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Page 17
“You want to bring up things we’ve talked about?” She steps toward me, forcing me to take a step back. Another step. And another, until I’m standing just outside her doorway. “How about that night at the pond when I told you that this happens. That I melt sometimes. And I asked you to think about it, to really think about whether or not you could handle it. So maybe you should take the next couple of weeks to decide whether you still think being with me is worth all this.”
“That’s not what I’m—”
“But I’ll tell you one more thing,” she continues. “If it takes you two weeks to decide whether or not I’m worth it? I’m not sure I want you to decide.”
Tears slide down her cheeks, but her gaze doesn’t waver at all. Neither does mine. My voice cracks as I tell her again, in complete and utter hand-to-God honesty, “You are so, so worth it. But—” I choke on the word. “But you can’t lie to me, either, Marisa.”
She smiles a shaky smile. Places her hand on my shoulder. Reaches up to kiss my cheek. Her voice wavers as she says, “I’ll see you in two weeks.”
And when the door closes, for some strange reason, it doesn’t feel like a goodbye. It feels like a “see ya later.”
I hope it’s not just wishful thinking.
chapter twenty-one
After leaving Marisa’s house, I head straight across town toward Jay’s neighborhood. While I’m already out, I might as well make the most of it. If I still feel like someone’s drilling into my brain with some kind of hangover screwdriver, there’s no telling how crappy he feels. Not to mention I never called him back yesterday, even though he checked on me while going through his own mess. And a distraction would be good right now. Really, really good.
Except for his car, the driveway’s empty when I pull up to his house. It’s different here than at Marisa’s. Sunday afternoon relaxation mode is in gear, with his neighbors swinging on porch swings and a group of moms walking down the road with strollers.
Jay answers the door after my first knock. Wearing nothing but boxers, a T-shirt, and a scowl, he’s not exactly the welcome committee.
“Where’s everyone?” I ask, walking inside behind him. I close the door as he plops onto their leather couch. The widescreen TV’s at full blast, with a Tampa Bay spring training game on its screen. I collapse onto the opposite end of the couch, sprawling my legs in front of me.
“My parents are meeting Felix in Charleston.” He kicks his feet up onto the coffee table, which is covered with Sprite cans. Someone’s still fighting a hangover. “His tux came in. Tell me: how many Torreses does it take to try on a tux?” When I don’t answer, he rolls his eyes. “Three, Braxton. Three. No wonder you needed a tutor.”
Well, someone’s a special damn snowflake today. “That’s cute. That’s real cute. So why didn’t you go with ’em, funny guy?”
He shrugs. Instead of meeting my gaze, he just stares blankly at the TV. “Didn’t feel like going. I think I’m still half-drunk from Friday night.”
Closing my eyes, I flop my head against the back of the couch. “What happened?” I ask through a yawn. “Friday. All I got out of you was Brett, a fight, and the wedding.”
I look over at him. Now he’s got his own head back, staring up at the ceiling. The crowd on TV roars, the sound splitting through the room.
“I asked if he wanted to show up to the wedding with me,” he says. “With me, with me. He freaked. I yelled. It was ugly.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His leg bounces. “We’ve been sneaking around for more than six months. I’m exhausted with sneaking around. But I shouldn’t…” He shakes his head and glances at me over his shoulder. “Where’ve you been? You look as shitty as I feel.”
I lean forward along with him. “I came here from Marisa’s. Asked her what happened on Friday, what led up to—” I wave my hand around “—whatever the hell that was. She said it was just a thing that happens. Like it was no big deal.”
He scoffs. “People always say something is nothing when it means a hell of a lot of something.”
No kidding. I pick at my fingernails while the crowd on TV erupts into cheers again. “I love her,” I tell him. “May sound crazy, but I love the girl.”
He grabs the remote from the coffee table and flops back against the couch. “Love’s a crazy thing, bro.”
That scowl must be glued to his face or something. I nod toward his phone, which is on the armrest beside him. “Why don’t you call him?”
He shrugs a shoulder. Turns the TV up a notch. “He’s got church tonight. I’m not going to bug him.”
I look at the grandfather clock in the corner. It’s only three in the afternoon. “Not for another four hours.”
“I’m not calling him,” he snaps. “I screwed up, so just let me give him some time.”
“How could you have screwed up that bad? By asking him to the wedding? That doesn’t seem like something unforgiveable.”
He tosses his head back, groaning. “You don’t get it. It’s not just the wedding. I’ve been on him for a long time, telling him I’m sick of sneaking past everyone but you and Felix in this ass-backward town.”
Still not entirely getting it. “How’s telling him how you feel such a bad thing?”
He heaves a sigh. “Because by doing that, I was telling him how he should feel,” he says. “And that’s a dick move. I was trying to make the decision for him.” He grimaces. “It’s not my decision to make. That’s where I screwed up.”
Now that makes sense. I settle back against the couch. “You know, I bet if you called—”
“Stop, Braxton,” he mumbles, shaking his head. “Just stop.”
Damn. Seeing him like this is brutal. I nod toward the TV. “The Rays are lookin’ good.”
He stares at me for a beat before looking at the screen. “Stop trying to make me feel better. They’re playing like shit today.”
At least I tried. My phone buzzes against my leg. I dig it out of my pocket.
Marisa: Leaving now. See u soon.
She’ll see me soon. That’s a good sign, right? It means this is a fixable mess, that she doesn’t hate me. I think.
I type back, Have a good trip, and start to shove the phone back into my pocket. Instead, I scoot away from Jay a little more, making sure he’s not looking at me. I scroll through my contacts until I find Eric’s number and type out another message: Get brett to the field tmrw night. Around 9.
“You better not be talking to Brett,” Jay says. “Try anything funny and I’ll break that precious arm.” He looks at me. “Some people just don’t get a love story, Braxton. When you accept that, life’s easier.”
I’m sure it does make life easier. I’m sure it makes it a hell of a lot more boring, too.
I’m not a matchmaker, or a therapist, or a mediator. Actually, I’m probably more of an idiot for doing this. I kind of really need my arm, but friends help each other. We have each other’s backs. And I know Jay’s miserable as hell, so I’m not about to let him sink into his couch for the next week and a half of Spring Break. That’d be a waste.
I talked Jay into coming to the field tonight by convincing him that my arm was aching because of this afternoon’s rain, and that I needed to work out the kinks. Considering that he believed me, he’s obviously still off his ass about Brett. Hopefully that’ll change tonight. And hopefully I get to keep my arm.
Jay’s my friend. He also really, really hates being lied to. And he doesn’t break a promise.
My arm’s twitching already.
At 8:58, I park my truck next to the school’s field and cut the engine. Jay unbuckles his seatbelt and hops out into the parking lot, and I do the same. Without the field lights, it’s dark out here, which is one reason I knew it’d be the right place. Jay’s family is home, Brett’s family is home, and Momma’s already sleeping, so my house was out. They’ll get the privacy they need here, the privacy that Brett still craves. Not to mention, the field is where everything makes sense.
“You son of a—” He rushes me and grabs me by the shirt. He swallows audibly, but his hand is shaking. “Who in the actual hell do you think you are?”
Carefully, I pry his hand off my shirt. Down, fella. “I think I’m a friend doing you a favor.”
He narrows his eyes. “Yeah, well, screw you and your favors. I’m going home.”
I hold up my keys, jingling them. “See, that’s the funny thing. I drove you here, and I’m not leaving until you talk to him, so—”
“This isn’t your problem, Braxton.”
“No, it’s not,” I agree. “But I’m not gonna sit around and watch my two best friends screw themselves because you’re too much of a chicken shit to put all this out on the table. You say you effed up? Fine. Apologize.”
The doors to Brett’s Jeep slam closed. Eric and Brett walk toward us, both with their hands shoved into their jeans pockets, both wearing Bulldogs hats. Brett’s the only one wearing one hell of a poker face.
I swear to God, if this backfires, I’ll feel like shit. Jay was right when he said this isn’t my fight. But when you see something that you can maybe, possibly, help fix, it’s almost impossible to resist giving it a shot. Plus, we only have a little over four months before we’re scattering to different states. They’d never forgive themselves if they wasted their last summer together.
Brett lifts his chin to Jay. “Hey.”
Jay crosses his arms. “Hey.”
Eric says, “Y’all want to tell me what we’re doin’ out here?”
I point to Jay and Brett, who are still staring at each other. “These two have somethin’ they need to hash out. We’re not leaving until they do.”
Jay begins to say something, but Brett crosses the distance between them and takes his elbow. He heads toward the field, with Jay walking right along with him. See? That wasn’t so hard.
Eric steps to my side. “What’s their deal?” he asks. “Is that why Brett’s been actin’ like a wuss all weekend?”
I shrug. “Not sure I’d call him a wuss for it, but sure. I guess.”
He looks over at me, his eyes narrowed. “You know something I don’t?”
All I do is nod. If Brett wants him to know, Brett can tell him. Not my place. I sit in the grass, which is already damp with dew. With a grunt, Eric plops down beside me. A cool gust of wind smacks me in the face. Brett’s standing by the fence, his face hidden in the darkness as Jay talks and talks and talks, his hands gesturing all over the place. This may take a while.
I pull my phone out of my pocket, lighting it up to see if I’ve missed anything. Nothing. Frowning, I shove it back into my jeans. I texted Marisa this morning just for the heck of it (and also because I miss the girl already), but all I got was silence. I guess she was serious about this waiting period, or whatever she wants to call it.
“What’s he doin’?” Eric murmurs.
I glance up. Brett takes a step toward Jay. Then another. And another. And then—
He kisses him. Right there, beside the baseball field, in front of me, in front of his brother, Brett kisses Jay. And they don’t look like they’re letting up any time soon.
“Holy—”
I look over at Eric, who’s staring at them with his mouth wide open. “You didn’t know,” I say.
Alert: Captain Obvious has entered the premises. Of course he didn’t know. If he knew, he wouldn’t look like…well, he wouldn’t look like that. Like a largemouth bass.
He lets out a short, breathless laugh. “Now I do.”
“You all right?” I ask.
He nods. “Yeah, I’m fine.” His forehead creases. “It’s just…the only thing that bothers me is that he must have thought it would bother me.” He shrugs. “I don’t give a shit what he does. He’s my brother, you know?”
Yeah, I do know. Sort of. These guys are the closest to brothers I’ve ever had, but I’d do anything to back them up.
Eric pushes himself to his feet and smacks the wet grass off his jeans. “Since we’re here, you feel like helpin’ a guy out with this change-up you’re always goin’ on about? Spring Break’s no excuse to slack off.”
He holds out his hand. I let him pull me to my feet. He may still have a lot of growing up to do, but I’ve got to say, the team’ll be in good hands next year.
I slap him on the back. “Let’s go, Junior.”
chapter twenty-two
The Tri-County Spring Break Tournament our town hosts every year always draws a huge crowd. Four teams, two games, six hours, and a whole lot of fans. It’s going to be a good afternoon.
I circle the parking lot half a dozen times before finally saying screw it. I drive to the back of the lot, where Brett and Jay are sitting on the bumper of Brett’s Jeep, and make my own parking spot in the grass. After cutting the engine, I check my phone one more time to make sure Marisa hasn’t called. She’s been in Maryland for two weeks. I’ve talked to her zero times in these two weeks. It’s safe to say I’m going insane.
I really, really hope the “see ya later” thing wasn’t just wishful thinking.
Brett lifts his chin to me when I hop down from the truck. “’Bout time you showed up,” he says. “Just because you ain’t startin’ doesn’t mean you can slack off.”
I sling my gear bag over my shoulder. “How much money did Coach give you to say that?” They’re on opposite ends of the bumper, each with his arms crossed and a pro-level poker face. To anyone else, they’d be two teammates relaxing before the game. But this, them being out here together, is huge. And I’m damn proud of them.
Jay’s the first to stand and grab his own bag from the pavement. “On that note, we should be on the field already. Coach’ll have our asses.”
The sun blazes as we start across the lot toward the field. The bleachers are filled to the brim, with people lined up all the way down the fence. Three of Barton High’s players linger behind the bleachers, laughing about God knows what. The middle guy, their pitcher, spots us heading their way and holds up his hands, silencing the others. I’ve batted against the guy before, but I can’t remember his name for the life of me. I do know he’s got a God-awful slider.
“How’s it goin’, fellas?” he calls as we walk past. “Heard you’re not startin’ today, Hotshot. Resting that gold-plated arm?”
I stop where the pavement meets grass, and chuckle. He’s baiting me. It’s working. I turn, shifting my bag on my shoulder. “Not gonna risk blowin’ out my arm in a game that doesn’t mean anything.”
He crosses his arms and grins. “Right, right. God forbid you pitch a game for the fun of it. It’s all about the glory, isn’t it?”
His slider isn’t the only thing that’s pathetic. His trash-talk sucks, too.
He nods toward Brett and Jay. “What about you two? Y’all playin’? Because I didn’t realize they let prisspots on the ball field.”
I narrow my eyes. “The hell did you just say?” I’m not even touching him, but I can feel Brett go stiff as a sheet of plywood beside me. Jay crosses the distance between them, coming face-to-face with Bastard Pitcher.
That’s his name now. Bastard Pitcher.
“Braxton just asked you a question,” Jay says in a voice that’d have me pissing my pants. “What the hell did you say?”
The crowd grows louder in the bleachers, but it’s nothing more than a dull noise. The pitcher holds Jay’s stare, smirking. “I saw y’all two across the lot when you got here. Wouldn’t have been able to get a hose in between you if I’d tried. Not sure who you think you’re foolin’.” He looks over at Brett. “And ain’t you Pastor Perry’s kid? How’s he feel about his boy bein’ a fag?”
Oh, hell no. Brett disappears, high-tailing it to the field. Pr
obably a good thing; I’ve seen the dude’s right hook. I grab Jay’s arm, yanking him back so he doesn’t get locked up today, either. He rips out of my hold and follows Brett.
Bastard Pitcher cackles, his two buddies going right along with him. “You see it all in this town: a Mexican queer and his pastor-kid boyfriend. It’s classic, really.”
Me? I’m not playing today. I can spend a day in a cell if he keeps runnin’ off at the mouth. “You wanna try saying that to their faces?” I ask. “Or are you just gonna hide behind the bleachers all day like a pansy-ass piece of shit?”
The fool snorts and starts toward the field with his lackeys in tow. “Nah, I’ll see ’em once I’m on the mound later,” he calls over his shoulder. “I’ll let ’em know how I feel then. Trust me.”
So much for it being a good day.
The dugout’s quiet as I approach, way too quiet for game day. Jay and Brett’s tension has spread across the team like wildfire, even if the other guys don’t know why it’s there to begin with. After checking in with Coach, who’s still ticked that two of his starters showed up late and pissed, I sit next to Jay on the bench. It’s no different than sitting beside a rock, stone-cold and silent.
I catch him glancing at Brett, who’s taking warm-up swings in the on-deck circle. They’re finally moving forward, then this shit happens.
“Y’all gonna be all right?” I ask him.
Jay shrugs. “No idea.”
“You gonna be all right?”
“No idea.”
As Brett steps up to the plate, Barton’s pitcher, the smartass from the lot, grins and toes the dirt. My chest tightens. I head to the fence that separates the dugout from the field, standing beside Eric. I know that grin. I’ve had that grin. It’s one a pitcher flashes when he’s up to no good. He winds up and fires a fastball so fast I’m surprised Brett doesn’t have whiplash.
His fastball’s definitely better than his slider.
“Strike one!” the ump yells.
Jay’s by my side in an instant, rattling the fence. “Come on, Perry!” he shouts. “Smack the hell out of it!”