out here, inside, or in the truck?”

  She looks past me to my truck. “Definitely the truck.”

  Pursing my lips, I nod. “Well, well, well. Looks like we may have a country girl convert.”

  She holds up her hands. “I’m not saying that. I’m just saying that you were right: I do dig the truck.” She climbs up into the passenger seat while I circle around to my side. “And you’re sure your friends won’t mind that I’m here?” she asks as I close my door.

  Yeah, right. They might like her more than they like me. “Trust me. But maybe this’ll help.” I reach into the backseat, feeling around the floorboard until I grab my USC hoodie. “Here,” I say, handing it to her. “Now you can be one of the guys. And it’s garnet, just like our team colors. You’ll fit right in.”

  She rolls her eyes, but shrugs off her jacket anyway. My heart jumps into my throat. For the first time since that night at the pond, her scars are out in the open. She doesn’t notice me staring, thank God. She tugs on the hoodie, laughing when it practically swallows her whole.

  “Dude,” she says. “You’re a giant.”

  “I’m not that tall. You’re just that short.”

  She swats my arm and settles back against her seat, kicking her boots up on the dashboard. “I wish I’d known you were coming into town. I would’ve invited you to eat with me and my parents.”

  I shake my head. “Nah. I wouldn’t have been able to come anyway. I had—” I clear my throat. “I had a thing today.”

  Looking down at my lap, I force away the thought of nearly making my momma cry, again, in the exact seat that Marisa’s sitting in. I’ll be the first to admit it: I’m a momma’s boy. She was my best friend for a long, long time, and she’s been my number one fan from day one. The last thing I want to do is make the woman upset. But it ties with the other last thing I want to do, which is getting out of my truck when we’re at the cemetery. It’s a vicious cycle.

  “Do you want the whole truth and nothing but the truth?” Marisa asks.

  I’m about to ask what she’s talking about when I realize I’m flat-out staring at her wrists. Crap. I look up at her, but she doesn’t seem bothered at all. I grab her hand, lacing my fingers through hers.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—” Hanging my head, I groan. This day keeps getting better. “I’m sorry.”

  She pushes up her sleeve on the arm of the hand I’m holding—the arm. “It’s okay. We’re more than friends now, right? And more-than-friends should know these things.”

  I nod, urging her to go on. Ready or not, here comes the truth, I guess.

  “The night you picked me up was the one-year anniversary of all this,” she says, holding up her arm.

  I don’t think I can handle the truth.

  “It’s weird,” she continues, “and you’ll probably think I’m a freak, but that night is kind of like a birthday, I guess? I wanted it to be a celebration. It didn’t exactly pan out like a celebration, considering I cried my eyes out until you picked me up, but whatever. A girl can try.”

  Really don’t think I can handle it. “You’re losing me already,” I admit, my voice cracking. Keep it together, Braxton. “I thought your birthday was in December.”

  She lets out a breathless laugh. “’Kay. From the beginning. I’ve had depression for as long as I can remember. It’s something I’ve always just kind of dealt with, you know?”

  Not at all, but I nod anyway.

  Her gaze falls to our fingers, which are still entwined. “Last year, I spiraled downhill. Way downhill. At, like, supersonic speed.” She presses her lips together, her cheeks flushing. I squeeze her hand gently, hoping it gives her some sort of relief. “I was in the bathroom,” she continues softly, “exactly like some stupid clichéd movie scene. I was curled up in the bathtub, sobbing my eyes out, with the shower pounding on me. The water had gone Arctic-cold. I remember praying for God to make it hot again because I was too weak to turn it off. You see, there’s this darkness that comes with rock bottom. It sucks you in like a black hole. It just—it swallowed me whole.”

  Her eyes meet mine again. My heart stutters at the pain there. I can’t imagine. I don’t want to imagine.

  “It hurts,” she whispers. “You have no idea how much it hurts when that happens.” She sniffles. Shakes her head. “All I wanted was for the pain to go away, no matter what it took. The razor was there, and something inside me snapped. That’s the only way I know how to describe it. My parents found me right on time, but it was—” She pauses. “It was bad. A mess.”

  Red clouds my vision. All I can see is Marisa covered in blood. Marisa’s parents freaking the eff out. Marisa not breathing. And now I can’t breathe. I. Can. Not. Breathe. God, please don’t let her notice.

  “Breathe, Austin.” She gestures for me to take a deep breath, which I do.

  This has nothing to do with me. This is her story, the weight on he
r shoulders, the scars she carries around. But damn it, my heart is downright clenching at the thought of her hurting.

  “I’m going to sound like a dick for this,” I say, “but how the heck is something like that even close to a birthday? It sounds more like a…” I can’t even finish.

  “A funeral?” She smiles, surprising the hell out of me. “You’re not a dick. You sound like my mom. And that’s why I didn’t want to go home that night. We would’ve had our usual family dinner, except it would have been silent, with my parents trying their best to not slip up and say something that might trigger me. Being alone was infinitely better.” She pauses, then adds, “Until you came along.”

  This strange look comes to her face, almost peaceful. Content. And I have no idea how someone can talk about the night she nearly died with a smile on her face.

  “That night last year,” she says, “I was kept in the world for a reason, I think. And while I was in a hospital bed, covered in bandages and being force-fed medicine and treated like a complete psycho, I felt more at peace than I ever have in my life because I was a survivor. That’s the night I decided to really live my life, not just exist. Therefore, my birthday.”

  I hold her gaze, my heart racing and my hands shaking and my breaths refusing to come yet again. I want to cry. I want to hug her. I want to tell her that I don’t ever want to hear about anything bad happening to her again. For a split second, I want to say that I don’t have a damn clue why someone would intentionally hurt herself.

  Or himself. Especially when they have people who love them more than anything.

  But the difference between her and my dad is that she’s here. She’s alive and she’s here and she’s real, holding my hand and breathing the same air as me. And now I’m breathing again. My heartbeat steadies. The shaking subsides. I see a girl who knows pain, true pain, on the inside and out. She’s tougher than I could ever dream of being. She saved herself.

  “Austin?” she whispers. “Please say something.”

  My mouth opens, but no words come. I clear my throat and try again. “Is that why you moved?” I ask. “Why you moved here?”