I could see my brother brewing after each pitch, fighting himself to stay in control of his emotions, but when the next pitch was a ball, I could tell he was losing his composure.
I should have predicted it. The entire game, both teams were chirping at one another, so when he threw the next pitch, he went for my head. I ducked, and it took less than a second for the benches to clear on both sides.
Foster and I were right in the middle of it all, tearing at one another’s jerseys, throwing punches back and forth. At one point, we were down on the ground on the field.
That fucking video played for two weeks on ESPN and followed both of us into the draft.
Before the fight, we were both projected top five picks.
I went twenty-third.
Foster went thirty-first.
I didn’t bother calling him after the draft, and he never called me. Our relationship was well and truly severed.
Giving my head a shake, I pull myself out of the memory. I pick up the seating chart from the coffee table and look at Pen’s handwriting in the margins.
I set it back down.
It’s safer this way, Decker.
Since the night I took something I wanted without considering what I’d be sacrificing, it’s been safer to hold the line. Not blow up the things that matter most to me by wanting something that was never supposed to be mine in the first place.
So I sit on my couch and pretend, like always, that she’s not worth losing my brother, my niece, my family.
Chapter
Thirty-Five
Dr. Nora Bell
* * *
I’ve learned to read the waiting room before I welcome them in.
In the beginning, it was harder. The Davis brothers arrived for every session with the same surface presentation—composed, cooperative, willing to be here in the technical sense of the word. It took me four sessions to really read their body language and understand what they’re saying between words.
Today, the space is the same as always.
But something is different in Decker. He arrived two minutes after Foster, which he never does. He’s been staring out the window since he sat down. Foster keeps sneaking peeks at Decker, appearing confused.
“Last time,” I say, “Foster, you told us that junior year was when you started dating Penelope.”
Foster nods.
“Who is Penelope to you both?”
Foster’s gaze diverts to Decker, but his brother is definitely not answering, so he does. “Penelope Ripley. Mark Ripley’s daughter.”
“Oh, your manager’s daughter?”
“Yeah.”
“So she was with you in college as well?”
“Yeah.”
Foster is the only one talking, but Decker’s facial expressions say more than I think he realizes.
