Swing

by Adriana Locke

  It rings five times and I’m ready to hit “end call” when it picks up.

  “Hello?” The voice is sleepy, rough, and very much not Macie.

  “Will?”

  “There better not be another guy answering this phone,” he says, a little more awake now.

  I wipe the snot off my face. “I’m sorry,” my voice cracks and I mentally berate myself for behaving this way.

  “Hey, who is this?” Sheets rustle in the background. “Danielle?”

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I need to talk to Macie.”

  “Are you okay? I mean, I’m up looking for her now, but you’re gonna have to tell me you’re all right.”

  “I’m fine,” I sniffle. “No, I’m not Will. My heart is so broken.”

  I don’t know why I’m telling him of all people this, a man I only talk to when he answers her phone or if he butts into a conversation we have while they’re together. Still, he’s the only one around to listen.

  “I’m sorry. He’s an idiot, fact as fuck.”

  “You don’t even know him.”

  “I don’t have to know him. I know you.”

  “No, you don’t,” I laugh through the tears as I hear him telling Macie I’m on the phone.

  “Macie knows you and loves you. Therefore, you’re family. Whether you’re right or wrong, he’s an idiot. That’s how this works over here.”

  “Thanks, Will.”

  “You need to get away, you’re welcome here. Our door is open. Well, proverbially. I’d stay away from the bedroom one unless you—”

  “Give me the phone, you fucker!” Macie says. I hear the phone go between them. I can’t help but laugh. They always make me laugh. Their relationship is not perfect by any means—Macie wants to kill him half the time. But she loves him. Respects him. And he wants to be with her over anything else. I cry harder.

  “You okay?” she asks as I hear a door shut in the background.

  “No,” I sob. “Why did I do this to myself?”

  “Oh my God. What happened?”

  I go through everything with her, listening to her gasp when I tell her where he was traded.

  “To your father? He’s going to play for San Diego?”

  “Yes,” I breathe, heading into the kitchen or a cold towel. “I can’t go with him.”

  “No, you can’t.”

  Wrapping a few ice cubes in a dish cloth, I return to the sofa and put it on my eyes. “Macie, I knew better than any of this. I knew I couldn’t resist him and I knew I’d be in this exact position sooner or later.”

  “I know, I know. But you followed your heart.”

  “Fuck my heart.”

  She laughs, but it’s not at me. “So that’s it between you?”

  “Doesn’t it have to be?” The ice clinks in the cloth. “I don’t want to be my mother and I can’t be near them. They destroy me. It’s just . . . not healthy. Even my therapist suggested I break off all contact. That’s why I use my mom’s maiden name of Ashley and not Kipling. To distance myself. They’re so toxic to me and I can’t imagine what they’d do if they knew Lincoln was involved with me.”

  “I really don’t know what to say. This breaks my heart.”

  “Your heart? I don’t think I have one anymore. It’s completely shattered,” I whisper. “I lost Lincoln not just to baseball, but to my father.”

  We sit in silence, her looking for words to make me feel better and me trying to figure out if I could drink enough wine to pass back out without puking. There has to be a ratio. I would know it if I’d lived a little more wildly.

  “I don’t even hate him,” I say finally, breaking the quiet. “I can’t, and trust me, I want to. He’s leaving me, choosing to be traded. But this is just how he’s built. This was inevitable and he’s right—this is the choice he has to make for his life. I can’t fault him for that.”

  “You’re a bigger person than me,” she laughs.

  I sigh. “I just sit here and think, ‘How am I supposed to just go on?’ How do you move on from something like this when everything reminds me of him? I feel like I’m going to be stuck walking by that damn elevator every day, coming home to an empty house, having a phone that doesn’t get a selfie of his abs at least once daily,” I laugh through the sadness. “It’s going to be purgatory.”

  “Come here.”

  “What?”

  “Julia said she’d hire you. She needs help. Her foundation is picking up and she needs a hand she can trust. These people, the Gentry’s, are huge on loyalty, Danielle.”

  Her idea sounds better than I’d like it to. Moving across the country, or half of it, isn’t something you just pick up and do. But the other option of living in a post-Landry world doesn’t seem like something I can just do either.

  “I’m being serious,” Macie insists. “Money isn’t really a thing for you. Just pick up and come and rent something until you find what you want to do. Think about it. We can shop and go to movies and concerts and . . .” The phone muffles as I hear her say, “Stop that, Will. Just give me a few minutes. Oh, my God. Don’t stop that though.”

  Rolling my eyes, but laughing too, I get the picture. “I’ll think about it, but right now you need to go apparently.”

  She sucks in a breath. “Think about it and call me later.”

  I look around the living room and make a decision. “I don’t have to call you later. I’ll be there in two weeks.”

  Lincoln

  THE ONLY SOUND COMES FROM the water dripping in the bathroom sink. I let it drip, even though I could reach over and turn the handle. It makes me feel less alone and keeps me half distracted, which is a godsend.

  “You might have to let the job go.” Graham’s words from last night sweep through me again, and just like they do every time, strike me hard. They needle my brain, sear my heart, gnaw at my soul. Letting this go is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

  I button my shirt, and before I get to the top, grip the edge of the sink and bow my head. This isn’t normal. Even the two other times in my life I’ve thought maybe I was in love, it didn’t hurt like this. It didn’t feel like my entire soul had been yanked out of my body.

  I don’t think I’ll ever be the same. Not without her. Yeah, I’ll smile again at some point and I’ll laugh at stupid jokes. I’ll even regain my status as the best centerfielder in baseball, but even that seems so unimportant. Who will be home after the game? Who is going to ask about my shoulder and not about my statistics? Who will be my friend?

  That’s the thing: I’ve lost my friend before anything else.

  Everything falls. My spirits. My heart. My shoulders. I’m falling into some dark abyss, and I can’t find a ladder to pull myself up. I’m going into the biggest slump of my life and it’s the post-season. The one that really matters.

  If I take this trade, I show up in San Diego in just a few days. I’m property of the Sails as soon as the ink dries and I’m expected to pack a bag and head out. It’s what we do as athletes. We go where the money is. Where our careers lead us. Where we can work for as long as we can.

  The idea started floating around my brain last night. What if I don’t want to go where the money is? What if I’m tired of chasing a batting title? What if living half the year in a hotel doesn’t seem like a good time?

  What if I break her father in half?

  My jaw clenches, my teeth grinding together as I realize I haven’t figured out how to deal with this little issue. I’ll see him every day in a work capacity. I’ll get to know him. He’ll control my future. All the while, I will know who he truly is. Can I do that?

  “I have to do that,” I mutter, putting on my shoes. Reaching over I turn off the water and the silence suffocates me right away. I miss her smile. Her giggle. The way she calls me Landry.

  I grab a jacket and my keys. Sliding my phone in my pocket, it immediately buzzes with a text. I pull it out and stand in the middle of the room star
ing at the screen.

  Good luck in San Diego. I’ll be rooting for you. Xo, Dani

  Danielle

  THE BOXES PEPPER HAPPENED TO have in her store room are spread around me. I sit in the middle of the living room, a haphazard collection of figurines on my left and a box of donuts on my right, bubble wrap in front of me.

  I managed to get dressed, wash my face, and brush my teeth. I made it to the Smitten Kitten and took all of the boxes, two cappuccinos, and the pastries and made it home without crying. It’s a victory. Small, but a victory anyway.

  Macie called and made sure I wasn’t talking out my ass and was really coming. I told her I am. I have to. I can’t stay here. There’s nothing for me here and everything I loved before Lincoln is tainted by my love for him.

  My love for him. I’m so damn stupid. If I would’ve listened to my brain from the start, I would’ve been going through life like normal. Work. Smitten Kitten and cappuccinos. Baths and books. I was happy like that for so long and I went and screwed it up.

  A twist in my stomach catches me off guard and I know I’m lying to myself. I wasn’t happy then. Maybe I thought I was, but it wasn’t until Lincoln that I realized what happy could mean. At least, in the midst of this heartache, I know what it feels like to love someone.

  With a sigh, I grab a donut and shovel half of it in my mouth. The chocolate glaze coats my lips and the roof of my mouth and I can barely chew, or breathe, but it’ll be a delicious way to go out. “Death by donut” somehow seems to read better on my tombstone than death from a broken heart.

  I wrap my little teacup in bubble wrap but can’t find the tape. Standing, I wipe a bit of chocolate off my lips with the back of my hand and head into the kitchen where the bag from the store sits. As I pass the foyer, the doorbell rings.

  Pulling it open, I say, “Pepper, you didn’t have to come. I can pack . . .”

  My mouth drops and my hand falls from the door. I immediately glance in the mirror and feel the panic bubble set in. There’s chocolate icing on my lips and smearing to my right cheek. My hair is in a messy bun. My clothes are clean but wrinkly and definitely not to my usual standards.

  Oh. Fuck.

  “Hi, Dad. Mom,” I say, gulping. “I didn’t know you were in town.”

  “Maybe we should’ve called,” Mom says, taking me in from head-to-toe with a look of disgust.

  Stifling an eye roll, I paste on the best smile I can.

  I don’t invite my father inside, but he doesn’t wait on an invitation either. He clamps my shoulder as he walks by. “I’m not sure this place is safe,” he says, looking around. “Do you have a security system, Ryan?”

  “I’ve lived here for three years. It’s safe.”

  My mother enters too and I shut the door behind them. My gut, already twisted from everything with Lincoln, is pulled tighter. So tight, in fact, that I think I might pass out or vomit.

  “What are the boxes for?” my mother asks, taking off a pair of gloves that extend to her elbow. It’s not that cold out, but they make a statement.

  I consider not telling them anything. I usually don’t. I’m not even sure how they got my address. But with them in front of me, face-to-face for the first time in maybe two or three years, I can’t just not say anything. “I’m moving,” I tell them, smoothing out my shirt. “To Boston. I got a great job there with a nonprofit that works with inner city kids.”

  “Ryan, when are you going to do something real with your life?” My father turns and faces me. He’s aged, the lines in his forehead harsher than I remember. Or maybe it’s just that I’m used to looking at the picture taken almost ten years ago. Either way, he almost seems like a stranger to me.

  “Something real with my life?” I balk. “Excuse me?”

  “Yes, something real,” he huffs. “Kids your age have no idea what it’s like in the real world. You’ve been pampered and coddled your whole damn lives and don’t even take something good when it’s offered to you.”

  “And what’s been offered to me that I haven’t taken?”

  Instead of answering my question, he shakes his head. “You go from one dead-end job to another, wasting your potential. It’s such a shame that you have no interest in being anything.”

  I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. We just stand in the foyer, between the front door and the living room, and look at each other. A group of people tied together by blood, but divided by a poison that infects every strand of our relationship.

  His words hurt. Sting. My wounds are already there, gaping from losing Lincoln, and he pours salt in with no consideration.

  When I was eight years old, my parents told me they wouldn’t be home for my birthday. I cried. Instead of comforting me, they laughed. They said it was silly to think I wouldn’t get a cake or gifts; they’d arranged that. My tears weren’t for teddy bears and chocolate icing. My cries were because it was apparent that day that I didn’t matter.

  I haven’t cried in front of them since then. That is, until today.

  If it were any other day, I would’ve held strong. But my heart too broken, the waterworks already started, and I don’t bother to fight them. They trickle down my cheeks, across the smears of donut, and onto the floor. I consider how ridiculous I must look, like the calamity they think I am and I don’t even care.

  “Will you stop?” my mother breathes, tugging at her necklace. “I told you this was a bad idea, Bryan.”

  “With all the resources you have, why you live like this is beyond me,” my father says. “It’s absurd. You need to clean yourself up and get yourself together, Ryan.”

  “It’s Danielle,” I say, but I don’t think he hears me over the knock at the door. Relieved at Pepper’s perfect timing, I tug the door open.

  It’s not Pepper.

  He looks so handsome standing in my doorway, the afternoon light shining around him. His eyes are wide, filled with the sorrow I feel. He doesn’t move to me, doesn’t try to reach for me, and he doesn’t smile the way he always does when he sees me. This is us. The new us. And I hate it.

  “Dani.”

  The one word, my nickname, the one I hate but now somehow love hearing from his lips, breaks the seal. The tears trickle down faster.

  “I brought your mug,” he says and I want to laugh, but I can’t. It hurts too much. His eyes land over my shoulder and then flip immediately back to mine again. “Are you okay?” The question is a whisper.

  “No,” I say back.

  All of a sudden, he’s taking me in differently. His pupils narrow, his green eyes darken and he steps to me. He pulls me into him and kisses the top of my head. I turn as he steps inside the house, keeping his arm wrapped tightly around my waist.

  “Mr. Kipling,” Lincoln says. I’ve never heard his voice this way. It’s not playful or sexy or even engaging. It’s professional. Hard. Maybe even cold. It takes me aback. “Mrs. Kipling.”

  “What is this? Some kind of joke?” My father’s eyes are wide as he takes in his new centerfielder with his arm around me. I imagine he’s worried I’ll interfere in their life now if I’m somehow dating Lincoln and he’s playing for the Sails. The fury in his eyes dampens a piece of my soul.

  “What is it you’d like explained?” Lincoln asked.

  He clutches me tightly and I’m so thankful he’s here. Glancing at my mother, I see her dipping her chin, looking at me down her perfect, plastic-surgeon-created nose.

  “Did she put you up to this?” my father snarls. Looking at me, his repugnance of me is palpable. “This was your doing, wasn’t it? Why, Ryan? Why do you have to act like such a spoiled brat? Is it attention you need? Is that what’s wrong?”

  “This has nothing to do with her,” Lincoln fires back.

  I look between the two of them, my head spinning. “What are you talking about?”

  My father chuckles, his gaze on Lincoln. “You know you won’t get another offer like the one I gave you. We were ready to build around you, Lincoln. There were good thin
gs happening, and instead, you listened to a little girl that doesn’t know anything.”

  “What are you talking about?” I ask again, drying my face with the sleeve of my shirt, much to my mother’s dismay. “Lincoln?”

  He looks at me and smiles. Using the pad of his thumb, he wipes away the icing on my cheek and laughs. “You’re a mess, Dani.”

  “It’s your fault,” I sniffle, wrapping my hand around his wrist and holding it so he doesn’t pull it away from my face.

  “I’ll make it up to you.” He winks and I drop his hand and he turns back to my parents. “Your offer was generous, Mr. Kipling. You definitely know how to make people see how serious you are about baseball.”

  “And if you were serious, we could’ve made something happen.”

  “Landry?” I ask, looking up at him. I can’t fight the little blossom in my stomach that maybe something happened. But I don’t want to get my hopes up.

  “I am serious, Mr. Kipling. Serious about things that matter.”

  My father laughs, an angry vibe in his tone. “Don’t even tell me . . .”

  “All I’ve ever wanted to do is play baseball,” Lincoln tells my parents. “I wanted to see my name on the back of shirts and to sign my name to pictures being held by little kids. I wanted to be the guy that hit the game-winning run in the World Series and make my dad proud of me.” He pulls me close. “I did that. All of it.”

  “And you can do it all again. A number of times,” my father insists.

  “I could. Yeah, you’re right. But I’ve learned there are more important things in life than contracts and batting titles.”

  My heart slams in my chest and I feel tears build up in the corners of my eyes. I don’t say a word, just listen, and hope, even if I’m wrong, that he’s going to say what I think he is.

  “There are seasons in life,” Lincoln continues. “I spent my entire life up to now focused on baseball. It’s been a great run. Fantastic, actually. I’ve done things and seen things most people can only dream of. But what do I have besides all that?”

  “I have no idea where this is going,” my mother answers. “Or why you are here with our daughter. Or why we are even here, to be honest.”