A Boy Like You (Like Us Book 1)(11)

Slumping back in my seat, I resign myself to having concocted an  amazingly lavish fantasy, and I go back to just thinking Wes Stokes is a  hot new guy at school with an abrasive personality. And I'm almost  convinced of it, until Mr. Coughlin reads through roll call for the day.

"And what do you prefer to go by, Mr. Stokes? Wes or … "

"Wes," He interjects quickly, his shoulders suddenly stiff. "I go by Wes … "

"Got it, so the other name … " he says, clicking through the list of students on his computer and eyeballing the rest of us.

"Just Wes," he repeats, his voice a little firmer, shoulders stiffer.

"What about the other name?" I say quietly, barely under my breath, a  whisper escaping. Wes turns his head a fraction to the side, and I know  he heard me, but he leans forward instead, increasing the distance  between my body and his. I bet he's regretting his seating choice now.



Taryn and TK both showed up at lunch, as I predicted. I caught him  nibbling at her neck just outside the cafeteria as I was walking up. He  headed out to the parking lot before I approached them, and I saw him  jump into the back of the truck with his brothers.

I picked at my fries throughout lunch while Taryn caught me up on all  things TK-he likes football better than baseball, he's a good kisser,  and he's taking her out this weekend. Those were the highlights. We  usually hang out at Conner and Kyle's on Saturday nights, so it's  looking like I'll be walking there. They only live a few blocks away,  and the slightly risky walk at night is still better than hanging out at  my house and waiting for my dad to stumble in, or better yet, to call  me and beg me for a ride. It's cruel every time it happens-the only time  I can drive his damn car is when I'm picking him up from puking on  himself.

I'm trying not to be snarky with Taryn over TK. She does this with guys,  though-gets a crush, and it accelerates at a hundred miles per hour  until she's suddenly neck deep in a suffocating relationship with the  guy in a matter of days. Guys just fall for her-hard. Taryn Rodriguez is  beautiful. Her body curves, and her boobs are enormous. It's one thing  she's always had that I envied. I'm jealous of her home life too-two  older sisters in college and married parents who think she walks on  water, even when we land our asses in trouble. Yeah, I'd trade my best  features for her bra size and dinner at their family table any day.

Taryn is still crushing on TK while we load the balls back in the bucket  from hitting practice. She's starting to repeat things, and normally I  call her on it, but the boy standing next to my father three hundred  yards away distracts me.

Of course, my dad likes him. And he doesn't just like him. He's living  vicariously through him, practically foaming at the mouth over the fact  that Wes Stokes is his to coach and train. My dad was a pitcher in  college until he hurt his arm. He and my mom had been dating for three  years, and she married him right before they graduated. I think she had  high hopes that he'd make a comeback and get drafted by a team. Instead,  she wound up married to a high school PE teacher and coach who  preferred to live in rural California and hated L.A.

My mom loved the city. The compromise was Bakersfield, which is very  much not a big city. My dad became a legend of a coach here, and he'll  die here. I know this much. My mom must have too.         

     



 

I'm careful how I watch Wes. Taryn's already asked me if I have a thing  for him, and I told her he was hot, but seemed like an asshole. A fair  summation, I believe, even if I left out a few details, like my twisted  theory that he's literally my childhood hero.

He's working on grip technique with my dad now. I can tell by the way  they're trading the ball, practicing stances while Wes moves the ball in  his hand behind his back. I smirk, because I'm so much like my father.  Wes doesn't hide his grip very well; it's how I knew exactly what he was  going to throw. My dad picked up on that right away and aims to fix it.  I'm glad. I'm also sick because I'm like him.

Maybe I'll die in Bakersfield too.

"Trying to get over the fact that he's an asshole are you?" Taryn  teases, throwing a ball toward me and bouncing it off my thigh. Shit.  Caught.

"No," I sigh, glancing back at them a few times. "Just watching him with my dad. He really likes him."

My mouth falls into a tight line, and I busy myself with the balls and  the tee, balancing one for my next hit. I check my feet and ready my  swing, but before my bat moves, Taryn grabs the ball into her hands.

"Taryn, don't," I protest. She's reading into this the wrong way now.

"You should talk to your dad, Joss. Tell him you miss how close you  were. You know he misses you too. He'd love to get back to that time  when you stood there with him like that," she says, nodding toward Wes  and my father.

"We've had those conversations, Tar. They don't work. You know they  don't work, because I come live with you for a week after every time," I  say, holding my hand out for the ball. She huffs and puts it on the tee  for me, and I pull back and unleash a hard swing. I bend down and  replace the ball with a new one, ready to swing again. "And I'm not  jealous of my dad's latest pet project. I'm just pissed that he's  telling him how to hide his pitches better. Now I won't be able to read  them so well."

I take another hack and load another ball, but Taryn pulls it away again.

"I swear to god, Taryn, just stop … " I say, wiping the beads of sweat from my brow and letting my bat slump over my shoulder.

My friend rolls the ball in her hands a few times, her lips parted and  ready, but after a few seconds she closes her mouth and puts the ball  back in place, then takes a few steps back so I can swing.

"Fine, I'm wrong … I guess," she says. I cut through the ball, sending it  ricocheting off one of the poles holding the hitting net. "But … " Taryn  starts again. I breathe harder, the heat and the hundreds of swings I've  already taken starting to catch up to me. I'm too tired to argue with  her anymore. I look at her, my lips pursed and my eyes wide-I'll  tolerate one more lecture.

"You lied about one of those things, Joss, and I know it. And it's okay,  but you know you did," she says. I shake my head in response, rolling  my eyes. "Either you're jealous of Wes Stokes or you're into him. It  might even be both, Joss, but it sure as hell ain't neither."

I want to protest, but I also want to drop it, because Taryn's right.  She's more right than I thought she would be too, because yeah … it's  both. But it also doesn't matter.

Coach Adams blows his whistle when the sun is starting to set, and I  linger behind the rest of my team. I've always been a lone wolf out  here, Taryn the only real teammate I care to hang out with off the  field. The other girls are just different from me. They're focused on  the matching hair ribbons and bows for their cleats, while I'm focused  on crushing the competition and the celebration after-with shots and  maybe a few of those pills that make everything feel fuzzy and far away.  They all also get to go home to bright and shiny families. I'm sure  some of them have their own problems, but they're nothing like mine-and  they're nothing like me.

I pull the gate closed on the batting cage after putting the buckets of  balls away. When I'm locking up, I notice Wes is sitting at the end of  the bench in the dugout across from me, also alone. I chuckle to myself  because as much as he's my dad's pet, he also can't compete with the six  o'clock happy hour at Pete's that I have no doubt my father is already  halfway on his way to.

Wes is leaning forward on the bench, his hands moving near his feet,  doing something to his cleats. I step to the end of the cage where the  netting is thinner and I have a better view, but I stop shy of walking  all the way into the open. After a closer look, I realize he's wiping  away the dust and dirt from his shoes, and the scene makes me suck in a  breath and hold it.         

     



 

He drags the corner of his towel around the toes and sides of his shoes,  then stuffs the cloth into his bag, lifting it up and rolling it behind  him until he reaches the exit for the dugout.

The infield dirt is loose, just like the farms a mile or two away, and  there's really no way to walk through it without making deep prints and  leaving puffs of dust clouds in your wake. Wes pauses, lifting his bag  by the straps up over his shoulder, then steps slowly along the edge,  rounding the dugout to a small strip of concrete that runs to the main  sidewalk near the locker rooms. I watch him the entire way; he never  sees me.

It's been eight years since I've watched a boy walk along a balance beam  in attempt to keep his favorite pair of shoes clean. And I know in my  heart I've just seen that same boy do it again.





Three





Taryn and TK have defied the law of averages, and as much as they appear  to be into each other, there also doesn't seem to be a sign of them  getting sick of one another. A week would actually be a record for a  Taryn Rodriguez relationship, and dare I admit, I'm rooting for a new  record.