Chapter 8
eight
Reese
Pulling my phone from my pocket, I glanced down at the last text message, at the words from my birth mom on the screen.
Cindee
I’ll be at the diner again after the game this week. No pressure but I just wanted to let you know in case you're ready to talk. Always thinking about you.
Each letter tugged at me, toward a complicated and fucked up situation I wasn't sure I wanted to think about or deal with—ever. She had sent this text almost every week this summer, but I couldn’t bring myself to respond.
The bus came to a halt, and we rushed out. My feet hit the pavement with relief. We were back in Bayside. Bailey was grinning like an idiot beside me.
"I'm just saying, I thought that bartender was into me last night," he claimed, oblivious to the skeptical looks we all shot him.
"The one who sprayed you in the face with water?" My voice was flat, but I couldn’t hold back a smile.
"Hey," Bailey protested, flicking his hair out of his eyes, "Some might say she was putting out a fire, you know—because she thought I was so hot." Bailey's knack for spinning every situation into self-flattery was as impressive as it was exasperating.
I snatched my duffel from the luggage hold as I turned to Bailey. "Bails," I began, hoisting the bag over one shoulder, "has anyone ever told you something is wrong with you?"
"Only every person I've ever met," he retorted, oddly proud of that fact.
Crew walked over and plucked his duffle from the bus after me."Oh he’s always known something is wrong with him," he said, shouldering his bag. “Just doesn’t care."
The moment I saw Caroline headed in our direction, I snatched her luggage for her, setting it down so she could grab it.
"I could've done that," she said, her icy blue eyes meeting mine.
"I know," I said with a wink, watching as she extended the collapsible handle of her suitcase and pulled it upright. “But I got it.” She turned on her heel and walked away without a backward glance.
Crew's voice broke the stillness. "She still hates you, huh?"
"Like always," I nodded, but I sensed something different about her after this weekend. I was seeing her in a different light. The way her hair fell around her face, the way her eyes softened when no one was looking—I swore I almost saw something warm behind that cold exterior of hers.
Bailey leaned against the side of the bus. "That's because Caroline is evil."
"People say that about me too," I confessed.
Bailey scoffed, folding his arms. "Yeah, but deep down you're soft and squishy. And her, she’s sugar, spice, and emotional damage in a cheer skirt. Those pom-poms of hers sparkle, alright... but they also destroy lives. Probably come with a restraining order, too.”
I watched her slip into her car. I wasn't sure I believed that anymore—that Caroline was pure evil. Caroline and I had never gotten along. We didn’t mix—like fire and ice.
But this weekend, I saw a glimpse of something else—maybe a tiny sliver of vulnerability.
It was there in some way, even if she shut it down almost immediately.
There had to be more to her than people thought, and I was determined to find out what she was hiding.
"Reese," Bailey's voice pulled me back from my thoughts. "You're staring."
"Am I?" The admission was half-hearted, my focus fracturing as she pulled away.
Bailey shook his head in disapproval as we made our way to our cars. “Don’t do it, man.”
“I’ll see you both at Gin & Jerry’s later,” I said, giving them each a handshake and pat on the back.
I climbed into my truck then twisted the key.
I drove back home, back to reality. But as I rounded the corner and into my driveway, I saw her.
My sister, her petite form curled on the front steps.
Her long blonde hair covered her face, but even from a distance, I could see the tremors of her sobs.
My heart clenched—anger seizing me—as I pulled up.
The door shuddered on its hinges as I tore it open then slammed it shut. Each step toward her crackled with the electricity of my mounting fury.
"Explain. Now." The words were a growl, torn from a place deep within me. Lo was sixteen now, but she’d forever be my baby sister and the little girl I'd once taught to throw a baseball.
She turned, and then I saw her tears, trailing down her cheeks. “It’s nothing,” she whimpered.
"Tell me his name," I demanded, muscles tensing as I sat down next to her.
"His name?" Confusion laced her quivering voice, as she looked up at me.
"Whoever made you cry," I answered. "I'll go handle it." And I meant every fucking syllable.
A smile cracked on her face as she brushed away a stubborn tear. "It's not a he," she murmured, her voice still shaking from the sobs. "Her name is Wendy Clark."
"Clark?" I echoed, my tone sharpening. "As in Wells Clark's little sister?" She gave a small, defeated nod. A smirk tugged at my lips. "Even better. I'll go beat his ass right now for whatever she did."
But Lo's laughter was soft, and she reached out, her fingers grabbing my bicep with surprising strength. "Don't, Reese."
"What did she do?" I demanded, shaking my head, pulse pounding.
Lo let out a reluctant breath, like even saying it out loud would make it worse.
"She posted a list on her story today—everyone she thinks will make the cheer team. I wasn’t on it.
And she's got some top secret connection that’s teaching her and her friends the routines early. They'll have an upper hand at tryouts."
I let out a sharp exhale, my jaw tightening. "Cheating her way to the top. Typical Clark move. Why do you even want this so bad?"
She leaned back, looking anywhere but at me. "I don't know. Why have you always wanted to play baseball?"
I shrugged, trying to calm myself down. "Because I’m good at it."
She nodded slowly. "Well, I want this really bad. I want to be good at it. I want to be good at something like you are."
There was something raw in her voice, something that made my stomach twist. I’d seen Lo excited before, passionate about things, but this—this was different.
This was her putting herself out there, risking something.
And I hated that a fucking Clark was the one trying to take it from her.
Truthfully, there was nothing I wouldn’t do for Lo.
If I could have gift-wrapped her dreams and dropped them in her lap, I would’ve—no hesitation.
"Then practice," I said, my voice firm, like it was the easiest thing in the world. This was the best option I could give her, because it was true. "You'll be fine."
She slumped her shoulders. "But I don’t have an advantage."
I huffed, dragging a hand down my face before leaning in, leveling my gaze with hers. "Hey, you're a Carrington. We always have an advantage."
But doubt lingered in her eyes, and it hit me like a punch to the gut. She didn’t believe me. And I hated that I couldn’t solve her problems as easy as I could when she was younger.
I swallowed hard, trying to shove down the frustration and helplessness clawing at my chest. "You’re going to be fine," I assured her, forcing the words past the lump in my throat.
"We have some time to figure this out. And Lo," I added, reaching for her hand, "don't ever let a fucking Clark make you cry. Pinky promise me."
A shaky giggle escaped her, and she looped her pinky around mine, sealing the promise with a wobbly smile. It wasn’t enough. But it was something.
We stood together, and she made her way inside, leaving me alone on the porch, my hands braced on my hips as I stared out into the night, my jaw tight.
This wasn’t just her problem anymore. It was now mine.
And for his sake, Wells fucking Clark better pray I didn’t run into him tonight.
I let out a dry laugh, shaking my head. "Cheerleading," I muttered under my breath, "is going to be the fucking death of me."