Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
FLETCH
“Are you two checking in?” the front desk clerk asks.
“Yes,” I say. “But we need two rooms.”
The woman’s eyes flit between us, no doubt clocking how closely we’re standing, and then return to her screen. “Would you prefer different floors? Or …” she trails off, looking at something. “I have connecting—”
“Connecting is great,” I say, kicking myself for how eager I sound. I hear Poppy sniff. “If it’s good with you, I mean,” I add.
“It’s fine,” she says. Her cheeks are tinged pink, which makes me feel a little better about my eagerness. Once we’re in our rooms, the conversation—the connection—ends. But if we have adjoining rooms …
We could stay up all night.
We could fall asleep talking in our own beds.
It wouldn’t be pushy. It would be …
Nice.
The clerk takes our ID and credit cards, and a few moments and signatures later, she’s handing us room keys. And Poppy and I are walking to the elevator, where we don’t say a word. Nor do we talk in the hall on the way to our rooms. But when we stop in front of rooms 303 and 305, I clear my throat.
“Uh, I’m going to shower,” I say. “Get into pajamas. That kind of thing.”
“Me too.”
“Do you want to—” I start.
“Should we—” she says at the same time.
“Sorry, you go first,” I say.
“No, you go,” she says.
But now I don’t want to. Because if I suggest we open the doors and talk more—or kiss—and she’s only thinking we should exchange numbers for tomorrow morning, I’m going to feel like an idiot.
We can’t stand here forever, though.
Shoot your shot, Fletch, I tell myself.
“I’m not tired.” I stifle an actual yawn as I say it. “So if you want to stay up, we could talk. Or watch a movie, or something—”
“Yeah, I’d like that,” she says. “I’m not tired either.”
I feel the smile more than I show it. “Okay. Knock on the door when you’re done?”
“Okay.”
I have never showered faster in my life.
I don’t know if the same can be said for Poppy or not, but even though it’s only been twenty-five minutes since we got into our rooms, it feels hours longer.
Great.
I’m not just used to being with Poppy; I’m hooked on her.
This is too fast. My feelings have skyrocketed beyond anything I’ve ever felt for another woman. She makes me want to be a little kinder, a little calmer, a little more forgiving.
Better.
She makes me want to be better.
That’s not a bad thing—so why does it scare me?
Because you don’t know if you do the same for her, a voice in my head tells me. You’re worried you drag her down, like you do everyone.
Yup.
There it is.
Maybe I made a mistake, pushing her to talk longer.
To make matters worse, my phone has so many missed texts and calls, I’m almost afraid to touch it for fear it will detonate with the combined anger and resentment of my family.
I can’t blame Evan—TBIs mess with impulse control and emotional regulation.
He’s doing the best he can, and honestly, I like him a hundred times more now than I did before his accident.
Back then, he acted like he was immortal, impenetrable, and incomparable.
He had such incredible raw talent, he didn’t have to work as hard as I did to get where he got.
He wasn’t coasting into the majors, but he wasn’t hustling in, either.
I resented the crap out of him.
When he went number one in the draft—compared to my number twelve, a pick I worked my butt off to earn—he acted like he deserved it more than anyone. Like the world owed it to him.
Man, that hurt. It felt so wrong, so … unjust for someone who put the minimum into his game to be rewarded like that.
And even though Evan had never bowed to my granddad and dad, because he’d never cowered or run drills or complied with every stupid requirement, they cheered for him in a way they never had for me.
I was already playing AAA ball with a good chance of being sent up to the majors any minute, but it was like they’d written me off.
I had peaked in their minds. The mantle had been transferred to Evan, and he was the one who’d redeem the Fletcher legacy.
Finally, someone would make our family proud.
You know the worst part though? The part I’ve never told anyone?
I was relieved, too. So relieved, I was almost ready to quit baseball altogether. I hadn’t loved the game in … ever, maybe. Certainly not since I was a little kid. Baseball was an expectation—a duty I had given my all to.
I was so ready to finally shrug it off, figure out what I wanted with the rest of my life.
Then the very next night, Evan goes to that stupid bar, spouts off, and picks a fight with Darren Murphy.
And I was sucked back in. MLB or bust, except now I had the burden of resentment and guilt. Now I knew that not only was I a failure to my family, I was never going to get to quit.
When a knock comes at my door, I’m so far into my head, I have to claw my way out just to answer it. With a twist of the doorknob, I pull it open to see Poppy in her mismatched pajamas, already braiding her hair.
I love those braids.
And how much I love them is half the problem.
Or none of the problem.
Maybe it’s the solution?
Poppy’s standing there, looking up at me with a question in her eyes. “Sorry, uh, your room or mine?”
She pokes her head into my room and her eyes land on the couch across from the TV. “Your room will work.” She ducks under my arm to the small couch across from the television. When I turn around, she’s sitting cross-legged, finishing the second braid.
That simple move is a string connecting from the center of her chest to the center of mine. The uncertain smile she gives me when she catches me looking tightens that string and reels me in.
“So,” she says.
“So,” I say, sitting on the couch next to her. My weight makes the cushion tilt her toward me, so her knee bumps into my leg.
“Fancy meeting you here,” she says.
I groan, slinging my arm across the back of the couch. “No.”
“What do you mean, ‘no?’” she asks with a giggle that tells me she’s more tired than she let on. “That’s a perfect ice breaker.”
“It’s a terrible ice breaker.”
“Oh really? What’s a better one?”
“How would I know?”
“Stop,” she says. “You’re way too good looking to not have a supply of pickup lines in your back pocket.”
I could quirk my eyebrows up at her calling me good looking, but what she’s saying is too absurd. “Have you met me?”
“You know, I think I have.” Her eyes pick up a hint of mischief. “And I think you’re a secret Casanova.”
I laugh. “No you don’t.”
“I really don’t,” she says, laughing, too. “So how do you meet women? Do they throw themselves at you on the field?”
“Oddly enough, they usually throw themselves at me at church potlucks.”
“Uh, what?”
“It’s a Southern thing. I can’t explain it. You’ll have to come and see one.”
“I don’t know that I’ll be in Mullet Ridge, South Carolina anytime soon.”
My heart thuds harder in my chest. “Why not? You’re currently between jobs, right?”
She blinks three times in quick succession. “Right.”
I shrug. “So?”
“So … you’d want me to come visit you in Mullet Ridge?”
“For the potlucks,” I say, as if either of us believes it. “It’s a cultural experience.”
She holds my eye and sets her hands in her lap. I glance down to where she’s fidgeting with her nails and see that her ankle is wrapped, but she’s done it wrong.
“Can I fix that for you?” I ask. “I should probably teach you how to do it, come to think of it.” I swallow. “In case we don’t see each other for a couple of days.”
“A couple of days,” she echoes. I take her foot and undo the wrapping. The swelling is much better, but the bruising is still nasty. An entire day of staying off it seems to have helped.
“Is it feeling better?” I ask, letting my fingers soak up her skin as I hold her leg.
“A lot better,” she says. “It’ll be right as rain in a couple of days.”
I run my hand over the purple and black skin. “I’m going to wrap it, and then I’ll get ice. You need rest, ice, compression, elevation. RICE.”
She shifts on the couch, and her braids flip around her face, making her look even more vulnerable than her bruised foot.
“It’s really not a big deal.” Her voice is too tight.
“I shouldn’t have asked you if it was feeling better. I should have asked if it hurt at all. Are you hurt? At all?” I ask, and this time, the back of my nose stings.
I carefully hold her ankle with one hand while I move the bandage into place. From here, it should be a matter of simple muscle memory—I’ve wrapped my own ankle more times than I can count.
This is Poppy’s ankle, though. Poppy’s pain. Poppy’s tears that hurt worse than any injury.
I take it slow, gentle, starting at the top of her foot.
“You know you don’t have to walk around in pain all the time, right?” I tell her. The sound from her throat is raw, and I have to force myself not to look at her. “Pain is a sign to stop and take care of yourself. Or let someone else do it for you.”
“Like who?” she whispers. I slip the bandage under her arch, my knuckles grazing warm skin as I guide it through. She twitches, but she doesn’t giggle and I don’t stop.
“Like your parents when you were young? Your mom when your dad went away? Even my dad forced me to rehab when I was injured.”
“My mom didn’t know when I was injured. She had enough on her plate. I couldn’t add to it.”
If she was trying to wound me, she couldn’t do a better job. If anyone in this world deserved to be cared for, loved, nurtured growing up, it’s Poppy Grace. The idea that no one did—
“That’s not right,” I say. “You’re her daughter. She should have cared.”
“She cared,” she says. “But so did I.”
“But it’s a parent’s job to take care of their kids,” I say, my chest swelling with hurt as old as I am.
“She did. She fed me, clothed me, gave me a place to live and stayed up late on weekends helping me with homework and school projects whenever she could. She taught me skills and laughed with me and loved me. I know she loved me with all the energy she had. Still does.”