Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
FLETCH
Well, in a twist that would surprise no one, my attempts at conversation crashed and burned.
Why am I even trying? I don’t ask questions and get personal with people. I even keep things with Grace anonymous, if I can say that about someone who knows me as well as anyone.
To make matters worse, my phone is buzzing with another call from Granddad.
I stare at Poppy’s stubborn, retreating form—her shoulders hunched against the wind, her shoes leaving dark prints in the snow—and let the snow swirl around me. The bitter wind stings my cheeks. I stuff my hands into my pockets, my fingers stiff from the cold. I should go after her.
But I don’t.
Poppy’s right that I’ve been avoiding my grandfather, but the longer I wait, the more complaints he’ll have to lodge against me.
I stab the answer button. “Hi, Granddad.”
“Oliver, where are you? We have a charity event this afternoon!”
Good to hear from you, too, I think. “I’m not gonna make it. I’m stuck in the middle of Kansas, thanks to the storms,” I say.
“The storms you could have avoided if you’d come out a week earlier, like we told you to.” He sounds so gruff, so perpetually irritated, I swallow painfully. My free hand balls into a fist in my pocket.
All part of having a job, I want to say, but he doesn’t consider coaching to be a valid career choice unless you’re making millions in the Majors after retiring from a storied career.
I have a storied career, all right. It’s just the wrong story.
He’s still huffing and puffing so much, I expect him to threaten to blow my house down. “Do you know how embarrassing it was to have the ‘Fletcher Family Showcase’ with one less Fletcher?”
“I thought I was the embarrassment. I leaned into that pitch, after all. Should’ve known better.”
“You did know better!” he spits. I close my eyes, jaw clenched so tight, my teeth ache. Then he exhales, like he can hardly believe his own restraint. “Your players are off during the off season, aren’t they? Why aren’t you?”
Ah, the subtle periodic reminder of what a failure I am. Right on schedule.
“Between winter meetings, running a camp, doing player analysis, and roster planning, I’ve been a little busy. It’s Hot Stove season, Granddad. You know this.”
He grumbles, like he hates admitting that I’m right. “You should be home. Your mother’s been worried sick. Brother, too.”
Not my dad? Is he too afraid of showing emotion around his jerk of a father that he can’t even say he’s worried? Or has he been beaten down to the point of not caring?
“Is mom there? I have a missed call from her.”
He barrels ahead like he doesn’t hear me. “When will you get home?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “The roads are shut down all over town.”
“So? You can drive in snow.”
“Not when my car is buried in it, I can’t.” I take my hat off and run my hand over my hair. Despite the cold, my scalp is sweating. Snow lands on my face, melting instantly from the angry heat radiating from me.
“Oh, come on, dig it out.”
I wipe the sweat off my forehead with the back of my coat. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Granddad. The roads are closed. Should I hunt down a snowplow?”
“Don’t be absurd.”
I roll my lips tightly together. Nothing I can say will change his mind.
“If you would have just come home earlier—”
“I have a job.”
I can feel him shaking his head, dancing around the one thing I know he’s itching to say. Someone must be near that he’s tempering himself even this much. A dog barks somewhere in the distance, and it’s the only sound I can hear over my ragged breathing.
“Don’t expect me home before tomorrow night at the earliest.”
“Your brother’s rehearsal dinner is tomorrow night. You just can’t show up for anyone else, can you? You’d better find a way to get here. After everything your brother has been through, you owe it to him.”
My stomach drops. Right. I owe it to Evan. No one blames him for not living up to his potential—nor should they. He didn’t know that fight would change everything.
But what was he doing getting wasted and picking a fight—
Stop it. Don’t even think it. It’s not Evan’s fault he got attacked.
No, but it’s my fault I got hit by that pitch, right?
I can’t win.
“Don’t worry, Granddad, if I miss the wedding, you can all blame the fact that I crowded the plate. I was the one asking to get hit. Not Evan. Never Evan.”
The hiss in his voice is like a lit fuse. “How can you make light of this? You broke your wrist. He has a brain injury.”
I feel so disgusted with myself, I physically can’t keep my eyes open, just in case I see my hands, my feet, any part of me. My granddad’s right. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“You should be sorry. I don’t care if you have to drive all night. You get here.”
“I’ll do my best.”
I end the call.
Shame whips around me, piles on top of me, burying me deeper than any Kansas snowdrift.
My breathing is shallow, the cold air stinging my lungs.
The glare of the sunshine off the snow is blinding.
I stare forward without seeing anything and let my feet take me where they will.
The roar in my head is deafening, drowning out the wind and the crunch of snow beneath my sneakers.
Eventually, I stop in front of a small brick coffee shop.
I could keep walking, but I’m too tired from beating myself up.
I step inside, place an order for a hot chocolate, and sit at a table.
The chair scrapes sharply against the floor.
I peel my coat off, but when my sweat meets the cold from sitting near the window, I shiver.
I’m about to pull up the Beyond Justice app when I spot a missed text.
Scottie
I’m at the airport, and the Fischer bros are here, too. Please tell Lucas that if he doesn’t stop flirting with me, he’s fired.
Fletch
No can do, sorry. He’s on the Firebirds’ 40-man roster. Lukie isn’t going anywhere.
Scottie
You’re dead to me.
How’s Rochester?
Fletch
I have no idea. My flight was canceled due to the storms in the NE. I got stranded in Denver and rented a car.
Scottie
What? Fletch, that sucks. Where are you now?
Fletch
Nowhere, Kansas. And my stupid rental got snowed in.
Scottie
Enjoy the journey, dude.
I’m kidding. That’s the kind of thing the Lucas Fischers of the world say.
If he doesn’t stop winking at me across the gate, I’m going to break your star pitcher’s arm.
Fletch
Don’t break his arm.
Scottie
Boo. You’re no fun.
Fletch
Truer words…
Scottie
Okay, I gotta bounce. Lucas isn’t going to say no to himself. Be safe.
Fletch
You too.
Wait, how are you getting home? Didn’t the storms shut everything down?
Scottie
They’re rerouting us through Akron.
The Fischers are flying into Rockford, though. Maybe the airports farther west aren’t as affected by cancellations?
Fletch
Figures.
Yet another thing I can’t do right, book a freaking flight.
Scottie
Knock it off. It’s winter in the northeast. You’re not powerful enough to shut down entire airports.
Fletch
You have no proof of that.
Scottie
Don’t make me roll my eyes.
Fletch
Go. Ward off Lucas’s attention.
Scottie
Stay safe and stop pitying yourself. It’s unattractive.
Scottie has the unique ability to knock sense into people. It’s not working as well as she’d like, but it’s better than nothing.
I lean back in my chair and scratch my forehead. Why did things get so awkward with Poppy? I asked a question! Gave a suggestion! How did it go so haywire?
This is why I don’t dig with Grace. It’s safer to assume she’s some traveling social worker and to let her assume I’m a gym coach, like she once guessed. She matters too much to me to drop my walls.
Poppy, on the other hand …
That woman.
All I did was point out the possibility that her dad didn’t really change. Has she really never considered he was always like that? She didn’t have to get so defensive.
I take a sip of my hot chocolate as a couple comes in.
A gust of cold air follows, along with the sound of them stomping the snow from their boots.
They look to be in their 70s and are wearing coats and hats so caked in snow, I assume they’ve been walking all morning.
In fact, I think they’re the couple Poppy and I saw when we left the hotel.
They stomp snow off onto the mat, and then the woman gives the man a kiss and goes up to the little counter to order. The man comes and takes a seat at the only other table in the coffee shop—right next to me.
He gives me a small nod but doesn’t say anything else. He’s too busy watching his wife like he can’t believe she’s real.
Are they newlyweds? I’ve never seen my parents look at each other like this. Curiosity grips me as I watch this man watch his wife.
“How long have you two been married?” The words slip out before I can catch them. What am I doing? I clear my throat, suddenly self-conscious.
The look the man gives me tells me he’s not one for small talk. I know the feeling. I am the feeling. Since when did I ask strangers questions? What has a single day trapped with Poppy Lewis done to me?
“Forty-one years,” he says.
I did not see that coming.
A moment later, the smiling woman sits across from him with a breakfast burrito, a huge blueberry muffin, and two forks.
He stabs his fork into the muffin immediately, and she crosses her fork with his, trying to stop him. The tines clink together, and they both grin. Well, he smirks.
“Don’t you dare take all the crumble,” she says.
“You snooze, you lose,” he says, scooping as much of it in his mouth as he can.
She tuts. “How do I put up with this?” Then she looks at me. “Can you believe the nerve?”
My snort sounds more like clearing congestion. “Pretty gutsy,” I say.
The woman grabs the rest of the crumble topping with her bare hand and puts it in her mouth before her husband can stop her. “We saw you earlier, didn’t we?” The woman asks. “Where’s your wife?”
“She’s not my wife.”
“Sister?”
“No,” I say too strongly.
“Ah, girlfriend, but you’re on the rocks, are you?”
Should I correct her? Tell her the story of our flight and rental car woes?
I look at her husband, at how little he cares about this conversation. I’ve always thought I was that guy, too. Yet, I’m talking to strangers in a small town cafe instead of keeping my head down the way I should have.
How many times did my granddad tell me that growing up?
“Keep your head down. Avoid distractions. You’ve got one chance, Ollie. One. You wanna go through life as a should-have-been?”
It was everything I could do not to yell, “Like you?”
Pressure on my hand yanks me back to the present, to the cafe in Wilson, Kansas. The woman at the other table is patting me, and the knowing look on her face tells me she thinks my silence is agreement. About what, again?
Right. She thinks I’m fighting with my girlfriend—Poppy.
“A fight can either be the end of the story or a new beginning,” the woman is saying.
“Go for the new beginning,” her husband adds.
“We speak from experience.”
The couple is projecting. They’re assuming that my situation is their situation, when it couldn’t be more different. Poppy and I don’t know each other, not really. Assuming we actually get home tomorrow, we’ll go our separate ways and never see each other again.
And that uncomfortable feeling tightening my lungs isn’t regret.
It’s heartburn.
“We’re Pat and Terry,” she says, and the only way I know she’s Pat and he’s Terry is that she looks at him when she says his name.
“Oliver,” I say, although I never call myself Oliver.
My dad and grandpa would bark “Ollie” so much that it should sound like a curse word to me.
Everyone on every team I was ever on would call me Fletch or Fletcher, and that always felt more like me.
But over the last few years, since I stopped playing, I haven’t felt like any name was mine. Fletch works on the field, but off—
I don’t know who I am any more than Poppy did. How did she peg me so quickly? How did she know I’m struggling with my identity when I didn’t realize it until right now?
She called me Oliver.
My chest does something weird. Expands? Contracts?
I don’t know. Oliver is the kind of name that feels like it should be earned, something I definitely haven’t done.
Oliver Twist was so innocent and kind in the face of cruelty, while I’ve always been seething under the surface while maintaining a cold front.
Somehow, everyone I’ve ever known has had a sense that I don’t deserve to share a name with a character like him.
Until Poppy.
Pat and Terry are fighting over bites of everything they eat, as if one bite will taste so different from the other.
It’s so … weird. Too playful for people who’ve been married so long.
My grandma died when I was little, so I don’t know what Granddad’s relationship with her was.
My parents get along fine, but they’ve never been affectionate.
They’ve definitely never teased each other like this.
I hate this. I hate sitting around, talking to people.
My knee bounces under the table. I should leave.
So why am I still sitting here? Why am I so curious?
Why am I burning to know how they’ve been married so long and still like each other?
Why am I filled with a need to know about the fight that was just the beginning?
Maybe it’s because I’ll never see these two again. Or maybe it’s because Poppy and her incessant prattle broke a setting in me.
Or maybe—just maybe—I’ve been dying to let someone in for years.
I drink the rest of my hot chocolate. It’s lukewarm now, but I drain it and set the mug down too hard.
“So, Pat, Terry,” I say. “How did you keep your fight from being the end?”