“I’m trying, man. I can’t control the weather.”
I hear some muttering that sounds like cursing and a phantom twinge stabs my left wrist. I rotate it, feeling the familiar grinding at the movement. Evan’s changed a lot since his accident, and honestly, so much of it’s for the better. He always acted like he was the Good Lord’s gift to mankind. My dad and Granddad were hard on me, but I kept my head down and did everything they told me to. Ran every drill until my legs were buckling from exhaustion.
Evan didn’t.
He went to practice. Played hard when he was on the field, but he was a crappy teammate. And when it came to all the extras? Not a chance was Evan doing it.
If Dad snapped at him, Evan clapped back. If Granddad barked at him, Evan bit.
So instead, they turned their focus to me. The older brother who never stepped out of line while the younger got a pass.
He’s always gotten a pass. And I’m not the one who’ll take it away, especially not now.
“Ollie,” Evan says, “I need to talk to you about something.”
“Okay.”
“You know Darren?—”
“Actually, we’re getting close to our next pit stop. I should go.”
“Stop,” Evan says. “I know you hate the guy, but?—”
“But nothing, Evan. That’s all that needs to be said. I hate the guy. What’s to talk about?”
There’s a long pause. “Does this make you happy?”
“What?”
“Your anger. Is it making you happy?”
“Did yours?” I wince the second the words are out of my mouth. “Never mind. I gotta run.”
“Ollie—”
I hang up and then drag my palm down my face.
“Everything okay?” Poppy asks.
I should bottle it up like I usually do—ignore the pressure and keep my bubbling anger in. But I feel like a bottle of Coke, and Evan just dropped in a whole pack of Mentos?—
“No,” I explode, my voice too loud for the tiny car, but I can’t keep it in any longer. “It’s not okay. What’s he bringing up Darren for? How is the weather my fault? Why is it that Evan always got a pass whenI’mthe one who did everything right? Evan fought with my dad every day, ignored him, stayed out late, got drunk, partied, whatever he wanted. I was the one doing drills all weekend long instead of going out with friends. So why was I the one who got yelled at? What’s my big sin, Poppy? Crowding the plate? Then every batter in history is going down with me!”
I shake my head, staring at the snow-covered fields. “I can’t do this anymore.”
“Do what?” Poppy asks quietly.
“I don’t know. I don’t have a freaking clue.”
She pauses. “That sucks.”
I sniff sharply. “It really does.” I watch the countryside pass, a mix of fields and buildings, the occasional twinkle of Christmas lights. But I can see Poppy’s reflection in the glass, too, the worry on her brow that shows she cares. I don’t know if it makes me feel better or worse.
“I’m going to pull off here,” her voice says softly, and soon, we’re at a gas station with a roadside diner attached.
After a fill-up and bathroom break, she finds me sitting at a booth with two menus. When the server comes, I brace myself for Poppy to say we need a minute.
“Do you guys know what you want?”
