17
17
FOUL BALL
W e’d just settled into a cold red booth, coffee poured, and laminated menus slapped in front of us. I couldn’t even appreciate being on the other end of this gig I was so shell shocked. Pete was just as bad. I peered across the booth at him and got a bad case of déjà vu. His shoulders were slumped, and he was sporting a worn baseball cap he picked off the floor of the Jeep. He looked a little defeated, definitely tired, and maybe like someone just recently kicked him in the gut.
“Is this strike three for me?” Pete’s first words.
He seemed to need some kind of confirmation from me, but I couldn’t quite extract the right meaning because those words were spinning around madly with torrents of other thoughts in the processor that was my mind. This was after they’d been doused with a healthy dose of fear, marinated in anger, and seasoned with my regret.
Andrew is in The Academy now . The first thing I extrapolated from the mess. Because of me . The second thing I extracted, and it came out slimy.
I dropped my head onto the table because it felt like the Titanic’s missing anchor just showed up around my shoulders. After a few, my face lifted to find Pete’s ashen one.
“Should we even be here?” I countered his question with a question.
“Probably not,” he admitted.
Just then the permy-haired, gap-toothed waitress sidled back up with her notepad and weary smile. “You all know what you want?”
“To get to Vegas ASAP,” Pete dropped in a monotone, like he was reciting lines rather than playing his part as lead actor.
“Well, how excitin’!” the waitress enthused, playing her part a little better.
After Pete ordered us a huge breakfast and the waitress left us to our coffee and misery, he explained himself. How he already knew he had a couple of strikes—Mikey was the obvious first one. He seemed to be keeping an ongoing mental tabulation of things working against him, like The Academy with their demerit system. Andrew was definitely another fat check in the “con” column.
“Is it?” he asked, grasping my hands. His tanned face turned an unappealing taupe in the harsh light of the new day.
I cringed to think what I looked like. I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing good could come out. Was it? I hadn’t processed that far. I must’ve looked some version of dark vengeance because Pete quickly got up and slid next to me, like I was about to bolt. He crushed me to his chest. I breathed him in and out for an immeasurable amount of time while he talked over my veneer of shock. At some point during this period of time, our food arrived and some of my shock wore off. Maybe it was the dawn of a new day, the strong black coffee, Pete’s stronger body leaning into mine, but somehow, I became calmer. And being the analytical thinker that he was, Pete pulled out all his facts and reasons why I should stay.
Like he had to.
Over the course of our pancake breakfast, I allowed myself to be convinced because I wanted to be convinced. I was being downright reasonable as I listened to Pete’s very reasonable points: They wouldn’t do anything to hurt Andrew, as long as he stayed in line. True. Andrew and Mikey were probably together and at least reasonably happy about that situation. Correctomundo. My mother wouldn’t want me to jeopardize myself by voluntarily turning myself into The Academy, then they would have all three of her progeny locked up, and all her hard work hiding us would’ve been for nothing. Sounded right . They were probably going to come after Andrew at some point anyway. Naaauh.
I bristled at that one, finally finding my voice. “Ranger promised he wouldn’t do that! Looked me in the eye and swore to me he would never go after Andrew! As long as I fell in line. Which I have ! Until . . .” I petered out, my eyes finding his somber ones. Pete hung his head. I was just as guilty; I had let this go on for too long.
But no measure of time would be enough for me to get enough of him.
“I can drive you back.” Pete broke into my thoughts using the lowest voice possible, both in volume and in tone.
A wave of panic hit me at once, with the brunt force that only Ranger could usher forth. “That’s what he wants !” I pointed this out by actually pointing at Pete, as though he were too dull to get that.
And didn’t he know? All his words were useless as the carbon dioxide he was breathing out. I couldn’t leave him. Besides that, the body automatically repels anything that brings it pain. Going back now would be like voluntarily dropping myself from cloud nine into a waiting live volcano, bubbling with scorching lava. For that’s what I knew was waiting for me upon my return. I was in no hurry for that kind of torture.
I wrapped my arms around Pete; he wrapped his arms around me. Neither one of us spoke for a long time. The restaurant was starting to fill and our waitress had dropped the check when I found my voice next. And it was scratchy as a Brillo pad.
“I’m tired” is all I said.
He nodded at me. “Me too.”
As if from an invisible force field, our minds aligned back together. Pete got up and fished in his wallet for two twenties. We made a pitstop to the bathroom and then drove straight home. It was already mid-morning when we banged back up the stairs we had banged down in the dark. Pete drew the blinds against the new day and our unknown future. Then we snuggled back down in our feather bed, in our love nest.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” he whispered into my hair, pulling me tighter to him.
“Me too,” I said. And it was the plain, honest-to-God’s truth.
I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep until a feathery touch on my eyelids fluttered them open. I stared into fathomless depths of sadness. My heart hurt right away.
“Kate,” he whispered. “I need to go to this two o’clock. I don’t want to, and I wouldn’t, but it’s my best client. His investors’ money is on the line, so he’s on a time crunch to get his start-up started.” A little meaningful pause happened. “Will you still be here when I get back?”
My face crumpled a little, like just from the sliver of a thought of leaving him. I nodded my head.
His face broke into a relieved smile. “Can you actually say the words for me, so I can breathe again?”
I nodded with a smile before frowning two seconds later . “Wait . . . I actually won’t.” Pete looked like I’d just punched him in the face, so I quickly explained: “I promised Mrs. Dubois that I would go to Mia’s assembly with her this afternoon. She’s pickin’ me up at three, so you don’t have to take me to work today, just pick me up.”
He smiled and shook his head at me, a little miffed, but like too relieved to be mad. “You’re spending too much time at work.”
“Well, technically, I’m off the clock. This was voluntary. Mia and Mrs. Dubois ganged up on me all last week until I caved.”
“Okay, but I’m picking you up early. Mrs. Dubois can cook her own dinner and get her own kids to bed tonight. We’re going to Half Moon Bay . . . it’s about time I showed you my technique for impaling marshmallows with wire hangers before roasting them to a burnt perfection.”
I huffed out a dry laugh, so relieved no alcohol was to be involved. The way I was feeling, I might not ever drink again, at least until I was twenty-one. “Sounds fun,” I replied.
He laughed. “Fun is my middle name.” After another serious look and a brief, bruising kiss, he got up to leave.
“Pete,” I called out.
He turned around immediately.
“What was strike two?”
He lifted half a lip. “I thought—” He broke off and took a breath. “I thought from your reaction after I beat his ass . . . your ex-husband was.”
I recalled my confused feelings about Ranger. Those feelings were less murky now that he’d gone after Andrew, after he gave me his word he wouldn’t. I sniffed and gave Pete a hard smile. “Turns out . . . he was just a foul ball.”