A Boy Like You (Like Us Book 1)(44)

But I want that too. I want it so badly.

"Deal," I say, reaching out my hand for his. He chuckles and shakes his  head, pushing off from the desk and taking my hand in his. He shakes it,  but steps closer to me, towing my hand up to his mouth, turning it over  to press his lips on my wrist. I swear when he turns away, I'll be able  to see a brand from it, I still feel it so strongly. I actually look  when he leaves, but it's only my skin-no visual memory of his touch. But  my heart remembers. My stupid heart, and the thump in my chest and the  numb feeling I have in my toes and fingertips.

I swallow, move into my seat, and pull out my notes on lighting. We  spend the rest of the afternoon learning new ways to use shadows to tell  a story, but all I think about is how I want to crawl into one. I think  about how even if I blow this and weasel my way into a school dance  date with Wesley Stokes, I don't have anything to wear, and I wouldn't  know what to do when we got there.

I resolve myself to swinging at the very first pitch I get and putting  it over the fence to end the misery of living with expectations. And  then I regret knowing I will. I simmer in regret until the bell sounds  and Wes and I link fingers at the door and walk down the hallway and  outside to the gym to change. When his hand leaves mine, I feel lucky  and terrified all at once.

Taryn comes in last-she's always late to practice, late to the games,  late to coach's meeting. She says that's why she's stuck in right field.  But really-she's just not the strongest player. I come in late. And  before I met Wes, I used to skip practice all together. But I still  played short and batted fourth. Sometimes, skills get you a pass in  life. I rode mine for a long time.

Lately, though, I've been trying harder. I've wanted more-more from myself, more out of life, more …

More expectations.

I don't know if it's because of Wes, or if the timing was just fate that  I decided to make a change in my life. I would like to think I'm strong  enough to fight for things on my own. But I also know that I didn't  really care about much, until the boy who saved me once, showed up to do  it again.

I take my time lacing my cleats, pulling my socks up high around my  knees. My pants are snug against my thighs; my sliding shorts padding me  underneath. Taryn is still getting dressed, so while I wait for  her-while the rest of the girls have gone and I have this small window  in front of the bathroom mirrors alone-I stand still and look at myself.

My chest is flattened under the thick stretch of Lycra. My hair is  pulled back tight, the few loose strands around my hairline glued down  with water I splashed on them with my hands. As I turn to the side, I  take in my figure. I curve, but more in the way that screams of speed  and muscle. My arms are still blue with bruises in spots; more green,  really. And where they're not, I'm scratched up like a tomboy who spent  the day wrestling fish barehanded from the rocky river-bottom.

I turn back to the mirror and step forward, resting my hands on either  side of the sink, letting my face get close. My freckles are faint, and  my blue eyes are muddied, but when I stare closely, holding my breath, I  can still see her-I can still see the girl Wes … Christopher … saved years  ago.

"She's in there," I whisper, my eyes held open until they start to tear.

I back up and shake my head, clearing myself of that sad feeling that  was starting to crawl inside. I breathe in slowly and turn to my right. I  don't look like a girl who goes to a dance. And this is the first time  I've ever really cared about the outside-what people see and how I fit  into their mold.

"You ready?" Taryn yells from the locker room end.

"Coming!" I shout back, lingering on my reflection for one more  second-just long enough to clear my head and get on my game face.

I snag my equipment bag on my way to the front door and meet Taryn there  to walk along the dirt path that divides the baseball side of our  school fields from the softball side. I catch a vision of Wes on the  mound, my father standing next to him with a clipboard and the speed  gun. It's too far to see their eyes, but their hats are both tilted  toward me. Wes reaches up and adjusts his, and I let myself smile  because I know it was for me-a sign saying hello. And then I think about  our deal, and the girl I saw in the mirror, and I look away.         

     



 

"I guess Trinity really sucks," Taryn says. I glance out to the right  side of the field where the other team is throwing, girls dressed in  bright green with bows and matching shoelaces. They all have matching  jackets, and when I look over at their dugout, their equipment bags all  have their numbers stitched on them.

Private schools.

"They look like they have money," I say, dropping my bag on the dugout  bench and looking at my own cleats-my laces worn and knotted. I wouldn't  trade my shoes for theirs for anything in the world.

"Whatever. Remember last year when we snuck a smoke behind their school  before the game?" Taryn says, grabbing a ball from the bucket and  leading me out to the field to throw.

I laugh under my breath at the memory, nodding to her when I'm ready for her to throw.

Last year's matchup with Trinity was when my bottom began. I took myself  out of the game, pouting from a bad call, and that night was the  furthest I went in a make-out session with Kyle. I kissed him and let  him get my shirt off in his back bedroom while our friends all got drunk  in his living room. I felt ashamed during, and the shame only amplified  when I pushed him away after an hour of him hoping things would go  somewhere. I don't know how he doesn't hate me, but I'm glad he doesn't.

That's when I started skipping practices and sleeping in, blowing off  class. I skirted by with mostly Cs, and one D last year. My grade point  average is shit. But I wasn't going anywhere. I didn't want to go  anywhere, other than some place that wasn't in my father's home.

I didn't think about limitations. I only thought of not giving a damn  about much. But I kind of want to go somewhere now. I kind of give a  damn. My stomach twists knowing that my spiral could have cost me the  opportunity to go anywhere at all-to go anywhere Wes might go.

"They're ending early," Taryn says, nodding over my shoulder and  flipping the ball to me underhand. I catch it and rest it in my glove on  my hip, squinting into the sun as I look out at the baseball team  huddled around home plate.

"He never ends early. He's probably just lecturing them more," I say, still captivated by the scene on the other field.

Our coach calls us to the dugout, so I join the rest of the team, but I  watch as the boys grunt out a chant and begin to move from the field,  grabbing their bags and unlacing their shoes. A few of them begin to  walk across the field, but it doesn't hit me until I see Wes walking  alongside my father-heading this way.

"Holy fuck," I say under my breath.

"What?" Taryn says, flipping her hair up as she kneels on the bench  beside me, looking through the back holes of our dugout. She locks onto  what I see a second later. There are maybe twenty guys on my father's  varsity team, and they are all headed this way.

Every single one of them.

Taryn's laughter starts to brew in her chest, and soon the raspy rhythm of it is filling my left ear, her hand slapping my arm.

"Holy shit, they're coming to watch us!" She leaps from the bench and  rushes to the other end of the backstop so she can talk to TK as he  walks up to our small set of bleachers. I stay where I am, on the  opposite end, working the rough edges of my glove around my hand.

Wes stands behind the bleachers, resting his hands on the top of the  back seat. My father is next to him, but only Wes looks my way. He lifts  his hand and smooths his hair under his hat, sliding it back in place  before giving me a slight nod.

I feel sick.

Thank god we're in the field first.

Our coach gathers us for some warm-ups, and I only half listen to his  assessment of the other team. It doesn't matter what his assessment is. I  only know one way to play-my way. The Eric Winters way. It's just that  it's been a while since I've played in front of my father.

I catch my father's eyes over my coach's shoulder. He's watching  intently, even though he can't hear anything. As we take warm-ups, I  notice him lean over and give commentary to Wes.

It doesn't take long for muscle memory to kick in, and I glide  side-to-side, my feet find their natural rhythm for every fielding  attempt, for every throw. My head kicks in with my father's voice.

You are better than that. Throw it harder. Don't leave room for errors. Nothing gets by you. Come on!

I toss my final warm-up throw to our catcher, Shelby, and the ball snaps  in her glove. She flicks her mask off and glares at me, but I look  away. I took that out on her. I'm not proud. But I'm also not  apologizing.

We take the field, and Trinity only gets a hold of one pitch, sending a  line drive at my knees that I snag easily and flip up to the pitcher on  my way in. I notice my father lean to Wes, and I sit alone at the end of  the bench in our dugout to think about what he could have possibly  said.