He joins me, dropping onto the couch next to me. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that the heat from his body drifts my way.
“Being a Diablos fan is a bold choice. Aren’t they the most hated team in baseball”
His gaze shifts to the side, and I think he’s going to dodge the silent question.
“They were Rory’s team.”
I hold my breath waiting to see if he’ll give me more without pushing or prying.
“She was my aunt, technically, but we were only a year apart, so we acted more like cousins.” Lines crease at the corners of his eyes. “My grandparents were strangers when I was placed with them. I was confused and pissed at the world.”
His eyes stay locked on the game. “Rory never tried to fix me or force anything.”
Emmett’s voice cracks.
“She just waited me out.”
No child should endure half the things Emmett did.
My hand covers his, squeezing, and he lets me.
“She picked the Diablos because she liked their jerseys.” He shakes his head, and I don’t move. I barely breathe because it feels like the smallest twitch will pop this bubble and he’ll stop.“So dumb, but once she realized how much I loved baseball, she clung to that shit, and made it our thing.”
I sneak a glance at him, but his eyes are on the game, sad and misty. He’s struggling to keep his breathing even, fighting the memories.
My voice is barely above a whisper when I speak. “I’m so sorry, Emmett. Losing your parents and then having to move in with people you’d never met . . . I can’t begin to imagine how awful that was.”
“They were addicts who had more bad days than good. Losing them was . . . complicated.” He looks at me for the first time and I can see the pain in his eyes. “Part of me was relieved. How awful is that?”
“It’s not.”
But he shakes his head. “My old man would disappear for three days, chasing his next high, and stroll back in like nothing happened.”
A humorless laugh slips out.
“My mom was better at pretending it was normal . . . when she wasn’t too strung out to notice he was gone, or that the milk had been spoiled for a week. Ending up in the system was the part that scared me the most, though. So when the social worker showed up with my grandparents, I went.”
There’s a beat of heavy silence, and I mourn the little boy who had to build these reinforced walls to keep him safe in his own home. I suck back the tears of anger that want to fall, though, because I don’t want Emmett to get the wrong idea and think this is pity.
But none of it registers with his hand beneath mine.
I don’t pull away.
And he doesn’t, either.
When I finally speak, the anger in my voice barely hides itself. “Those walls you built are their fault, and I hate them for it.”
Emmett’s thumb drags once against my palm.
“That fire’s wasted on me.” The look he gives me feels like it burns straight to my soul. “My parents might’ve given me the need for those walls, but I did plenty to build them—one mistake at a time.”
He still carries the full weight of his grief for Rory, and heavier yet, the blame.
Something in me twists hard enough to make swallowing feel like work.
When he finally moves, it isn’t to put distance between us.
His hand slips free only so he can stretch his arm along the back of the couch, his knuckles brushing my shoulder like he’s testing the idea.
