Chapter 22 #2
I tut, tugging the wrap snug and winding another loop. Each pull drags her a little closer until her leg is pressed solid against mine.
She goes quiet, watching my hands. We’re closer than I even realized, because her braid brushes my shoulder as she leans in.
When I tie the bandage off, my fingers linger, smoothing over the wrap as though testing its tightness. In reality, I just don’t want to let go.
Her ankle is steady. Mine? Not so much.
I look at Poppy, cup her face in my hands, rub my thumbs over her delicate skin. “Poppy, I can’t stand the idea of you in pain.”
Her eyes well up like they did last night, but she doesn’t fight me.
“You are the kindest person I’ve ever known,” I say. “I have to believe this universe has some kind of karmic justice to it, or nothing makes sense. The idea of you suffering in silence with no one to kiss you better—” emotion lodges in my throat. “It’s every kind of wrong.”
“Billions of people are hurting every day. Why shouldn’t I suffer?”
“Because you’re you.”
“That’s a terrible answer,” she says, another tear spilling. I wipe it with my finger and then return my hand to her cheek.
“It’s not.”
“Your family has treated you terribly for years,” she says.
“They wanted the best for me, though,” I say.
“It doesn’t matter what they wanted. Intentions don’t erase the damage, Oliver. They treated you wrong, and that’s what matters.”
“But I didn’t deserve kindness like you do. I was angry. Resentful. Jealous of Evan. I got what I deserved.”
“No,” she says sharply, grabbing my wrists and tugging my hands down to where our legs touch.
“You did nothing to deserve their coldness, their ridiculous expectations, their disappointment. You deserved to be celebrated and cheered! Did your parents ever once tell you how much they loved watching you play? Or how proud they are for how you lead your team?”
My laugh is cold. “No. My granddad set the tone for the way my dad and mom responded.”
“Why have your parents let him wield so much power over your family?”
I look at our clasped hands. “My granddad was a Major League prospect until the Vietnam War. He came home hurt, and he never made it pro. He started coaching other players, though, and he had such a knack for it, he started his baseball academy a few years later. One of the first in the country. He made it big fast. But he used the power, the money like a weapon—dangling it over my dad and his siblings. My aunt and uncle got out early, kept their distance. But my dad got injured young playing baseball. He was still living at home, no insurance, no way to pay for rehab. He needed Granddad’s money.
” Poppy runs a finger over my hands, and I find myself watching the movement with a longing that doesn’t make sense, considering I’m with her.
“My mom was an aide at the rehab center Dad went to. They got married while Granddad was still footing the bills. That dynamic has never changed. Even now, it’s like my dad’s still living under his roof.
Granddad calls the shots, and Dad acts like he doesn’t have a choice. ”
I drag my eyes up to face her, to see what she thinks.
“That sounds hard for everyone,” she says. “Generational trauma is an ugly thing.”
“It is,” I say, understanding the term without having heard it before. “But my dad really is a lot better than his dad. I’ve seen pride in his eyes after a good play. We’ve watched a million games together. Cheered together. Booed together. He’s not a bad person.”
“You don’t have to make excuses for him,” she says, staring at me with her big warm eyes. “It sounds like he’s tried. But that’s still no excuse for years of making you feel like you’re never enough.”
A frown pulls my mouth to the side. “I don’t know if that’s what really bothers me.”
“Okay. What does?”
I let the silence stretch while I think over her question. And for some stupid reason, my head jumps to Evan. To Darren Murphy. To the ten thousand hours I spent running drill after drill.
“I did everything right. I was angry about it, yeah, but I did it. I feel like—” I stop myself short. It’s too petty to say out loud.
“You feel like good deeds should be rewarded and bad deeds should be punished?”
“Yes!” The word bursts from my mouth. “It’s so unfair! What else could I have done to make them care about me, Poppy?”
I feel my upper lip quiver, and I rub my nose, unwilling to let this emotion out. Because I won’t be able to bottle it back up once it is.
It’s Poppy’s turn to put her hands on my cheek. “That was never on you, Oliver. You didn’t deserve the way they treated you, and even if you’d been a hundred times worse than Evan, you wouldn’t have deserved it. You deserved love. Plain and simple and unconditional.”
I blink hard. “So did you.”
“I had it.”
“But your dad—”
Her face drops. I can only imagine the pain that was caused by all those years of absence followed by how he used her for money.
“I know,” she says. She lifts her head, and the tears I thought had stopped are streaming down her face.
“But I have so many great memories, too. And some of his letters from prison are my most cherished possessions.”
Only Poppy could see the good in a dad who treated her like that.
“Maybe with him getting out tomorrow, things will be better.”
She closes her eyes and smiles as her cheeks get wetter and wetter. “That would be awesome.”
I wipe the tears from her face, even as they keep coming. For years, she’s had to put on a brave face for everyone around her. Her breaking down with me feels like … a gift. An honor.
“I want to see you when we get to Rochester. I don’t want tomorrow to be the end,” I say.
Her smile gets bigger as she laughs. “Are you serious?”
“As a heart attack.”
She winces. “Don’t say that.”
“I’m not having a heart attack,” I say with a chuckle. “I know you’re busy tomorrow, but I want to see you if you have time. After the party, maybe. And then the day after tomorrow. And the tomorrow after that.”
“That’s a lot of tomorrows.”
“It is, isn’t it?”
She pauses, trying to drop her head, but I tip her chin up so she’s looking at me. “I’d like that,” she says.
No matter how sure I was that she wanted this too, hearing her say it makes me feel like fireworks are exploding in my chest. I bring her face up an inch higher and drop my own head so my lips are a sliver away from hers.
My eyes are still open, and so are hers, like we’re in the world’s best game of chicken.
I can see her cheeks rising, can spot the smile in her eyes. Can taste the mint toothpaste on her breath. Our first—and only—kiss felt like a dare … a dare we both won.
I want this one to feel like a promise.
The smile in her eyes shifts to something more—anticipation mixed with trust—and it almost knocks me over. I close the final distance, pressing my lips to hers with a tenderness that feels almost reverent.
This isn’t just a kiss. It’s an answer to every tear she’s cried tonight, my way of telling her: I see you.
I choose you. You’re not alone. When her breath catches, it’s like she finally understands what I’m trying to say.
Her hands slide from my face to the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair, and the gentle pressure feels like her response: I choose you, too.
Her legs are still draped across my lap, her injured ankle resting gently over my thigh, and I’m careful not to do anything to hurt her. With every kiss, I want her to know she’s safe, that she doesn’t need to hide behind a smile anymore.
She tastes like mint and tears and a sweetness that belongs only to her.
Her lips move with mine like we’ve done this a thousand times, but with a newness that makes my heart stutter.
Each point of contact feels essential—her hands in my hair, my palm cradling her face, her weight against me.
Every touch is confirmation of how right we are together.
I shift my hand from her face to the back of her head, cradling it, while my left hand drops to her waist. Holding her. Anchoring her to me.
The couch cushion dips under our combined weight, and we both laugh against each other’s mouths. The sound out of my throat is so happy, I barely recognize it. But it feels like the best version of me.
I pull back just enough to look at her dark lashes and flushed cheeks and the goodness that radiates from her eyes.
“How did I get so lucky?” I ask.
The look she gives me is so open, so unguarded, it robs me of all thought.
“I don’t think most people would consider a disastrous road trip lucky,” she laughs.
“Most people are idiots.”
She laughs again, and I’m struck by how she can still smile after a lifetime of hurts and disappointments.
I will never be one of them—a hurt or a disappointment, I silently promise.
I kiss her forehead, then her temple, then the corner of her mouth, wishing I was better with words.
Wishing I could pause this moment and stay here forever instead of just tonight.
Wishing I could make her understand that nobody has ever made me feel the way she does—like I’m not the cautionary tale in someone else’s story. Like maybe I’m the hero in my own.
She puts her hand to my cheek, fingers feeling the scruff there. The tender expression on her face makes my chest tight.
“We probably need to decide what movie we’re going to watch,” she whispers.
“It’s cute that you think we’re going to watch anything at all,” I say.
Her laugh is so bright and genuine, even with tears still shimmering in her eyes. If I do nothing else tonight, I’m going to kiss her every hurt better.