Finally, I send one to him, throwing it hard and fast, a dream pitch if it weren't a soft mushball, and Wes boils over, swinging his bat through its center, slamming the heavy canvas ball straight at my chest.
My reaction happens in milliseconds-the ball slowing as it spins in the air, the trajectory right at me. I ready my hands and slide a fraction of a step to the right, giving my arms room to cushion the impact of the ball in my fingers, and when I blink, it's in my hands.
"You're out," I say, tossing the ball a few times in the air. Wes steps away from the makeshift home plate and tosses the bat end over end into the sand.
"This is all such bullshit," he mutters to himself. I start to feel guilty for pushing things so far, but then McKenna jogs over to him and places her hands on his shoulders, squeezing and giving him a massage, and my guilt vanishes.
We quickly get one more out and then it's our turn to bat. Levi's team isn't as strong. All six of us get on base safely. We're on our second pass through the lineup and the sun is cresting along the water, threatening to take away the last few rays of light and end our game. Wanting one more chance, I step up to the plate and hit the ball quickly, running to first, where Wes is playing, and sliding into the towel base when Levi misses his throw.
He swings his arm around a few times, making an excuse, like his arm is sore before complaining that he's not used to throwing balls this size.
"You got schooled by a chick," I tease.
"Ah, come on. Are you seriously telling me that a mushball is anything like a baseball? Please," he says. He bends down and picks up a rounded rock from the sand, tossing it a few times before looking back at me. "I bet if I threw this, I could strike out your boy Kyle."
"In your dreams," Kyle laughs, tapping his bat on the towel and gearing up as if he's really going to hit.
"Yeah, okay. But I know I could strike out Conner," Levi says.
"How much?" Conner says, standing from his comfortable spot in the sand. He brushes the grains from his shorts and stretches his arms, taking the bat from his brother.
"Twenty bucks," Levi smirks.
"Guys, this is a bad idea. We can hardly see," Wes says.
"I see just fine," I talk over him, ignoring his presence next to me even though I can hear the way his body shifts and his posture changes in his frustration with me.
"You're on," Levi says, moving to his pitching stance.
Conner steps to the plate, and Kyle picks up one of the folding chairs from nearby, aligning it so Levi has something to aim for. He throws the first one, and it sails by Conner, his swing almost a second late.
"I was getting my timing down," Conner jokes, reaching his arms behind his back and twisting a few times.
"Yeah, sure you were," Levi snorts.
Kyle tosses the rock back to him, and Levi readies himself to pitch again. This time, his delivery is slower. Conner's swing is a little faster. Both of them adapt just enough that the metal clings against the rock, and just like that-nobody knows where it went.
Nobody.
Except Wes.
And me.
His eyes find mine quickly.
My heart is racing.
My eyes are tearing, and every breath is coming out with a hard force through my nose.
"Shit, I don't even see it!" Conner says, running slowly around the bases in celebration.
"How the fuck did you hit that?" Levi says, kicking at the sand, spraying grains in the air around him. "Shit!"
"Twenty bucks, buddy. Twenty bucks!" Conner shouts, his hands held over his head as he rounds the last base, pumping his right fist in the air.
I swallow hard and allow myself to blink once-quickly-for fear I'll miss something, a sleight of hand or illusion. I know what I saw, though. The rock sailed off Conner's bat and was going to hit me between my eyes. There wasn't time to move. No time to react. There was only enough time for my brain to register that pain was coming my way-and it was going to be bad.
"Let me see your hand," I say to Wes, my voice low and even, so the others don't hear.
"No," he says, his jaw growing rigid and his eyes shadowing as they look at me.
"Show me. I know what I saw, Wes. Show me," I say.
Our group is already picking the towels up and moving toward the bonfire. Wes takes his eyes off me long enough to bend down and lift the towel near us, and when he stands, I ask him again.
"What's in your hand, Wes?"
This time he doesn't say a word. He takes a step closer to me, and with his height against mine, he's looking down on me. There's a towel in one hand and a fist hiding a secret on his other side. His lips are in a hard line, and I'm sure the hazed expression in his eyes is meant as a warning.
"Wes … " I begin to challenge. He shakes his head.
"Don't … " he grits his teeth, shutting his eyes slowly, his chest exhaling every bit of air in his lungs.
"How did you do that?" I ask, moving past the proof. I don't need it; I know what I saw.
"I did nothing, Joss," he says, stepping even closer, so close that I'm unable to see anything but him now. My hand moves to his chest, and I press my palm flat against his soft, blue T-shirt just to feel him breathe. I watch my fingers spread as my hand stretches to cover the center of him, struggling to feel the beat of his heart over the pulse of my own blood pumping through my fingertips.
Slowly, deliberately, I move my hand to the right, my fingers running along his hard chest, his shoulder, and down his bicep until I meet the bare skin of his forearm and eventually his wrist.
"Wes," I say quietly. His name comes out as a plea for him to trust me. I have to see it. I need this-the confirmation. I don't know what it means, or why I'm fighting so hard for him to give in, but my heart is telling me one thing, and my head needs to make sense of it.
I look up, and when I do, Wes's eyes are waiting for me. I stare into them, ignoring my name being called a hundred feet away from us. The waves pound, and the air grows chilly as the last piece of the sun falls away. I ignore it all. There's only Wes. And as his eyes fall to the place where my hand touches his wrist, I follow him, whispering a wish.
"Show me," I say.
He turns his hand over within mine, relinquishing his fingers one at time until eventually the smooth orange stone slides from his grasp and falls to our feet. My breath falters, and as much as I want to grab the rock and hide it, I can't move.
"Wes, are you coming?" McKenna's voice breaks into this dream-our own private dream. She's an invader, and I hate her instantly. My eyes flash to Wes's, and his expression is blank.
"Be right there," he responds, never once pulling his eyes away from me.
We're bathed in dusk's cloak of darkness and far enough away that our words are only ours. Now is the time to ask. Now is the time to tell the truth.
"Tell me," I say, my lips trembling with hope.
Wes's name is called behind me, and his eyes move to the sound briefly before coming back to me. He was almost there. I know it. I felt it.
Christopher.
But that small break from my gaze-it was enough.
"There's nothing to tell, Joss," he says, his face back to its rehearsed and empty expression as he steps around me, walking into the light of the embers over the pile of wood in the center of my circle of friends.
He goes right to McKenna, and she doesn't hesitate to tuck herself under his arm-my only relief the fact that he seems so awkward with her, his hand not quite closed around her shoulder, his fingers stiff and straight.
You're still here … with me.
I wait in the darkness until Wes breaks away from her to join his brothers. I see Taryn looking for me, so I jog closer and catch up with my friend, urging her to walk with me toward the truck with the keg in the back. We step up just behind McKenna, and even though Taryn is talking a million words a minute-loud enough to fill an auditorium with her voice-I'm not taking in a single sentence.
We both step up to the tailgate together, and I let Taryn fill her cup first, wanting to linger and listen over McKenna's conversation with a few of her friends. She's talking about Wes, but she also knows I'm here, so she's speaking low. She's probably also lying. I hear her mention that he was at her house, but the details are drowned out when my friend turns to me and tells me she'll meet me by the fire.
There's a line building behind me, so I pull my cup from the stack and begin to fill it, dividing my attention between this task and McKenna. As I stop the flow from the keg, I notice McKenna step away, telling her friends she'll be right back. Her drink is sitting on the end of the truck, inches away from my hand.
My mind races through a litany of possibilities, some more vile than others. I settle on simple, inconvenient, and embarrassing. I tug the stud from the top of my right ear quickly, pushing the sharp post through the side of her cup on the side, just enough for a slow trickle to drip.