Mateo holds up an apple, and I get back in position. This one hits with a thud, apple juice spraying everywhere as it falls to the ground.
"And James, my God. He knows how to get under my skin. He has no parental rights, I made sure of that, but he knows what to say to get a rise out of me. I used to think Coop was missing out, but as he's gotten older, I realize it's the people who choose not to be in his life that are the real ones missing out."
I hit another apple, and this one stays mostly intact before falling in the dirt at my feet. Picking it up, I toss it underhand toward the pile by Mateo. It stops a foot short. I want it to be a sign from the universe, but I don't know what question I want it to answer.
I miss the next three apples and stop to toss all the ones I've missed back to Mateo. They roll into the pile, bruising the remaining victims. I get back in my stance, grip the handle of the bat, and wait for Mateo's pitch.
The apple explodes like a bomb, tiny pieces of shrapnel flying in all directions.
"He fucking left me on my fucking birthday! And now? Now he's got this whole picture-perfect family. My dad was teachinghis new daughter her fucking ABC's while I was fighting off a grown ass man in my own fucking bedroom because he left."
Fucking trauma. Every time I think I have it under control, it shows back up with vengeance.
It's not until Mateo is standing in front of me, his thumb wiping at my cheek, that I realize I spoke out loud. And I'm crying. He tugs the bat out of my hand and wraps his arms around me. I try to pull away. I don't need this. But he holds me tight and unexpectedly I sink into his embrace wrapping my arms around his waist.
"He's the one missing out," he whispers, pressing a kiss into my hair. "He's the one missing out."
I don't know how long we stand like that, but Mateo doesn't release me until I peel my arms from him.
"More apples," I say. He doesn't speak, but resumes his position, tossing the remaining apples in silence. I hit all but two.
"I was fourteen," I say, picking up the apples I missed. "A neighbor heard me scream." I know I don't need to tell him this, but I want to. It's been buried inside for so long, locked away, a burden for me to carry. I walk to him, dropping my armful of apples at his feet.
My brain is fuzzy, and I find my thoughts skipping through time. I'm having a hard time focusing on what I'm trying to say. So I do what I've been doing, and talk.
"My dad left on my ninth birthday. No goodbye, nothing. Just walked away. We were a normal family before that. We went camping and on vacation. We had a house. A small one, but it was ours. And then he left, and it was like we were thrust into an alternate universe. One where my mom moved us from dirty apartment to dirty apartment. Where she loved alcohol and her boyfriends more than me."
Mateo raises an eyebrow, and I know what he's asking without him asking it.
"Coop's been good for her. She's cleaned up a lot. She's not perfect, but she loves him, and she knows I'll keep him from her if she back pedals at all."
I resume my position at home plate.
This time I don't miss a single apple.
"When I was fourteen, one of my mom's boyfriends let himself into our apartment. He…tried, and I fought. I screamed. He got close, but small mercies for thin apartment walls. A neighbor heard my scream and knocked him on the head with a frying pan."
"Jade, I—" Mateo starts.
"Don't," I say, shaking my head.
"The next day, I got a job and put chains on my bedroom door. I refused to let myself be a victim again."
"And then James," he says.
"He was older, he had a car. He was my escape from my shitty life until he wasn't."
"Your life isn't so shitty now," he says, kicking at the chunks of apple in the dirt with his brand new, no longer white, sneakers.
What must it be like to have disposable money like that.
I help, and between the two of us, we've cleaned up as best we can.
"Thank you," I say, as we walk to the car. "Can I ask you something?"
He stops walking and tilts his head, his blue eyes searching mine. I'm not sure what for. Questions? Or answers?
"Why do you, of all people, the baseball star with fame and fortune, the prodigal son, need to ever hit apples?" I ask.
