Chapter 5
Jake
T here aren’t many places in North Bay to take a sober dude for his bachelor party. I was roped into planning this event because I’m the only townie. Mike’s teammates don’t have as many local connections. Or at least that’s the excuse they used to get out of doing any of the legwork. I convinced Chuck, The Blue Crab’s seafood supplier, to let us charter his boat and go fishing on the bay for the day. It seemed like a good idea at the time. But after only four hours of sleep thanks to Danielle’s karaoke night, I’m stuck on this boat bright and early with a killer headache, trying to find a way to celebrate with Mike, Jordan, and Rodriguez without any alcohol. Just me, three pro athletes, and Chuck, with several hours to kill while we float on choppy water. And I thought girls’ night was bad.
Chuck is driving the boat and otherwise completely ignoring us, not that I blame him. These other guys all work and travel together, so there’s an easy flow to the conversations among them. I’m definitely the odd man out. They’re making a strong effort to include me, which is nice of them, but the stunted attempts at small talk are just making it more awkward. Obviously, the male man of honor thing is going really well.
“So, Gibson, Mike says you’re an artist?” To his credit, Jordan is really trying. But the way he’s forcing this makes it feel like a bad first date.
“Yeah. It’s a side gig, mostly. I also manage a few of my uncle’s rental properties.”
I take a sip of Coke from the plastic bottle in my hand. None of these guys were brought up in the South, so I brought peanuts and Coke for them to try. Danielle and I grew up drinking these every summer. Judging by the way all of theirs are sitting untouched, peanuts floating in brown liquid, I’m not sure they appreciate the taste of Southern charm the way I hoped they would. I’m trying to hold my own, but it’s hard to do when I’m surrounded by dudes who are all in great physical condition and at the top of their game. I’m almost six feet tall and I try to stay in shape, but they still each have at least three inches and thirty pounds of muscle over me.
“What kind of stuff do you draw?”
“Mostly fantasy, some sci-fi.” I try to stand my ground and say it with confidence, but I can hear my dad’s voice telling me how absurd it is to be a college drop-out, living at home, unemployed, and sitting around drawing cartoons.
“Oh, sweet. Can you draw a dragon?”
“Uh, yeah, sure.”
I’m not really unemployed because I do have a stream of income coming in. But Dad will never consider self-employed artist and part-time property manager for Uncle Tim to be a real job.
I swallow. It might not be the same as being a professional ball player, but people like my art well enough to pay for it. I’ve sold a few pieces through social media and done some commissions. Yesterday, a woman emailed me about painting a mural in her son’s bedroom. That’s something, right?
Jordan seems to agree. At least he’s making an effort.
“You play first base, right?” I ask, trying to reciprocate even though I already know his position. Everyone in North Bay is familiar with the team’s roster.
“Yeah. Going into my third year with The Blue Crabs. Although, if I can’t find a new roommate soon, I might need to give up baseball and ask Chuck over there if he’ll hire me.” He’s kidding about quitting baseball, but I think he’s serious about needing a roommate. Minor league players don’t make a ton of money. Jordan and Mike used to live together, but now that Mike’s marrying Danielle and they’re buying Ms. Honey’s house, Mike’s obviously out of the picture.
“Rodriguez doesn’t want to live with you?” I ask, pointing my soda in his teammate’s direction.
“No offense, man. But we spend enough time together as it is. I like living alone,” Rodriguez chimes in before taking a sip of his bottle. “You know, this isn’t half bad, Gibson,” he says, giving the soda and peanuts another chance.
“I guess I’m just not a huge fan of stuff floating in my drinks,” Mike says. “Danielle finally got me to try bubble tea, and I couldn’t get on board with that either.”
“Oh, yeah? This is my surprised face. Your picky ass doesn’t like anything the first time you try it. The whole reason we’re all here today is because you were such a crybaby about the steamed crabs,” Jordan ribs him, putting on a fake whiny voice. “Excuse me? Waitress? Can you help me? The mean little crab gave me an ouchie, and now I’m scared to eat him.”
“I remember it differently,” Mike deadpans. Then he raises his soda bottle. “I want to make a toast. I’m really glad all of you are here. Rodriguez, here’s to you for sharing our rookie season together, and for always having my back, even when I ditched you at the charity event to drive Danielle home.”
I look at my feet because my memory of that night is not nearly as fond as Mike’s.
He continues his toast. “Jordan, you’re the best friend I’ve ever had. I love you, man.” Finally, he gets to me. “Jake, I know we’ve had our differences, but I’m glad you’re here. Danielle considers you family, which means you’re my brother now, too. Thanks for putting this together.”
“Uh, sure,” I mumble.
Mike raises his bottle and we all take a sip from our own, then Mike and Rodriguez step away to check the lines.
I turn to Jordan. “Is he always that sappy?”
He shrugs. “Nothing wrong with a man being honest. But no, he wasn’t always that open about stuff. Therapy, bro. It works.”
“Maybe I should try it sometime,” I say, only half-kidding.
He chuckles. “You and me both.”
I like Jordan. “Do you really need a roommate?”
“Why? You interested?”
“Actually, yeah. As long as you’re okay with a dog.”
“For real? Okay, put your number in my phone and we can plan for you to see the place this week.”
“I can already tell you, I’m in.”
I’ve already seen his apartment once, but it wouldn’t matter anyway. I’ll sleep in a closet if it gets me out of my parents’ house.
He hands me his phone, and I start sending a text to myself. While I’m typing, a new message comes through. It’s from someone he has listed as Sea Shell, who I can only assume is Shelley Miller, Mike’s sister. They definitely seemed into each other when she was go-karting with us last year. All I know is that this text is absolutely not safe for work, and I’m staying the hell out of it.
But reading Shelley’s spicy invitation to Jordan makes someone else pop into my head, uninvited. I shake my head, trying to ditch the image of Alice looking at me over her coffee mug and the knowledge I shouldn’t have about her underwear preferences. Or lack thereof.
I hand the phone back to Jordan, and when he realizes I must have seen the text, he locks eyes with me.
“I know how it looks, but it’s really not like that,” he insists. “We text sometimes, and we hang out when she’s here. But that’s all. I wouldn’t mess with Shelley behind Mike’s back.” Jordan pockets his phone again.
I give a small nod and take a long sip of my drink, keeping my mouth shut to let him know that I have no intention of ratting him out. Jordan and Shelley hooking up might throw a wrench in things as far as her brother is concerned, but I doubt anyone else would care.
Alice and I hooking up, on the other hand, would throw a grenade on everything. Even if we could stand to be around each other for more than five minutes at a time, which we definitely can’t, it would still be a terrible idea. My parents would probably disown me, plus it could screw up both our friendships with Danielle. Unfortunately, knowing it can’t happen is exactly what makes the thought of it so hot, and now I can’t get her out of my head.
There’s a pull on one of the lines hanging off the other side of the boat, and Rodriguez starts to reel it in.
“Sweet, we might actually catch something today.” After a few minutes of struggle, he hoists a rockfish onto the deck, and we take a few photos with it.
Two hours later, we send Mike home with a cooler full of fresh fish and a quick lesson from Chuck on how to clean them. I reassure him Danielle can walk him through the process if he forgets.
“You boys cut it close with this one. Got your group out just in the nick of time,” Chuck says when I hand over the tip our group collected for him. He pockets the cash and cranes his neck toward the sky. “Storms will be rolling in earlier than they’re calling for, I’d bet money on it.”
“News said we should have until Wednesday,” I offer.
He shakes his head. “No way this one will wait that long. You’ll see.”
I wouldn’t bet against Chuck. At least if the storm does come early, it’ll give us more time to clean up before the wedding on Saturday.