A Boy Like You (Like Us Book 1)(58)

"I guess I was … yeah," my dad admits. My eyes grow wide with my surprise at his honesty.

"It doesn't work that way," I say, wrapping my arms tighter around my  body. I look around us, scanning to make sure we're alone. I don't want  anyone hearing us.

"I know," my father says. He glances over my shoulder and I turn to see  the baseball team starting to throw, Wes and Kyle moving to the bullpen.

"They're the ones who really need you," I say.

His eyes stay on them for several seconds, but eventually slide over to meet mine.

"You need me more," he says.

It's such a simple truth, and as much as I want to reject it, my gut  knows it. I don't answer him back. My throat feels dry and my body is  beating with the thump of my nervous heart. As much as this is my  nightmare, it's also my dream. I just don't want to jump into it, to  live it, because I'm afraid it could change from one to the other at the  blink of an eye. I'm not sure what I'm in right now-a fantasy or  tragedy. Perhaps it's both. Maybe it's always been both. Maybe that's  what life is-a beautiful mess.

"Can we hit while we talk?" I ask, tucking my cheek between my teeth. It  feels so unnatural to have a candid conversation with my father. I'm  not sure it will ever feel quite right.

"We can," he says, nodding toward the plate.

I walk to the dugout to put on my batting gloves while my father drags a  large pop-up net around the backstop, placing it a few feet in front of  the plate to give me a target. He spills the balls from the bucket,  pushing them together with his feet before tipping the bucket upside  down to sit on. When I step closer, he nods to the other batter's box,  urging me to step in.

I steady my feet, digging my back one into the dirt, ready for my swing,  but my father spins the ball loosely in his hand instead of tossing it  up.

"Your swing is fine. You've been late. I want you to force yourself to  hold on, as long as you think you can, before the ball drops out of your  zone. Then hit it," he says.

I don't react. He grimaces, and I know he thinks I'm going to ignore him  like last time, but I'm not. He was right then. He's right now. And he  can make me better.

I want this.

I do as he says, and top the ball with my first swing, bouncing it into the net.

"Good," he says, leaning to the side as he spits a cluster of seed  shells into the dirt. He pulls another handful from his pocket and pokes  some seeds in his mouth. He grabs another ball from the ground,  spinning it in his hand, then speaks from the side of his mouth.  "Again."

I dig in and hold my breath, my lips pushed tight with my need to grunt  with my swing, and I wait-just long enough. This time I hit the ball  squarely, right up the middle into the net.

"Good," he says. It's the same good as last time. No false praise. No  sugarcoated response or muted approval. I followed his directions and  got the right result.

Good.

"Again," he says, picking up another ball and doing the same. My hands  tucked inside, I hit the ball squarely again, only with more power.

"Good."

Our work continues, our conversation single words, small actions and  tiny adjustments, until I've cleared every ball and the rest of the team  is starting to move toward us for a water break.

"Let's hit some live," my father says, standing up and tipping the  bucket over in his hand. I start to pick up the balls from the net, but  he stops me, his hand squeezing the net closed.

"I got this," he says, his eyes clear for the first time since I can  remember. He looks at me, then toward the dugout. "Go join your team."

I nod, and whisper thanks as I turn to jog away.

For the next hour, I hit balls from the left side, poking holes in our  defense while my dad works to tighten them up. I hit where he tells me  to, and I never let up-often showing our weaknesses. That's what he  wants. It's what he's good at. And after one day under my father's  guidance, we've turned a small percentage of our failures into  strengths.

Coach Adams and my father put the heavy equipment back into the gated  area near the backstop, and I pack up my gear. Bria stops at the end of  the bench between Taryn and me.         

     



 

"I'm sorry about your mom, Joss," she says. Nobody else hears her, which  I'm relieved about. But her small condolence also feels nice. I can  tell she was nervous to say those words to me, so I suck in my bottom  lip and nod.

"Thank you," I say softly. "Nice job at practice today."

She grins, and her eyes shift over to Taryn then down to her feet.

"Thanks," she says, tugging her bag up her shoulder and walking up the path to the locker room.

"That was nice of you," Taryn says.

"Shut up," I joke. I glance at her and roll my eyes and return my  attention to my shoes. I slip my feet from my cleats and pull out my  slide sandals as Taryn wheels her equipment bag behind me, and I know  she's trying to leave before me, to force me to be alone with my father.  At first, I hurry with my laces, wanting to catch up with her, but I  realize quickly I won't be able to.

Maybe, I shouldn't.

Talk. He wants to talk.

The baseball team is still practicing, but I know they'll be done soon,  so I stay in my seat, twisting my body to face my father as he steps  into the other side, taking a seat on the opposite end of the bench.

"Great work today, Joss," Coach Adams says as he passes.

"I know," I smirk, making my father chuckle. Coach Adams is already well  on his way to his car, to his home, to be with his wife and unborn  children. He couldn't have cared less about my response.

"You know, arrogance isn't a great team-building trait," my father says,  pulling the bag of sunflower seeds from his pocket and raising it in an  offer to me. I nod and he tosses it to me.

"Yeah, well, we're cocky sons of bitches, us Winters," I say just before  dumping a handful of seeds in my mouth. I push them to the side and  break them apart letting the salt coat my tongue. My father chuckles.

"Yeah, we are," he says, snapping for me to throw back the seeds.

"Wow, what are you, an addict or something?" He frowns at my joke. He  probably should. It wasn't really a joke. I was being snarky.

"Chewing on something keeps me from having cravings," he says, pouring  another handful into his mouth. I spit out a few of my shells and work  the remaining ones open in my mouth. He's right-chewing on something  works. I've gone through sixteen packs of gum since I've quit smoking.

"You planning on sticking around the house tonight then?" I ask, one eye  squinting as I look up at him, the sunset reflecting off the metal  fencing.

"Gonna try to. It's been hard though," he says. I laugh once quickly,  and it catches his attention, his eyes landing on me. I chew harder on  my remaining seeds, then bend to the side to spit them out.

"Yeah, it's hard to stay sober when you keep slipping up and sneaking  out to the bar at night. But I gotta hand it to you, you haven't called  me from Jim's in days," I say, squeezing the bench sides in my hands,  leaning forward and waiting for my dad's excuse to come back to me.

"I haven't been at Jim's," he says.

I laugh again, but he doesn't protest. The longer I look down at the  graffiti marks on the bench, the more curious I grow, until I peer up at  him. He's fidgeting with his watch, twisting the metal band around his  arm, clasping and unclasping. It's a nervous habit he's done since I was  a kid. I remember he threw a surprise party for my mom once, and all I  remember was him standing in front of the kitchen window doing just  this.

"Where have you been then? Gotta new place?" I ask, blinking as I look at him, my eyes moving from his wrist.

"I've been visiting a friend," he says.

My gaze narrows. My father sighs, moving his hands behind him and leaning back on the bench.

"She's an older woman. Her name is Meredith. She … " he pauses, smirking  at the face I'm making. My father is dating an older woman. I'm a little  freaked out. "Ha … no. Not like that. She runs a group. You know, for  recovering alcoholics?"

Oh.

"So you're in, like, the twelve-step or whatever?" I ask. My stomach is  fluttering with my heartbeat. That's hope I'm feeling. I hate it.

My father chuckles.

"I guess, sort of. Though, it's not really anything formal. I tried  formal, Joss," he says, his eyes meeting mine. His self-disappointment  worn like a mask. "I'm not good at groups and sharing in front of  others. It's too much for me to overcome on top of my problems."

I look down, twisting my hands together as I nod. I understand.

"But I failed enough that the last time I went to a meeting, Meredith  gave me her number. She told me when I wanted to really try, to call  her. She just sort of listens. Sometimes, ha … " he breaks into a small  laugh, looking off to the side. "Honestly, sometimes I just call her up  and go over there to fix things around her house. It's old, and her  husband passed away years ago. I think she knows it keeps me busy, so I  swear she breaks things just to make sure I have something to fix.