I can't help the scoff that escapes me as I think about the situation all over again. It's crazy how when you're so close to something you barely notice the bigger picture. I always shrugged off Trevor's behavior—sure, he was selfish and dismissive, but I wasn't exactly obsessed with him either. I justified his actions and the way he treated me because I kept telling myself that the rest of our relationship was good enough. Good enough to keep me sane, good enough to keep things fun—good enough to make it so I didn't feel like I was doing life alone.
But now I see things much more clearly.
Yes, Trevor was there, but I was always lonely. He was never really present, and when he was, it was only because he was getting something out of it. There was no depth to our relationship—we were roommates just going through the motions—and I kept pretending that was good enough because it was easier than admitting that it wasn't, I guess.
My phone buzzes again.
Jo
Agreed. How's Liam been?
I sigh again, staring at the message longer than necessary before my gaze drifts back to Ruthie. She and the two other girls dance around a ticket strip pouring from the Skee-Ball machine, lights flickering off the metal and reflecting in the smiles on their faces. I laugh and peer down at Jo's message, still unanswered on the screen.
Liam.
How has Liam been? Different since I pulled up last night, that's for sure. Eager, light—more like the guy I know he usually is. But we haven't spoken much since we landed, just a goodnight when we made it to our rooms beside each other and a good morning at breakfast before he ran out for workouts. So, we'll see who I get today.
"Tess!" The sound of Ruthie's voice cuts through the alarms and whistles that are the soundtrack to the hotel arcade. "Tess! Look!"
"Woah, it's like you robbed the place," I joke, grabbing the string of tickets and letting it slide through my fingers.
Ruthie looks at the girls and giggles. "Can we cash them in?"
I glance down at my phone, seeing Jo's text still written across the screen, then check the time. "Yeah, but let's do it now. We don't want to be late for the game."
"Okay." She smiles and turns in toward her friends. "Let's go."
The three prance away toward the ticket counter by the exit, and I follow, using the twenty feet it takes to get there to text my sister back.
Better… I think. Hey, I have to go, but I got another alert this morning. Do I need to worry about you? I'll text you after the game.
Sliding my phone into my pocket, I catch up. "Alright, girls. What can we get?"
"Did you know Norah's dad has a hot rod? That's like a super fast car."
I peer down at Ruthie licking up the side of her plastic baseball hat full of ice cream. "I did not. Did he get that before or after her mom wrote a book?"
She slurps at what's already melted and shrugs. "Not sure."
I hold back a laugh as we proceed toward our seats, the video of the Grand Oaks starting lineup playing in the background. Ruthie has not stopped talking about her two new friends since we pulled out of the hotel parking lot, and although I'm happy for her, I'm not sure how much more there could be left to share.
"Sera said she drove in it once." She scoops up a glob of cookie dough, nearly elbowing the usher.
"Thanks," I murmur as he points us to the first row.
"Norah's dad drove them in it to a show her dad was playing," she continues as we descend the stairs. I turn my head after each step to make sure she's paying close enough attention not to topple down them.
"He plays guitar. And sings," I think I hear her say as I put my back to the ledge in front of our row. Thankfully, we have the first two seats, so there will be no more potential victims.
I let Ruthie step in first as she shoves the chunk of sugar she definitely doesn't need into her mouth. The video ends, and up next is the lineup for the Gators. "Man, they're so cool," she somehow continues as she plops into her seat. I take the one next to her, quickly scanning the field. "Hey, do you think they'd be able to come to my birthday—"
"Look, it's your dad." I cut her off, only a tiny bit sorry for interrupting her post-social-outing, current-sugar-high ramble. If I don't end it now, I may know the entire family tree of both girls by first pitch.
I point toward Liam on the big screen as the announcer reads off his position and drags out his first name. He looks like him but different, his face chiseled, his eyes smiling at each person in the crowd. Ruthie squeals, her spoon still hanging out of her mouth, and that quick they're on to the next player.
The rest of the lineup plays out, but I’m barely paying attention. I’m still replaying that clip of Liam pointing his glove into the camera. It isn'tuntil the video fades out and guys make their way to the third baseline that I realize why.
I find the player with Montgomery written across his back right above the number twenty-three, and it hits me too late that this is the first time I'm seeing Liam on the field in real-life. It's surreal—like he's less my boss, less Ruthie's dad, and more the athlete I used to watch from behind the bar at The Pub.
