28. Layla
LAYLA
Ten years ago…
“He’s got a nice butt.”
“Fallon,” Zoe drawls exasperatedly, bumping into her with her own body, which in turn, knocks into mine. “Stoppp.”
“What?” our friend inquires with faux shock. “He does. Tucker Hale is a nice piece of—”
“Fallon King,” Maebelle warns from behind us, something Fallon hasn’t or truly doesn’t care about. “You’d better watch your lips, girl.”
My best friend, in all her rebellious fashion, turns her body on the metal bleachers and looks up at Magnolia Ridge’s number one top gossip. “Mrs. Mitchell, I’m appalled that you’d think I’d say somethin’ inappropriate in front of children.”
I don’t look at Maebelle, but I can imagine the expression good enough.
She’s looking at Fallon with zero humor because she knows, just as well as I, that Fallon was going to point out how attractive Tucker is in a crude way.
“So, your comment earlier about Cruz Weston swingin’ like the B-word is appropriate for the masses?”
I sigh because Fallon knows this isn’t going to go anywhere but back and forth.
However, Fallon’s energy level and stubborn nature only fuel her to continue.
“That’s a female dog, Mrs. Mitchell—”
“I wasn’t born yesterday, Miss King. And you best make sure you look at who’s around you before you allow your lewd commentary to continue.”
“So, you then?”
Fallon’s body lunges forward again, implying that Zoe has bumped her for over the dozenth time tonight.
“You best listen to your friends,” Maebelle suggests. “Because I would hate to make a phone call to your mother.”
Yeah, that’s not going to do anything.
Fallon’s mom is fully aware that her daughter is spirited and mouthy. In fact, I think she loves that about her daughter because it’s rare that she’ll stop Fallon to think and focus on what she’s saying. But I think that’s when Fallon starts getting overwhelmed about things she can’t control.
“Duly noted,” Fallon finally concedes, turning back around to face the baseball field.
The Magnolia Ridge Copperheads are playing tonight against our rivals, the Riverbend Blue Sox, and the boys are head-to-head and run after run, making it a close game, and everyone is on edge.
My eyes connect with Briggs as he steps onto the on-deck circle with his bat in hand, waiting for Tucker to get on base. He’s relaxed, methodically swinging his bat vertically without much thought behind it because he’s dead-centered on winning tonight.
“Speaking of ass,” Fallon says under her breath. “Your boyfriend is—” My elbow knocks into ribs, earning an ompfh right afterward because Maebelle Mitchell is still behind us with her ears always open.
“I swear,” I mumble underneath the cheering crowd. “If you don’t shut up, Fallon…”
She chuckles, completely enamored with herself and her sense of humor, when Briggs turns on his heels and looks toward the supportive onslaught of town folk clapping and shouting in support.
Then, his focus deadbolts on me, and I stop breathing.
Everything about him is bold and powerful. His gaze on me sucks everything out and replaces it with excitement, something Cruz never gives me, even though everyone here thinks I’m present for him.
The distinct crack of a ball has the crowd standing on its feet, and I look toward the field, watching it soar amongst the high-beamed lights, destined for the outfield.
It hits the fence, short of a homerun, as Tucker books it around the bases to try to get as far as he possibly can.
One run is scored in from third base, Lincoln Fry, the team’s right outfielder.
Screams and shouts fill my ears as Briggs begins to get himself ready to get up to home plate, but then he abruptly stops and turns back to look at me.
Defiance drapes over his features, and my heart picks up its speed because I know he’s going to do something insanely unethical and crazy.
“Layla Jean,” he calls out, somewhat deafening the masses so they can hear every word he says. “This one’s for you.”
My eyes bulge because this was not part of the plan with drawing attention to this weird love triangle that’s not really a triangle. It’s a mask behind a boy who’s not my boyfriend, but is in the eyes of the town, and—it’s a mess.
“For your birthday,” he tacks on to soften the gossip that was starting to boil and formulate in people’s heads, then heads to home plate for his turn.
He swings his bat, squares his shoulders, and lets the first pitch go and glide without action.
Then I see his right foot dig harder into the dirt, and he’s locked and loaded.
He’s about to show Magnolia Ridge—and me—that when he says something, he means it because when the next pitch comes off the glove and palm of Riverbend’s all-star pitcher, Briggs smacks the ball within the atmosphere with the velocity and speed that gives you only one outcome.
A home run.
Magnolia Ridge loses its mind. Carefully made posters fly up in the air, along with cups, peanuts, and someone has confetti—unreal—while the metal bleachers vibrate with kids jumping around and adults high-fiving with another two runs scored.
But my attention never leaves Briggs Kerrigan as he rounds second base, jogging confidently to third while his elated stare connects with mine again.
He smirks, then winks when he rounds his last base. This boy—this insanely, unruly boy—is going to get us in trouble.
Me in trouble.
And, Lord help me, I could never let him go.