Chapter Forty
Taylor
As soon as I get back to Crestwood after my three-game series against USC, I’m out the door again, heading to Indianapolis via a detour to Cleveland. I want to check in on Emma, who’s been living with Dad for the past three weeks and has just gotten the NIPP test results.
I text her when I pull into the driveway, having no interest in reuniting with my father.
He follows her out and waves to me from the porch, though.
His red hair’s starting to gray at the temples, but otherwise, he looks the same.
I lift my hand in acknowledgment as Emma drops into the passenger seat.
“How’s it going with him?” I ask as I drive away.
“Not terrible, but he thinks I’m going to move back to St. Louis with him.”
“What?”
“Yeah, he’s talking about enrolling me in classes so I can get my GED.”
I flick my turn signal. “And how do you feel about that?”
She releases a heavy breath. “I don’t know—I don’t particularly want to live with Mom again, even if she does sober up. But my entire life is here, and since this is Jacob’s baby, moving to St. Louis would ruin any chance of them having a relationship.”
“I could always stick around Cleveland and you could live with me.”
“No, no, you have that job with the Rangers.”
I bang the steering wheel. “Everyone needs to stop acting like that’s the only job I’ll ever be offered.”
“We’re not! At least, I’m not!” She sits up straighter, tugging on her seatbelt. “I just don’t want to be the reason you don’t take it.”
“I just wish everyone would let me make my own choices.”
“See, I’m the exact opposite—why can’t you guys just tell me what to do?”
“Because you’re the one who’s going to have to live with the decision.”
“Just because you tell me what to do doesn’t mean I have to actually do it, though. You’ve been telling me what to do for years and I’ve never listened.”
I laugh because it’s true. I’ve been running interference between her and Mom, her and school, her and, honestly, the whole system of parental and institutional authority since she was fourteen.
We drive in silence for a few minutes, the air simmering with all the things I shouldn’t say, but then I glance at her out of the corner of my eye and see her chewing at the skin on her thumb.
I sigh. “Have you told Jacob it’s his yet?”
“No, I’m waiting till after the game.”
“Well, maybe check with him again. I’ll still support you, whatever you decide.”
She stares out the window. “Uh-huh.”
My hands clench around the steering wheel. It’s not like I want to be the bossy older sister. I hate the sound of my own voice when I’m telling Emma what to do. But that’s the thing about growing up in a vacuum of adult supervision—you can either rise above it or let it bury you.
I refused to be broken by a house that was supposed to keep me safe, to be used as a bargaining chip by our parents in their passive-aggressive Cold War. Maybe it’s because I’m older, or because I have an outlet in baseball, but something helped me overcome adversity when Emma couldn’t.
The road blurs, and she flips through my playlist, skipping anything remotely hopeful or upbeat, until she lands on a song that’s basically the background hum of her entire life—sad-girl indie acoustic.
She leans her head against the window, her outline doubled in glass, a ghost with dark circles and mascara smudges.
“You really want me to tell you what to do?” I ask.
“Yes!”
“I think the fact you’re having doubts shows you don’t want to terminate or give it up for adoption, but if you keep it, you have to keep acting like you are right now.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean being responsible for yourself. I was really proud of the way you talked to Jacob—I mean, yeah, it took him confronting you to do it, but once he was there in front of you, you handled it really well. I think if you want to go back to drinking, smoking, and partying, you shouldn’t keep it, but if you’re ready to leave that behind you, then you should. ”
“I haven’t smoked or drank since finding out I was pregnant.”
“Then I think that’s your answer right there.”
As I come to a stop at a red light, the weight of the conversation settles between us. Emma glances at me and a flicker of a smile brightens her face, a rare moment of connection amidst the chaos.
But just as quickly as it arrived, it’s gone again.
“That still doesn’t solve where I’m going to live, though,” she says quietly.
I let her words tumble around the car as I take my foot off the brake, not ready to answer. The sound of traffic fills the silence—the honks, the hiss of tires, and the scattered refrains of other people’s conversations thrown out of open windows.
I could try to talk her into St. Louis—Dad would probably love the chance to continue playing single-parent hero.
Or I could push her back toward Mom in the hope that rehab sticks and that some kind of maternal instinct will sprout in the scorched earth of her guilt.
But both of those options feel like losing.
They’re two steps back or running in a circle, and I want Emma to get somewhere better—even if I don’t know what better is for her.