Chapter 8
CHAPTER
EIGHT
CORI
Saturday mornings are lonely here, and today it’s Saturday, lonely and raining. A deadly combination for an overthinker like me.
Jovie is at cheer practice, Aunt Lauren is at brunch with her book club, and Uncle Trey is outside pretending he is a handyman.
Lauren’s honey-do list never ends, but he doesn’t complain. I think he enjoys it. Maybe even just to stay away from them, who knows?
Uncle Trey and my dad are twins, similar-looking but total opposites.
Trey is a calculated—somewhat meticulous—individual, whereas my dad flies by the seat of his pants.
Both of my parents are dreamers. My dad played baseball and got drafted straight out of college, and my mom was one of the most incredible dancers in the country.
She danced on Broadway for a while and is one of the main contributors to Brooks High— a legend.
Cecilia Brooks was my mother’s mentor, and my mom was her prodigy.
Sissy, or Cecilia, passed when I was in middle school.
She trained me as well, from when I was old enough to walk.
I was a shoo-in at Brooks, whether I could dance or not. It was all about politics, which is why Legacy doesn’t phase or fool me.
I don’t want to sit here all day, but I also don’t want to go anywhere.
Not that I have that option. I left my car at home in Chicago.
My parents wanted me to bring it, but I just can’t make myself drive it.
Maybe not ever again. It’s too hard, and the memories are just too painful.
So much to her dismay—I’ll just hitch a ride with Jovie to school or take the bus. It’s whatever.
I glance around my room, the spare bedroom—it isn’t exactly mine—and note everything I need to do.
Starting with the pink walls. Jovie used to use this room and decided to move to the room furthest away from her parents as she got older.
Easier to sneak out, I guess. Maybe Lauren will let me paint it.
I slip into one of my band t-shirts, spray a little dry shampoo in my hair, and shrug at myself in the mirror. It’s not like I’m gonna see anyone anyway.
I scan through my iPhone, choose a playlist, and cram my AirPods into my ears.
The backyard has become my sanctuary, so I head straight for the patio furniture that I have been sitting in a lot lately.
I might’ve just started at Legacy this week, but I’ve been here waiting on my transcripts and hiding out in this backyard for a few weeks.
I can’t complain though, because the view is pretty nice.
The water, I mean. Out of my window in my dorm in Chicago, it was nothing but concrete and windows as far as you could see.
It’s pretty happening there, even at my parent’s house.
Which is where I would spend my summers and weekends. Hardly ever a quiet moment in the city.
A brown paper bag sits in the chair, holes cut exactly where the eyes should be, and a note scribbled on the bottom.
The only way you won’t be noticed.
I pick the bag up, glancing up at the house over the fence next door. The white vinyl and black shutters. Carson.
I know that being friends with him is stupid, yet I can’t help but wonder what it would be like. To have someone here that is genuine.
No. I remind myself, thinking back to what Lainey said… He is a Shark.
I just need to keep my head down these next two years, pass my classes, and go off to college somewhere far away. That’s the plan, and I need to stick to it with no distractions. Carson would be a huge distraction.
I pick the bag up, smiling as I place it over my head, plopping down in the chair.
One minute I’m singing along with Halsey, and the next, I’m waking up to a god-awful dinging sound. What the hell is that?
I yawn, prying my eyes open, lifting the bag to glance at the phone in my lap. School must really be getting to me because I’ve slept most of the day away.
The sound continues, and I can’t help but feel relaxed.
I know that sound. I’ve heard it all my life.
My first word was “ball.” I would recognize the sound of the bat striking the ball anywhere.
The difference between the sound of a wooden bat and an aluminum one.
The sound takes me where I feel safe. I always wanted to play, but dancing was the main focus.
I don’t want to say it was forced because I loved it, but I did enjoy watching my dad.
Playing catch with him. Going to the cages. The whole atmosphere of the game.
Hesitant at first but anxious to watch, I walk to the edge of the water, peeking around the side of the fence.
I watch Carson through the tiny cut-out holes of this paper bag, feeling a little silly for still wearing it.
Each swing is precise and focused, never wavering.
The perfect stance. He’s like a robot. The machine stops, and he drops the bat, yanking the helmet off.
His hair is matted to his head with sweat, and the gray shirt he’s wearing is drenched.
I bite my lip. Jesus, why does he look so good even when he’s dirty?
His eyes swing up to his back door, a French set connected to a huge patio. Nash walks out, downing a bottle of water, his eyes landing directly on me.
Shit.
I jerk to my side of the fence, turning my back to the wood, my chest heaving. Did he see me?
Of course, he did. Crap. My heart is beating out of my chest, and I place my hand over it like I can control it.
I start to dart back over to my chair when his voice booms at me, turning me around. A voice that isn’t anything like I remember from the last time I saw him in that same batting cage.
“What are you doing, creep?” Nash spits, finishing off his water, tossing the empty bottle at my feet. He is angry, and not anything like I remember.
“I was… well, I was just—”
He holds his hand up, cutting me off, Carson appearing behind him, “Save it. No need to explain. We’re just not into whatever kinky shit you are, although the bag would make it easier to bone you. You know, hiding your face and all.”
I rip the bag from my head, “I would never let you anywhere near me with your dick, bag over my head or not.”
“I’m not usually too selective with where I put it, so if you change your mind, you can get on the waiting list right behind the volleyball team.”
I laugh, stepping away from them, “Poor girls, hope they bring a magnifying glass, maybe even some bleach.”
Carson laughs behind him, his eyes warm and inviting.
Nash pushes past Carson, giving him a hateful look for laughing.
“Thanks for the bag!” I tell Carson, “If nothing else, it’s pretty good Nash repellant.”
He shakes his head, smiling, kicking some dirt before following Nash out of sight.
After dinner, Trey and I sit out on the patio watching the last of a Cubs game.
“They are looking pretty good. I hope they keep it up in the postseason.”
“Yeah,” I agree, wishing my dad was on the field.
I’d do anything to give that to him. He played in the majors until he had a pretty severe elbow injury.
Unfortunately, it was his throwing arm, and he rehabbed it until he couldn’t anymore.
It never went back to one hundred percent, and neither did he. Mentally, I mean.
It was his dream, and it was taken away in an instant. Life was pretty dark for him for a while. He hated everything baseball-related, and what I grew up learning to love was avoided.
It wasn’t until a couple years ago, when he took a coaching job at the college level, that he managed to pull himself out of the baseball rut.
Now, he is helping kids fulfill their dreams. A lot of high school prospects call him the wizard.
He’s sent a few players into the draft, all of them finding homes with ball clubs.
“Have you talked to your parents?” Uncle Trey asks, handing me a water bottle from the fridge under the minibar.
“Yeah, mom called me after my first day of school.”
“Any news?”
I don’t feel like getting into this right now, “No.”
He stands, lifting the plate of leftover food off the table to take inside, “It’s gonna be alright. They are all going to jail—”
“Uncle Trey, I’m sorry, but I just… I don’t want to talk about it. Please.”
He nods, walking inside, making sure to close the sliding glass door behind him. The bugs are awful here, this close to the water.
I continue to watch the game until it’s over, the Cubs winning by two runs.
It’s Saturday night, and the house is starting to clear out again, with everyone going to do their own thing.
I walk down to the floating dock and palm my phone.
I’ve been here for weeks and haven’t heard anything from Benson.
My friend since kindergarten—my confidant—my dance partner.
I unlock the screen, hitting the FaceTime button. It takes a second, but his face fills the screen. He must be staying in tonight because he’s in slouchy clothes and glasses.
“Hey, Cori. How’s your new life?”
I groan, “Same life, new town. It’s alright, just settling in, really. Sorry I haven’t called you back. How’s Brooks?”
He grins, “Not the same without you.”
“Oh, you mean without the whispers and the stares?”
He looks down, then back at me. The familiarity is warm and inviting, and I know he misses Aspen too.
“The cops have been sniffing around here for a couple of days. Know anything about that?” He urges.
I sigh, “My dad. The cops are looking for the video.”
Benson stills, adjusting his phone. “Your dad is looking for a video that you know he isn’t going to find?”
“Is Zander there?” I change the subject, “At school, I mean.”
He raises a brow, “You know he is. Playing the victim just like his brother told him to.”
“This is all my fault.”
His eyes pierce into the screen, “It’s not, Cori. It wasn’t.”
I wipe a tear, thinking about what happened.
“Don’t cry, Cor. Let’s dance instead.”
I laugh at him. He’s always trying to make me feel better, even when I don’t deserve it. “I don’t feel like dancing.”
He stands up, messing with something out of frame. Senorita by Shawn Mendes and Camila Cabello fills the silence, and I can’t help but smile.
Our best friend, Aspen’s, favorite song.
Benson smiles wide through the phone. “Stand up.”
I roll my eyes, realizing how stupid it is, dancing with someone a thousand miles away, but I miss him. If this is what it takes to feel close to him, so be it.
I stand up, letting my body move to the beat. Pretending that he is here with me. I do a stupid twirl, acting silly now, and Benson laughs, stopping his movement. “I miss you. It’s just not the same without you and Aspen.”
I offer him a lopsided smile, but a loud screeching sound followed by a thud and a groan behind me catches my attention. I hide my phone close to me, not wanting to share Benson with anyone.
“I’ll call you later,” I whisper, ending the call to quickly assess the noise.
“What are you doing?” I ask Carson as he lifts himself from the concrete.
“Well, I was coming to see if you want any cookies. My mom made enough to feed an entire elementary school.”
I cock my brow, “You busted your shin for Cookies?”
He laughs nervously, looking down at the blood dripping down his leg, “Yeah, I guess so.”
An involuntary laugh escapes. “There are chairs there,” I point out. “For future reference.”
“I know, I’m not typically this clumsy.”
I watch as the tiny droplets of blood continue to fall, “You should get a paper towel for that.”
“Yeah, so do you want some?” He asks, his nerves causing him to ramble, “Cookies, I mean.”
I stare at him for a second, his hand lifting to scratch the back of his dark head of hair.
“Aren’t your parents home?”
He shakes his head, “Nah, it’s date night.”
“And the ever so pleasant six-foot jerk from earlier?”
He laughs, “Nash doesn’t typically spend a Saturday night in.”
I step closer, pocketing my phone, “And you do?”
“Tonight, I am.”
“Fine,” I snap. “One cookie since you are bleeding, and I feel sorry for you, but that doesn’t make us friends.”
“What does it make us?”
I cross my arms, following him over to his house, “Two humans with a mutual liking for chocolate.”
He smiles, pushing his back door open, “That’s fair.”
I’m not sure what I expected the inside of his house to look like, but it wasn’t this. I just assumed it would be different. I don’t know… more like Aunt Lauren and Uncle Trey’s. But this is a home.
It’s lived in.
This basement looks like a bachelor pad.
A pool table, giant TVs, a couch big enough to fit an entire sports team.
Sports memorabilia—signed jerseys, a trophy case, even a life-size cut out of Michael Jordan—line the walls.
Even a full-sized bar area. It’s familiar but foreign, and it reminds me of home.
I feel safe here. I don’t know why, I shouldn’t.
Carson hands me a cookie, a stupid grin on his face.
“What?” I ask, shoving a bite into my mouth.
“Nothing, just glad you came over.”
I talk with my mouth full, pointing to the wall, “If you turn that TV on, I’ll stay.”
He jumps over the back of the couch, wrestling with the coffee table for the remote, quickly turning it on. He’s cute when he’s nervous.
“What do you want to watch?” He asks, offering me the remote.
“This is fine,” I nod to the TV, rounding the couch to sit.
He doesn’t say much, just gives me a questionable look and sets the remote back down. Yeah, sorry, I’m not some chick-flick lover. I’d watch baseball all day if I could.
I finally finish chewing my cookie and swallow it, “They need to put the closing pitcher in.” I observe, feeling his stare, realizing I said that out loud.
“He is definitely tired,” Carson adds.
“It’s too early in the season for him to be wearing down like this.”
Carson’s eyes rip from the TV as I chew another bite of my cookie. He’s looking at me like I’m some kind of alien. Fucking ET.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I’ve never met a girl that liked baseball or knew the rules. It’s like seeing a Bigfoot.”
I shrug, “Call me Sasquatch, I guess.”
Walking over to the bar, I grab a paper towel and hand it to him. This guy was so concerned about getting me inside that he forgot that he was bleeding. The top of his white Nike sock is completely stained red.
"You must think I'm crazy," he says with a smirk.
I laugh, "You nearly killed yourself tripping over patio furniture to talk to me."
He pushes the paper towel into the top of his sock to soak up some of the blood, "What else am I supposed to do when someone as pretty as you lives next door?"
I smile. He's so bad at flirting it's actually adorable.