I stop in front of Coach’s office door. He won’t be my coach.
I knock on the door. When he calls out, “Yeah,” I push it open. Dressed in his practice gear, he waves me in from behind his desk.
“You wanted to see me?” I ask, sliding into the leather chair in front of him.
He lifts the brim of his cap and shuffles the papers on his desk before setting them to the side. “Just real quick before the guys file in. Wanted some quiet time with you. Away from prying eyes. Nosy ears.” He leans back in his chair, grinning as he swivels back and forth. “It’s been a hell of a few years, Braxton.”
That’s the understatement of the century. “Yes, sir.”
He chuckles, tossing his head back. “I remember when you were a snot-faced kid coming out for JV. You thought you were hot stuff because your Little League coach talked you up.”
I grin. I remember that like it was yesterday. I was in the lineup of freshmen trying out for the JV team. Coach stared me up and down, shook my hand, and told me he was going to give me the most worthwhile ass-kicking of my life. “Well, you did switch over to coach varsity once I moved up. I must’ve been hot stuff.”
He points at me. “Yeah, and you knew it. That was the problem.”
“Yeah,” I say, scratching the back of my head. “I was a punk then.”
“Still are,” he says with a smirk. “But you’re growin’ into a good man. I’m proud as hell of how you’re turnin’ out.” He pauses and adds, “I know it’s not necessarily what you want to hear, but your dad would be real proud of you, too.”
Pursing my lips, I nod. So that explains this random pre-practice meeting. “Is that why you wanted to see me in here instead of the field?”
“So you wouldn’t lose your cool in front of your team? You bet.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on his desk. “We’ve had this talk before.”
“It ended awfully bad last time,” I remind him. My leg bounces as I hold his stare. “I’m not sure why you’re trying again.”
My sophomore season was rocky to say the least, considering Dad died right before tryouts. Coach brought me into his office then, laying into me about going to Dad’s grave. Told me I needed to face my anger head-on. I called him an asshole and told him to shove the psychobabble BS up his ass.
He benched me for three weeks.
“I think that forgiveness goes a long way,” he says. “I told you this last time we had this discussion, and I’ll tell you again: forgiveness isn’t for the other person. You forgive for yourself. For your own sanity. If anything, at least go to the man’s grave. Say what you need to say.”
He and Momma keep going on about this. It’s like some tired-ass Ping-Pong game they’ve got going, and honestly, I’m getting sick of it. What Coach doesn’t know is that I’ve crossed the forgiveness bridge. But going to Dad’s grave? That’s like asking me to jump off that bridge. Confrontation and I don’t get along too well.
“What if I don’t?” I ask. “Go to his grave?”
Blowing out a breath, he shrugs. “Then you get to carry his ghost around with you for a long, long time. He’ll follow you to college. He’ll follow you when you’re drafted. He’ll be in the back of your head when you’re pitching. When you close your eyes. He’ll always be there.” He folds his hands. “I’m talking about closure here, Austin. Everyone deserves closure.”
“Why do you even care?” I spit out. My throat tightens. I rub my sweat-streaked face and lean forward on my knees. “Why the hell do you care what I do? I’m off your hands after this year.”
“Because you’re like a son to me. Now watch your mouth.” He points at me again. “I care because I know what it’s like for guilt to eat at you. I care because I saw how much that man meant to you, and I still see it right this second. I know what his memory has done to you, to your life. If you leave town without making peace with this, you’ll regret it for the rest of your damn life. You can quote me on that.”
My jaw stiffens, and I blink quickly, hiding the stupid, stupid, stupid tears that are threatening to creep out. “Well,” I say, clearing my throat. “If this is so important to you, will you excuse me from today’s practice?”
He stares at me for a moment. “And why would I do that?”
I narrow my eyes. “I got some feelings that need sortin’ out, right? Thought I’d take a drive to the cemetery. Do my sortin’ there.”
He nods to the door. “Only time I’m lettin’ you slide. Make it count.”
I’m already in the doorway when he calls my name. I whirl around. “What?”
He lifts an eyebrow, but lets that one slide. “Friday’s game is Senior Night,” he says. “I need your best memory of the team. Be thinking about it.”
Right now, best memories aren’t at the top of my list. Storming out of his office, I stride through the locker room, out of school, and to my truck. He wants me to go to Dad’s grave? Fine. Let’s give this shit a try.
I smack my steering wheel and yell. Yell. Yell until my throat’s raw and my lungs are out of air. Yell until my heart stutters and my cheeks flame up. Once my throat can’t take any more, I crank the engine and peel out of the parking lot. My pulse pounds in my ears as I speed down the back roads toward the cemetery. I navigate through the narrow paths of the graveyard until I come to the familiar spot. And for the first time in over two years, I get out of the truck.
Michael David Braxton
Beloved Husband, Father, and Friend
All Our Love, All Our Promises, All Our Swears
All our freakin’ love. Promises. Swears.
When I was a kid, Dad patted me on the back after every game. Praised me up and down, whether I won or lost. At those moments, more than ever, I knew he loved me like crazy. And nearly every day, he swore he’d love me and Momma ’til the day he died. But the funny thing is, our love didn’t keep him from leaving. It didn’t keep him from dying. It wasn’t enough for him.
We weren’t enough for him.
“You—” My voice cracks. I bite my fist, gnawing on it, but my head goes blank as I glare at his headstone. There’s no air out here. There’s no air. I don’t know how Momma ever breathes out here because there’s no air.
And it’s quiet. Too quiet. All you can hear are your own thoughts, mingled with the silence of death, which is louder than a bullhorn. My breathing returns with a vengeance, coming too fast, too quick, too much at once.
“You,” I say again, struggling to keep my voice even. “You died over two years ago, but you’re here every damn day. You won’t leave me alone.”
I take a step forward and try swallowing back the lump in my throat, but it’s useless. Tears swim in my eyes, blurring his headstone, his name, the line between the year he was born and the year he died. That little line dictates our lives. How insane is that? Everything we do in our lifetime is encompassed in that one stupid line.
Momma and Coach say I need to forgive him for what he did. But what they don’t understand is that I don’t need to forgive him—not anymore. Somehow, in the slightest, most miniscule of ways, I get it. Because of Marisa. Because now I’ve seen firsthand how even the best of people can fight demons and almost lose. Because I’ve seen that bad shit happens to good people.
But Dad—Dad did lose. And I can’t fix that. I wouldn’t have been able to if I’d tried.
For the longest time, I hated him. I hated him for not telling someone what was bothering him. I hated him for not getting help. I hated him for being selfish enough to take his life when there were people behind who loved him more than their own lives.
Earlier this season, Coach told me to suck up my pride and that real men know when to ask for help. But that’s not always true. Sometimes pride is debilitating, especially in a town where people put their heroes on pedestals.
“We wanted you here,” I choke out. “You know that, right? We would’ve done anything to keep you here. All you had to do was ask.”
Tears slip down my cheeks. No
matter how tightly I squeeze my eyes, they just keep coming. I fall to my knees. The wet grass squishes against my skin as I stare at the marble headstone.
“For a long time, I hated you for leaving us. For how you left us. But now—” My voice cracks again. Now that I’ve seen the pain that leads up to that decision, the ache, the freakin’ torture that goes through someone’s head… “—I hate myself for hating you. And I’m sorry. I’m so damn sorry.”
Wiping my nose with my arm, I stand. “Coach sent me to forgive you, Dad, but I just hope you can forgive me.” I take a step back. And another, and another, until I hit my truck.
I climb into the Chevy, and I sit. I sit for a long, long time, staring at the grave-markers ahead, stretching across the cemetery. I stare at good people, bad people, okay people. People who lived their lives to the fullest and people who screwed their way through life without thinking. I’m sure I’m staring at other people who were like my dad, who had the world at their fingertips but were haunted by something.
And I think that’s my biggest regret: not knowing what led him to the bridge. I don’t know what was going through his head that night, what made him think death was the only way out. But if there’s one thing I do know, it’s that I hope every single person in my life knows how much I love them. And that I would really miss them if they were gone.
It’s dark by the time I pull into Marisa’s driveway. Raining, too. I’m not sure how I ended up here, to be honest. All I know is that she’s the only person I want to see.
The truck door creaks as I push it open. My practice cleats, which never got used today, splash in a puddle when I step out onto the driveway. Their porch light is on, which means they’re still awake. That’s a good thing. Waking up your girlfriend’s parents in the middle of the night is kind of a deal-breaker for said parents.
I push the doorbell, prepared for my usual wait, but the door swings open almost immediately. Marisa steps outside, her face all scrunched-up and confused as she says, “Oh, my God. Austin, you’re soaked.”
Am I? I look down. Yep. I am, in fact, soaked. Not entirely sure when that happened.
I gesture to the door. “How’re your parents?”
She crosses her arms. “They’re fine,” she drawls. “Why? What’s going on?”
I nod. “Good. That’s good.” I jerk my thumb over my shoulder. “I just got back from seeing my dad.”
Her expression softens. She wraps her arms around my waist, pulling me against her. “Are you okay?”
I nod again. “Yeah. I think I am.” And finally, I look at her, really look at her, and realize why I came here. Why she was the only person I wanted to see tonight. What I wanted to make sure she heard.
“I love you,” I tell her.
Her eyes widen, but all I want to do is say it again, and again, and again. So, as I wrap my own arms around her, I do. “I love that your eyes crinkle when you smile. I love that you laugh at anything and everything. I love that you love baseball and flowers, and now you love barbeque and fries. I just love you.”
Her lips quirk. “I’m a mess sometimes.”
Doesn’t matter. “You’re a beautiful mess.”
“I can be hard to handle.”
Doesn’t matter. “So can I.”
“I’m not perfect.”
Really doesn’t matter. “You’re perfect for me.”
And now she’s crying, full-blown teardrops trailing down her cheeks, but she’s also smiling, so I think it’s a good cry. She inhales deeply and loops her arms around my neck, pulling me down and kissing me like her life depends on it. And when she murmurs, “I love you, too,” against my lips, I’m falling. I’m drowning. I can’t breathe. This is why I came here: to tell this girl that she’s worth every tear, every meltdown, every smile, every laugh. That she’s worth everything. I back away just enough to look into those gorgeous eyes, and I’m an absolute goner.
“What kind of look is that?” she asks, searching my face.
My lips are chapped, my eyes hurt like the devil, and my muscles suddenly feel like Jell-O. “It’s a look that says you’re the first thing on my mind when I wake up and the last before I fall asleep. That every word out of your mouth is coated in gold, even if it’s the cheesiest thing I’ve ever heard. Even if I’m kind of the master of cheese in this relationship.”
Tears spring to the corners of her eyes again. For a split second, I’m terrified. I’m scared as hell that I just crossed some invisible line into stalker territory, even if I am her boyfriend. But her lip stops trembling, and she smiles.
“How’d we get lucky enough to find each other?” she asks.
“Because the universe can be a jerk, but I think it knows when people need something amazing.”
Her smile widens. “Now I really want to kiss you again.”
“Then stop talking. Start doing.” And once she reaches for me, there’s no turning back. Not that I would want to.
She’s not perfect. I’m not perfect. But together, we’re imperfectly perfect for each other.
Talk about making an ol’ boy fall hard.
chapter twenty-eight
I’ve nearly chomped off my entire thumbnail while sitting at my table, watching Mr. Matthews grade my Chem exam. Every test for the past few weeks has ended the same way, with me staying behind while he grades my answers with that red marker. The difference between the beginning of the semester and now is that his marker doesn’t run out of ink by the time he’s finished. My eligibility isn’t even an issue anymore. My 3.0 is solid. I’ve got to hand it to the guy. He’s actually interested in getting me even higher than what’s required.
He’s also a huge USC fan. I think it’s safe to say that’s more incentive on his part. But I’ll take whatever the heck I can get.
He re-caps the Sharpie, flips the test over, and holds it out for me. I take a deep breath and make my way to the front of the room. This is the last exam before the final. I’ve always thought baseball season was do-or-die, but this class has made ball feel like child’s play.
Taking the paper from his hands is like being the lucky bastard who snatches the Holy Grail. This can’t be right. “A ninety-eight?” I ask.
He grins. “Just one wrong answer. You nailed that sucker.”
I gape at him. No way. No freakin’ way. “So what’s my average look like now?”
He turns to his computer and hits a few keys. “This brings you up to a B-plus, Mr. Braxton. Not half-bad at all.”
My lungs deflate like a hot air balloon as I stare at the paper in my hand. A ninety-eight. I don’t think I’ve gotten a ninety-eight on anything science-related in my life.
“I know I shouldn’t ask a magician the secret to his tricks,” Mr. Matthews says, “but how’d you manage?”
Backing away toward the door, I smack the paper against my hands. “I have a freakin’ genius of a girlfriend-slash-tutor, that’s how.”
He stands and stuffs his hands into his khakis. “Maybe there’s a little genius in you, too. Don’t let her take all the credit.” He glances at the clock. “You should get out to the field. Can’t have Senior Night without the star senior.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” I toss up a wave and stride through the hallway, unable to tear my eyes away from the test. It’s a miracle. A Christmas-in-April miracle.
I push through the double doors, the spring air washing over me as I head outside to the parking lot with a grin on my face. Today’s game starts early, which means a certain pretty girl got off work even earlier. As soon as I see that girl waiting for me at my truck, my cheeks damn near hurt from smiling even bigger.
You see, crazy-love is pretty much the greatest thing to ever exist in this universe. It’s not always easy, but it’s a freakin’ blast. It’s the “can’t eat, can’t sleep, can barely breathe until I see her” kind of love. It’s the “just one more kiss on her front porch” kind of love. The kind of crazy that no one else understands, except me and her. Love ain’t right unti
l you’ve lost your mind and that girl finds it and holds it for safe-keeping.
“Ninety-eight,” I call out, waving my test for her to see.
She shrieks and jumps up, wrapping her arms around my neck as I hug her back. “That’s amazing!” She scrunches her nose at me. “And three months ago, you were calling yourself an idiot. Idiots don’t get ninety-eights, Austin.”
I toss my backpack into the bed of my truck and grab my gear bag. “Well, someone had to help me get all smart and stuff. Remember?”
She rolls her eyes. “Your mom said she’ll be here as soon as she can. She was about to close up the shop when I left.”
Draping my arm across her shoulder, we start for the field. Tonight’s Senior Night, which means us seniors are going to be on display after the game, along with our parents. That’s all well and good, but part of me is depressed as hell. It’s the last official home game. It’s like one last nail in the high school baseball coffin. We’ve got playoffs and hopefully State, but after that, it’s over. Done. I’ve played ball with most of these guys since Little League. After graduation, we’ll be split across the country.
This day kind of sucks now.
Marisa wraps her arm around my waist. We’ve still got a couple hours before the post-game ceremony starts, but Brett and Eric’s momma is already on the field, talking to Coach. Their dad hasn’t been to any of our games since the wedding. Their momma hasn’t missed a minute. I always knew I liked Mrs. Perry.
I stop once we reach the bleachers. Take a deep breath. Grin. This? This is my home field. It doesn’t matter how ready I’ve been to leave, doesn’t matter how often I’ve counted down the days until August. This may be a nowhere town, but it’s my town. My home. And yeah, I’m gonna miss it.
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