12. Bailey
CHAPTER TWELVE
Bailey
PAST
I think if I retreat any further into myself, I might disappear completely.
Every time I think about begging for my spot back on the soccer team, I remember the afternoon before I quit. I sat at my uncle’s house, listening to everyone talk about how, one day, JJ and Hunter would play at the professional level. No one said anything about my future in soccer.
Hunter hasn’t said anything more about it, but I’ve been avoiding everyone.
The guilt feels like it’s been crushing me for what I said to Mirabelle, but I won’t answer any of her calls or texts. She seems to be just fine without me, though.
The pictures of her and Henry are everywhere.
My parents are so preoccupied with worrying about Mira’s relationship, they haven’t even noticed I quit the team.
I can’t talk to Hunter about it because he doesn’t understand what it’s like to be the black sheep in this family.
He can do no wrong, and I love him, but I don’t know how to explain any of this to him .
It feels selfish to keep Carter to myself, but he understands everything I’m feeling.
As much as I don’t want to admit it, I think I believe Carter. I know what I overheard my parents saying about his mother, and I haven’t forgotten how they believe she might want revenge on them. Everything has lined up.
No one was here when I got home from school today, and a quiet house is something I’ve never known. Having three siblings is a recipe for noise and chaos, but the silence is deafening.
I went out back to the shed to deep clean and wax my surfboard out in the sun. It’s a simple and mindless task scraping off the old wax, but I’ve moved on to using a rag with mineral spirits to remove the residual wax before adding the new layer of base wax.
It’s something I can control from start to finish, helping to soothe the raging thoughts running on a loop inside my brain.
I wipe the sweat dripping down my face with the back of my hand, and I’m starting to get why Hunter wears his hair shorter. I cut all my hair off a couple of days ago, taking away the main defining feature that makes it easy for anyone to tell Hunter and me apart.
Sometimes I swear September is hotter than July.
“Permission to approach?” Kaitlyn’s voice teases, and my heart stutters in my chest. Her presence has a way of calming me more than anything else. I can already feel some of the tension slipping away.
“Permission denied,” I reply, cracking a small smile to let her know I’m kidding, but I don’t think she’d listen to me anyway.
She moves closer, and her dark hair, pulled back in a ponytail, swings with her steps. “Permission overruled.” She smiles, grazing the tips of her fingers over the surface of the board. “Want to wax my board too?”
My mind instantly fills with images of Kaitlyn in ways I really shouldn’t be picturing, and I shift the way I’m standing to make the tent in my shorts less obvious. I clear my throat, averting my gaze to look anywhere else to distract myself from the pretty girl in front of me.
“I-I didn’t mean that how it sounded,” she says, pulling my attention back to her. I’ve never been any good at looking away from Kait for long.
I know she didn’t mean it that way, but it doesn’t mean I don’t wish she did.
“Shouldn’t you be at cheer practice?” I ask, focusing on cleaning my board again.
“Coach had a doctor’s appointment or something, so she cancelled it. Figured I’d come see what you’re up to now that you’ve quit soccer.”
I freeze, allowing my brain to process while I inhale slowly. “Hunt told you?”
“Yeah, but I’ve also noticed something’s going on with you, and as your best friend, I’m worried.”
It never gets any easier to hear Kaitlyn call me her best friend, and I can feel her staring at me. I don’t want to put her in a position where she has to keep my secrets.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
She’d also never look at me the same way again.
“Bailey, please? I want to help.”
I scrub at a particularly stubborn spot on the deck, trying to organize my thoughts to ensure I’m not lying to her. I don’t think I could forgive myself if I lied to Kait. “I quit because I don’t see the point in playing anymore.”
“You don’t see the point? Doesn’t it make you happy?” she asks, and I feel my chest squeeze with grief because soccer does—or it did—make me happy. “Isn’t the fact that you love it enough of a reason to keep playing?”
“Sometimes love isn’t enough,” I say, resisting the magnetic pull to look at her so she won’t be able to see everything I’m leaving unsaid on my face.
I love Kaitlyn, but I know better than to say anything about my feelings.
I’d rather have the pieces of her than none at all, especially as I feel more and more alone with each passing day.
It’s easier to isolate myself than to give other people the chance to leave me.
“Why do I feel like there’s an underlying meaning to that?”
Sometimes, she’s too damn smart for her own good. It’s one of my favorite things about her, though. Kaitlyn has no problem calling me out on my shit, and I really appreciate it, even if I’m hoping she’ll let this go.
“No.”
Her hand lands on mine, stopping me. “Please tell me what happened? I’m worried.”
I can’t think straight with Kait touching me. It feels like I’ve been shocked by a thousand volts of electricity, and if I look at her right now, I’ll tell her everything.
Pure stubbornness is the only thing keeping my gaze trained on the board, and I shake my head. “Nothing happened. I just don’t want to play soccer anymore.”
“What do your parents think about you quitting?”
A bitter laugh escapes me before I can stop it. As if they’d care. I think a part of me thought maybe if I quit soccer, they’d finally notice how not okay I am—but to notice that, my parents would have to notice me .
“Kait, it’s fine. Just let it go,” I say, trying to recover from the wave of misery clinging to my skin like a slick layer of oil.
She doesn’t say anything. Once I’ve worked up the nerve to look at her again, I’m struck by the sadness in her expression. Sadness I put there, and it guts me.
All I ever want Kaitlyn to do is smile. It’s prettier than any sunset I’ve seen because, to me, Kaitlyn is the sun .
Finally, she nods. “Okay, but you have to promise you’ll tell me eventually,” she says, offering me her pinky.
I don’t fight the smile that tugs at the corners of my mouth. If anyone could cheer me up, it’s her—especially with the added bonus of making a pinky promise. They’re sacred.
I can agree to “eventually.” It’s not a definitive timeline, so it’s not a promise I’ll break.
“Okay,” I say, wrapping my pinky around hers.