A Boy Like You (Like Us Book 1)(52)

"I'm not late," I say, kicking at the dirt and twisting my pivot foot, ready to load. My dad only chuckles.

Wes throws the ball again, and I miss. I can feel it, though, and I'm closer.

"Again," I say.

My dad tosses the ball back to him, and I hear him laughing. It fuels me.

Wes begins his windup, and I start my pre-swing early, my arms primed,  and when the ball reaches the plate, my bat is there to send it hard and  fast right down the line. I watch it roll all the way to the fence.

"Nice shot," Wes says, looking at it in the distance.

My father only laughs.

"What's funny? The fact that you were wrong?" I ask, leaning my weight on my bat like a cane.

My father looks down, pursing his lips, his glove bent with his hand  against his hip. "What are you going to do?" he questions, kicking a  rock out of the way before looking up at me. "Are you going to hope  every pitcher throws you the same speed, the same pitch, exactly where  you want it so you can start your swing early enough to hit it? Or are  you going to pull your head out of your ass long enough to know that's  not how this game works, and they are looking to strike you out, so you  need to refine your weapons?"

He's making good points, but all I hear is head out of my ass, and I'm lit up.

"I can't do this," I say, shaking my head and tossing my bat  end-over-end toward my things and the dugout. I pull the Velcro on my  gloves away and look toward Wes, who's chewing at the inside of his  cheek, disappointed in me.

"Don't you take his side. That … that … that isn't coaching. He doesn't even talk to you like that," I yell.

Wes chuckles once, and I glare at him.

"What?" he says, his arms out. "That's exactly how he talks to me. And it probably means I'm not listening when he does."

I pause and chew on his words before tugging my hands free of my gloves  and glancing back at my father who is now standing with his arms folded,  his face painted with the familiar disgust.

"Yeah, well, maybe it wouldn't be a big deal except that's how he talks  to me about everything. And I'm his goddamned flesh and blood!" I yell,  picking my bat up from the outside of the dugout and throwing it hard  toward my bag, the metal ricocheting off the bench and sending a few  balls rolling in stray directions. "Fuck!" I scream, throwing my gloves  on top of the mess before sitting down to take my cleats off.         

     



 

This was a mistake. A huge mistake. Believing was a mistake. Wanting something was a mistake. Striving was a mistake.

Goals are mistakes.

This was a pipedream.

I notice Wes walking over to my father while I pull my feet free and  swap my cleats for my regular running shoes. I swear under my breath  over the knot left in my laces, and I have to bring my shoe up to my  mouth to tug the lace loose with my teeth, because my foot will no  longer just slide in. The dirt hits my tongue, and I spit it out once I  untangle the knot.

My bag packed, and my shoes finally on my feet, I tug the straps  together and step out from the dugout, saluting Wes and giving my father  the finger as I spin to walk away.

"Joss, don't leave. Just … " Wes says, and I feel bad, because I hear the pleading in his voice.

"Just, what, Wes? Just stay here and let him make me feel small and  responsible for all of the bad shit in his life? Nah … I'm done doing  that," I say, turning to leave again.

"Joss … " Wes calls. I pause, but only because he sounds desperate. "Eric … you have to tell her. She deserves to know."

What?

I turn to face them again only to see my dad's head slung forward, his  hands on his hips, the glove on one hand and Wes leaning lower, trying  to catch his gaze, to urge him to tell me …

My dad exhales a sigh that sounds as if it weighs a hundred pounds, then  he flings the glove from his fingers onto the ground in front of him.  He pinches the bridge of his nose with one hand and rubs the other on  his neck. I study his small movements, until he finally lets go of his  face and his eyes look at mine. The expression in them is the same one  that was there the day I walked into the house and caught him fighting  with my mom-the day she left and our relationship shifted into poison.  His eyes are sad and regretful, but they're also angry and wild.

"What's going on?" I say, my feet moving back toward them without my  control. "What is it? Is it … are you … are you sick? Is that what this is?  Is this some elaborate set up so you can tell me you're sick? And  that's … that's why I should feel sorry for you? That's what makes it okay  for you to be an addict and for you to treat your only child like a  worthless pile of crap? Because … what … you got sick?"

"Goddamn it, Josselyn! I'm not sick. It isn't me. I'm fine. It's … it's  your mother," he says, his chest heaving with the extraction of those  words. His face is ghost white, stripped of blood and life, and his eyes  have cleared of every emotion but fear.

My mother.

I shake my head, and ignore the water forming at the corners of my eyes.  We don't even know where she is. I haven't seen her in years. I barely  remember her. I …

"She's dead, Josselyn. She passed away two weeks ago," he says, and my  legs can no longer hold me. I fall to the ground quickly, but Wes is  there before impact, his arms under mine, his strength holding me up  until I can make it to the first bleacher on the other side of the  backstop. I sit down and he sits next to me, never letting go. I can't  feel him.

I can't feel him!

"I don't understand," I say, my eyes lost in the dried blades of grass  poking through the dirt in between my father and me. My dad steps  closer, but doesn't walk to the other side of the backstop, instead  leaving the fence barrier between us as his fingers cling to the metal  and his foot steps up on the wood panels along the ground.

"Shit," he huffs.

My chest burns, and my mind is moving faster than I can handle. It's  making my head hurt, and I bring my hands to my forehead, squeezing,  wanting to make things stop, wanting to slow it all down for just a  beat-one breath. I need one full breath.

"I thought you didn't know where she was? I thought she was dead to you? You hate her? Isn't that … how … how is she … "

I lean forward, dry heaving, nothing coming out but my stomach twisting  and revolting against me. My instincts are begging me to fight, to flee,  but I'm too weak. I don't understand, I don't understand, I don't  understand, I don't …

"I haven't talked to her since she left. I … I got a call, two weeks ago  Thursday. I didn't know the number, so I ignored it … it was during  practice," he says, and I laugh once-a harsh laugh, because practice is  precious. My mother was fucking dead, but can't interrupt practice with  his boys.

"I got to my car and played the message. It was her mom, your other  grandmother. She … she thought I'd want to know," he says, his voice  breaking with the last word. He brings his hands back to the bridge of  his nose and pinches tight, his eyes squeezing. He's trying to keep the  pain at bay.         

     



 

He shouldn't be allowed.

"How'd she die?" I ask, my eyes now centered on one blade of grass. It's  a piece of rye, grown tall enough to blossom, five prongs of prickly  grass poking out from the center like a skeletal flower. It's exactly  how I feel. The wind is pounding it flat, but it's not breaking. It's  stuck there, in the ground.

Stuck.

Feeling.

Hurting.

"How. Did. She. Die!" I seethe, my eyes darting from the place they were lost to my father's face in an attack.

He moves his lips, wetting them, as if he has to prime them to work, to speak, to say what is probably a terribly simple answer.

"Breast cancer," he says quietly, moving his hand back over his mouth  and rubbing. I bet that's how the doctor delivered the diagnosis. Simple  and quick. Two words. I shut my eyes.

"Joss … " My father says my name like he wants to comfort me.

"Don't," I say, standing and moving from Wes's hold. "You knew," I say,  turning to Wes, walking backward toward my things. "You knew this whole  time, didn't you? That's why you believed my father changed. That's why  you told me to give him a chance. You knew!"

I start to cry, so I turn and grab my things quickly, picking up my  pace. Wes rushes to my side and grabs at my bag. I jerk it away.

"You knew!" I scream. I yell loud enough for my father to hear several  feet away, for him to look down in shame and retreat to the bleacher  seats behind him.

"I knew," he says. He doesn't placate me, or fight me, or argue. He just agrees.

Good.

"I'm going home," I say, lifting my bag to a comfortable spot on my shoulder as I begin to walk the dirt path back to campus.

"I'll take you home," Wes starts, but he doesn't step toward me. I can  tell by the fading of his voice that he's stayed where I left him behind  me. He knows I don't want him to. I want to hide. I want to feel,  without anyone seeing it.