A Boy Like You (Like Us Book 1)(59)

     



 

"Sometimes we talk too. She's been here-rock bottom? She lost her  daughter in a terrible car crash when her little girl was only four or  five. Meredith was hurt pretty bad, and she got addicted to the pain  pills. Her husband threatened to leave many times, and one day, he had a  heart attack. She went in for treatment after that. I guess she was  strong enough to know she couldn't function at all on her own … not like  this."

I take in my father's words, and I picture Meredith in my mind. I hope  she's strong, because Eric Winters has sunk below bottom. He's one foot  in the grave.

"Did Grandma Grace tell you where she was? Where she's been?" I keep my  eyes low for this question. Rock bottom is tricky territory, and I  hesitate asking questions while my father's dwelling there for fear it  might push him deeper. But … I want to know things.

I spare a glance up and my father tilts his head up at the exact same  time, his mouth curling in a smirk when our eyes meet. He looks out to  the baseball field and his eyes grow distant.

"Tucson. I guess. At least, that's where the funeral was," he says,  kicking his foot into the grass below our bench, digging a small divot  with his toe. "I couldn't go. It didn't feel right. My goodbye,  it's … complicated and different."

Mine too.

I look down at my fingers and think about how I would have felt-walking  into a room full of strangers, knowing I have the right to be there to  send my mother off to heaven or hell, but also knowing everyone's eyes  would be on me, pitying me, or wondering about my real story and how my  mom exited it.

"I don't blame you for not going," I whisper.

We sit in silence for a few minutes, the only sound my father pulling  the bag of seeds open and dipping his hand inside one more time. The  crack of the bat a hundred yards away gets both of our attention, and we  look to where Wes is standing on the mound and Levi is rounding first  base, pumping a fist over the fact that he's gotten a hit off his  brother.

"You would have liked Grace-your grandmother?" my father says, his eyes  staying on the team he left-the team he left … for me. "You have her name,  but you've got so much more of her … ya know? I wish … " he sighs. "I wish  you would have gotten to know her, at least. I should have kept that  relationship there-for you."

His eyes dart to me. I don't respond, but I look at him long enough to  ease some of that guilt away. I always wished I knew her better too. My  dad's parents-they're like him. Short with words, cold on love. I wonder  if Grace is warm?

"Well," my dad stands, kicking one leg over the bench as he gets to his  feet. He tugs his pants up. His belly is thin-too thin. It's because he  rarely eats, and his body has been his source of abuse for years. "Looks  like practice is over. I'm gonna go make nice with the boys a little.  Maybe you can take care of Wes for me?"

He winks, and I smile because that small gesture is one that I've  yearned to see him make for so long. He rounds the gate through the  dugout and starts to step over the dirt berm that separates the two  fields when I stop him.

"Hey Coach?" I say. He turns on his heels, but keeps making small steps backward. "Welcome to the team."

His feet stumble, just enough that I notice. He pulls on the brim of his  hat with a slight nod and his lips begin a smile that never fully  manifests. When he turns, he puts his hands in his pockets and his  shoulders slump a little. This change is killing him. But it isn't  selfish or greedy.

This was for me. I see that now.

Wes and my father pass one another and have a short conversation, but  soon Wes is walking toward me. I pick up my things and step out of the  dugout, meeting him halfway.

"Looks like you've got a new coach?" He tilts his head to the side,  lifting his hat a little to scratch at his hairline, his lips cocked in a  half smile.

"Seems so," I say, sucking in my bottom lip.

"Big game tomorrow, I hear. You all are traveling north to play Los  Banos. Chico State folks coming out to your game to see what you can  do," he says. My stomach flutters with the anticipation, and the brief  fantasy that I could do this-play college ball one day-flashes through  my mind.

"That's the rumor," I say, stepping closer to him. His hand reaches for  mine and the entire thing feels like habit. I notice it-the way our  fingers fold together, naturally, as if this is how they were meant to  exist. I've never been comfortable with someone like this. I've never  trusted, or cared how someone felt. But when I'm not with Wes, my hand  is cold. It's always looking for its other half.         

     



 

"You nervous?" he asks as we get closer to his truck. I drop my bag into  the back and turn into him, shrugging. "Liar," he laughs.

"Yeah, okay. I'm a little nervous," I say. He pulls the door open to let  me inside, but before he closes the door, he steps in between my legs,  his hands rushing through my hair, loosening the tie from the back and  letting my strands fall free. His thumbs run along my cheeks as he cups  my face and urges my chin up so he can kiss me lightly.

"Don't be nervous. You're going to be amazing. And your dad knows so  too," he says. My focus swings from one of his eyes to the other, and I  notice the orange hue cast in their blue pools, reflections of the  sunset behind me.

"You make me less nervous," I say. He smiles softly, stepping in close  enough to cradle my head against his chest, his hands running slowly,  soothingly up and down my back.

"I want this, Wes. My dad. This game. This … life. I want it so bad," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

Wes's lips fall down on top of my head and he holds his kiss to me  briefly before rolling his to the side so his cheek rests on my hair.

"I know you do, Joss. I want it for you," he breathes. His chest fills  slowly, and his exhale follows even slower. The tempo soothes me. "I'm  gonna make sure you get it."





Sixteen





I'm nervous.

The more I come to realize I'm nervous, the worse it gets. My first two  years of high school softball were spent playing a game. There wasn't  anything on the line-I didn't even really care if we won or not. I  skipped practice, going when I felt like it. I rarely felt like it. The  games were a chance for me to stretch my muscles, to remind my arms of  what they could do and my legs of just how strong they were. It was a  chance to show off-to be the hot shot. And if I blew it-I never gave a  fuck.

I give a fuck now.

I kind of think there was this dormant part of me that always did. She's awake. And she's hungry.

The rain has been constant. It started sometime late last night, and the  drops have pounded the school's roof most of the day. The boy's games  were cancelled. The fields flooded. But apparently two hours to the  north, California was dry. We were playing Los Banos today. A conference  matchup that my father told me this morning had a small paragraph  mentioning it in the paper.

This morning.

That was strange too. My father waited for me before leaving the house, insisted I ride with him-just to try it once.

It was nice. I may do it again someday, maybe even someday soon.

My father cut the article out and posted it to the fridge with tape  because we lack magnets. There weren't many years of hanging my art and  report cards up. But he hung this small clipping from the paper up with  pride:

PITCHING PROWESS OF LOS BANOS FACES HEAVY BAT OF BAKERSFIELD SOUTH'S WINTERS

The article went on to mention my record number of RBIs and the speed  with which Caitlyn Moore throws the ball. And then, there was the  prediction that she and I-both juniors-would probably face off in a  state title next year.

I wonder if Chico is coming to see Caitlyn or me?

The two-hour bus trip meant skipping photography today. It was my day to  present my flower images for critique, and for once, I was prepared for  something. Instead, Wes is going. He's not presenting the photos he  showed me. Those were just for my eyes and my eyes only, he said.  Instead, he took some shots of his brothers and father, but only of  their legs-the way they line up, ankles crossed all the same, on the  sofa while watching sports. He showed me the shots-and they felt special  too.

With the baseball games cancelled, Wes, TK, Kyle, and Levi all planned  to drive up to Los Banos for our game. I wanted to sneak Wes on the bus  with me, to calm my nerves, but Taryn would have to do.

My father sits up front next to Coach Adams. It was odd to see both of  their heads on either side of the bus, flanking the front seats as the  rest of the team climbed in.

The bus feels cavernous, and I stop before I get too many rows toward  the back, sliding into a seat near the middle. Taryn takes the seat  across from me, and we both sit lengthwise, our feet almost touching in  the aisle. Our team only has thirteen players, so most of the seats  remain empty. It feels wasteful to take an entire bus, but the same bus  is used for everything at South High. While North has extra vans painted  with the team's colors, we're happy to have working windows and tires.