Chapter 8 Kenzie
Kenzie
“I’m really, really sorry,” I tell Trevor for the forty-seventh time as he uses a soft-bristle brush to clean the side of his boat.
Number Seven is moored at one of the six boat slips behind a beautiful bay-facing restaurant.
Meanwhile, I’m sitting on the dock, my back against the restaurant’s floor-to-ceiling windows with my palm on my still-queasy stomach.
Any second now, a server will come tell me to move.
I’m likely spoiling the view for someone’s lunch date.
“It’s okay. Stop beating yourself up about it.”
“But”—I nearly dry heave over the memory—“it was so gross.”
Afterward, I peeled off my fleece half-zip, leaving it on the boat. The crisp air on my bare arms feels chilly, but I’d rather be cold right now. It helps with the lingering nausea.
Trevor chuckles. “Gross is a high school boy’s locker room. This is nothing.”
An ominous gurgle surges in my throat, and I tamp it down. “Still. I don’t think I’ll be ready to eat anytime soon.”
“No problem,” he says, dunking the brush in the bay water before stowing it. “We can relax in the lawn area until you’re feeling hungry.”
I’m pretty sure I’m not going to eat for two consecutive days, but Trevor’s being so nice about all of this that I push myself up from the ground. “Sounds good.”
When we turn the corner of the building, a large grassy area comes into view.
Picnic tables and Adirondack chairs pepper the area with giant Connect Four, Jenga, and corn hole interspaced between sitting areas.
Unlit string lights swing in the breeze as mellow, classic rock spills from unseen speakers.
There’s also an open-air bar and dance floor situated beside the restaurant.
At first glance, I doubt we’ll find a seat, but Trevor snags us a table when a couple tosses their plastic cups in a nearby trash can.
“Let me get you a ginger ale. It might help.”
Before I can protest, he adjusts his sunglasses and tugs on the brim of his nondescript white baseball cap.
I make a mental note to tease Trevor about his superhero disguise when he gets back and kick off my shoes. The second my bare feet touch the cool grass, my stomach finally settles. This landlubber is clearly not meant for the open seas.
That idea unexpectedly makes my ribs ache. Normally, it wouldn’t bother me that I prefer to be on terra firma, but being out on the boat brings Trevor so much joy that I’m disappointed I can’t share that with him.
“Here. Small sips.” Trevor returns with a fizzing plastic cup, setting it in front of me before chugging half of his iced tea.
“Thanks, Dad,” I deadpan.
Regret sears a hole through my side when Trevor frowns, turning his face toward the water. We’ve always had a running joke about our ten-year age gap, so maybe he’s upset about the mess I made of his boat?
I open my mouth to offer to pay for formal cleaning expenses when sirens sound nearby.
The wail increases until a fire truck pulls right beside the grassy area and parks on the shoulder of the main road.
Three firefighters jump down from the cab, casually striding across the grass.
I’d expected them to rush toward a small kitchen fire or maybe a medical call, but a man with curly brown hair arrows straight for us while the other two stop to chat up a trio of women.
“Way to be subtle, Noah,” Trevor says through gritted teeth, his aviators reflecting the firefighter’s smiling face.
“Dude, everyone in town knows it’s you when your boat shows up. Why do you even bother with that lame superhero disguise?”
A barking laugh escapes me despite my confusion over what’s going on. “I thought the same thing. Who does he think he is, Captain America?”
“Right?” The firefighter offers me a high five, and I take it.
Trevor is not amused. I don’t think I’ve seen him frown this much since he caught me crying in the cake batter. He’s usually the one smiling, the one trying to put everyone else at ease.
“Who’s your friend?” Noah says through a growing grin.
My roommate visibly stiffens. “This is Kenzie, my—”
“Kenzie.” Noah sends me a wink that I have no idea how to interpret. “I know who you are. I’m Noah. Trevor’s long-time friend.”
“Soon to be ex-friend,” he grumbles.
It dawns on me that Noah must know me from my 2.5 seconds of fame when my very public breakup was broadcast all over sports media. I duck my head, wishing I hadn’t left my hat on the boat. If this man recognized me, who else noticed?
“Nice to meet you,” I whisper to my toes, not meaning it.
At this point, I’m just waiting for Noah to make a joke like the thousands I saw after Mallory left that first night.
It’d been a rough couple of hours reading comments like “pick me,” “not even that pretty,” and “pathetic piece of garbage” beneath a picture of myself atop a dugout—hands fisted, face red.
I squeeze my eyes shut, embarrassment coating me like a second skin. Maybe I shouldn’t have left the house today. Maybe I should tear out the Do It Scared list and shred it into pieces. A shudder wracks through me at just the idea of mutilating my beautiful planner.
“Noah didn’t mean—”
I jolt before realizing the hand on my forearm is Trevor’s.
My roommate’s lips firm into a hard line as he removes his touch. “He recognizes your name because I’ve mentioned that you’re my roommate. I often come here for a meal when I’m boating because usually”—Trevor spears Noah with a cutting glance—“the good people of Wilks Beach allow me my privacy.”
The word privacy sends spikes pricking over my exposed skin. Is Trevor trying to hide me away, just like Aaron did? Is he ashamed to be seen with me too?
“But since he barged over here in the most obnoxious way possible…”
“Thank you.” Noah makes a little half-bow, one arm folded across his firefighter blues.
“...you might as well get to know my old friend,” Trevor finishes.
The tension in between my shoulders lessens a fraction, but I can’t help asking, “You want us to know each other?”
Trevor looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Why wouldn’t I?”
I swallow down the sudden desire to explain my relationship with Aaron. How even after he’d asked me to marry him, I still hadn’t met his parents. Aaron said we’d take a trip to Chicago and surprise them with the news in person at the end of the month. Of course, that’s not happening now.
“Did you go to school together?” I ask in a rush, forcing my brain to focus on something other than the dejected feeling eating at my bones.
When they both laugh—when Trevor’s ever-present smile returns to his face—the lingering unease washes away like soap bubbles down the drain.
“We were teammates once upon a time,” Noah tells me. “I didn’t last long, though. Life had other plans for me.”
He shrugs like it’s no big deal, but some of the brightness drains from his eyes.
“This guy, however, continues to be one of the best players in the MLB.” Noah roughly jostles Trevor’s shoulders until my roommate swats at him. “What’d you put up in yesterday’s game? Two home runs and a single? Still got it, man. Still got it.”
“You did?” I ask, and my roommate gives a modest nod. “I’m sorry. I didn’t watch—”
“You don’t need to,” Trevor interrupts, tone firm but warm. “Besides, it doesn’t matter. Me hitting home runs is like you filing tax documents properly. It’s just part of the job.”
Noah snorts but doesn’t say anything.
“We play one hundred and sixty-two games in the regular season, not counting spring training and postseason. I’m pretty sure even die-hard fans don’t watch every game.”
I’d never watched baseball—or any sport—before moving in with my roommate. But I asked Trevor to explain baseball to me because he’d been genuinely interested in learning about my career. It didn’t take long to get hooked. There’s so much math in baseball.
When I started dating Aaron in July, I made sure to watch every game he pitched because he liked to talk about his stats the next time we saw each other.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but enough about baseball.” Noah grabs an empty chair, sets it beside mine, and leans forward, chin on his hands. “Kenzie, why don’t you tell me about yourself?”