A Boy Like You (Like Us Book 1)(16)

"We've been replaced," Kyle says, pushing my feet off balance. They fall  to the ground from the wall I've propped myself up on. He straddles the  wall next to me, lying back and tossing a ball above his face into his  glove.

"It's a wonder you have teeth," I tease.

"Ha ha," he says, not missing a beat and continuing to toss the ball while kicking me gently with his right foot.         

     



 

I'm waiting on Taryn to get out of the locker room so she can give me a  ride home, and I'm also watching my dad and Wes out on the field.

"You've been replaced. I'm still just the girl who plays this silly  little sport they have for girls, in between partying and throwing her  life down the drain." My voice is monotone, my attention devoted to  watching Wes stand tall on the mound and go through his motions slowly,  my father tweaking and adjusting inches along the way.

"You're better than all of us," Kyle says, sitting up and leaning into  me. The funny thing is, I know he means it. He would never say it in  front of others, but with me-alone-he's always been my biggest fan.

I let my head fall to the side to look at him and give him a lopsided,  closed smile. "Thanks," I say, glancing down at my nails, the dirt  wedged underneath, scratches on my hands from sliding practice today.  "You know, he's never seen a single one of my high school games."

"Who, your pops?" Kyle asks, leaning back on his hands, spitting sunflower seed shells off to the sidewalk.

"Not a single one," I answer. It's quiet between us for a few minutes,  and we both watch my dad shake Wes's hand and pat him on the back. My  dad makes the slow climb up the hill to where we are, but Wes stays out  there, working alone, the sun barely up and dark clouds closing in on  what little light is left.

My father gets closer, and our posture shifts into that of two grade  school kids sent to sit along the wall after getting in trouble on the  playground. In an act of defiance, Kyle spits one more shell out toward  my father's feet as he nears us. It makes me chuckle.

"Wes is starting Monday," my dad says. I look down, wishing I could  disappear and give Kyle privacy. I can feel disappointment radiate from  him without looking. He knew he wouldn't start, but my dad is rubbing it  in by saying it in front of me.

"Okay," Kyle says, his voice even, despite the rage I know is brewing underneath.

"Joss," my dad says, not moving, waiting for me to look up. I take my  time, because the only thing I can do to show Kyle support is make my  father wait. After a few seconds, I flutter my eyes open on his and  sigh. "You had a pack of cigarettes in your jeans. I found them in the  laundry. You said you were quitting."

"I did quit," I say. I glance to Kyle, who smirks at me because I gave  him shit for quitting a week ago. I shrug then look back to my dad.

"I'll believe that when I see it. You have a pattern of not following  through with things," he says, pulling his phone from his pocket and  checking a message, no longer looking at me while insulting me. He walks  away without another word, but before he rounds the corner, I fire off  something brave.

"I'll quit when you quit," I say, just loud enough that he pauses at the  edge of the building, rolling his shoulders and pulling one hand from  his pocket to make a fist. I hold my breath and wait for him to turn  around, but he doesn't. I hit him with his own flaws, and there's no  comeback for that.

"You didn't have to do that," Kyle says, leaning forward with his hands  on the handles of his gym bag. "I knew Wes was going to start and not  me. Really, I'm fine with it."

"He was still being an ass," I say, rolling my head to face him. He  gives me a quick grin and leans his head in my direction. "And no  offense, but that was more for me than you. Last weekend … got ugly."

Kyle nods slowly, standing and walking over to me, resting one hand on  my knee while leaning forward slowly to kiss my head. "I'm sorry, Joss,"  he says, letting his forehead fall to the top of mine. He means it.  When nobody is watching, Kyle is incredibly sweet.

"Thanks," I sniff out. "Wes … he was there. He … helped."

Kyle steps away, and I know it's because I mentioned Wes's name. I  didn't want him to find out from anyone other than me. If Wes were the  one to tell him first, he would think I was hiding it from him for other  reasons. I haven't mentioned it, because I've wanted to forget. But my  dad just brought the memory roaring back to the forefront of everything.

"Glad you weren't alone," he says, his back to me as he picks up his  bag, tucking his towel inside before zipping it closed. "Hey, I'll see  you tomorrow, yeah? We're still on for Slasher Saturday?"

Kyle, Conner, Taryn, and I have gone to the Bakersfield Nine Drive-Ins  for slasher films every February first since we were old enough to pedal  our bikes that far. When we were younger, we had to sneak in under the  fencing near the projector building and pretend we were with our parents  when ushers would ask, pointing at random cars and lying, saying that  was our family. Last year, Kyle drove us there, and I fell asleep next  to him to the sounds of chainsaws and screaming. He woke me when we got  to my house, and he looked at me like he wanted to kiss me-really kiss  me, the kind of kiss that meant something, different from the other  times we'd hooked up just for fun. I haven't kissed him again since.         

     



 

"Wouldn't miss it," I say. I feel a strange sense of guilt from the way  he turns his body, careful not to look at me while he walks away. His  words are guarded, and he's hiding how he feels, but I still see it. I  leaned on Wes instead of him. He holds up a few fingers and walks a  little faster to the back parking lot, his gaze never lifting to me  until his engine roars and he's ready to pull away. He holds up a hand  one more time to wave goodbye, but he doesn't smile.

When his car pulls out of sight, I let my eyes drift back to the field,  where Wes is throwing balls to nobody, letting them hit the backstop. I  push from the wall and throw my bag over my back, my cleats untied and  loose around my feet as I trudge through the outfield toward him.

"I can catch for you … if you want," I say. He turns quickly at the sound of my voice, startled.

"Oh … uh, thanks, but it's okay, I was almost done " he says, jiggling his  arm against his side as if it's sore and tired. He hasn't thrown many  pitches at all today, though. I know, because I've been watching.

"You know, eventually you're going to have to give in to the fact that I  can handle you," I say, my eyes leveling him with a challenge. He  laughs lightly to himself, his lip held between his teeth as he tugs  down on the bill of his hat, shadowing his face, until he finally nods  at me.

"A'right," he relents, shrugging to home plate.

I step over to the backstop and throw the dozen or so balls he pitched  on his own back to him, and he drops them in his bag near his feet one  at a time. I brush the dirt from home plate with my glove, then crouch  down. I hold the pose for a few seconds while Wes stares at me, and  eventually he shakes his head with a quiet laugh.

"What?" I yell, dropping my arms to my knees. I hate catching; it's  miserable. I only did it because it was him-he needed help. No … I wanted  to help. And now he's laughing at me?

He jogs toward me in long, slow strides, and I stand, leaning with my  glove against my hip. He's wearing dark blue shorts over black  compression pants, and unlike the other boys on my dad's team, he  actually looks good in them-like a real ballplayer. I look away and take  a step or two back when he gets closer, but he reaches for my arm,  catching my elbow with his fingers. My eyes go right to his hold and  then to his face where he's waiting for me with the same expression I  have.

"Sorry," he says, letting go of me quickly. I feel the loss of his touch.

Kneeling down, he urges me to do the same next to him, shirking his  glove from his hand and holding his palms on the insides of his thighs.  "You are sitting like this. It's unsteady, and you're going to get  tired … fast," he says, his eyes gliding over to my legs. He licks his  lips, and sucks in a slow but heavy breath, before putting one knee down  and bringing his hand to my leg, glancing at me quickly for permission  before resting his fingertips on my kneecap. His touch is cautious and  purposeful. It's also powerful, and I feel it.

"If you just turn … like this, and then shift your weight," he says,  tugging my knee out gently before clearing his throat slightly as his  eyes run up my thigh. He stands abruptly, and I let down one knee to  rest my legs. "Anyhow, I just figured maybe you never caught before, and  I could show you something. You probably already knew that though, so-"

"Thanks," I interrupt him before he steps away. I'm not warm and fuzzy. I  make him nervous. And I regret that. "Really," I add, as he tilts his  head sideways over his shoulder, glancing back at me. "My dad use to  show me stuff like that, but … it's been a while."