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Shit. He went and got a Master of Science in Psychology.
Damn, boy. He did insist that that’s what he wanted to do when we parted ways. I went to the balls while he went to the books.
Maybe I just didn’t expect him to actually do it.
Maybe a selfish part of me wanted him to fail, regret his decision, come crawling back to me, and fight to get his spot back on the baseball team.
But he didn’t.
“So you’re a therapist now or something?”
He clears his throat before he answers. “School counselor. I’m a school … a high school counselor, actually. Started this year.”
I nod slowly, still staring at the framed diploma, unsure about how I feel.
“I’m a counselor at Morris High,” he clarifies.
Why is he acting all nervous around me? Am I really doing that to him, or has Ryan lost all the nerve I put into him during our years of baseball? Maybe he’s lived behind a desk all this time, and now the only thing he knows is the touch of keyboard keys and fax paper beneath his softened fingers.
The thought is tragic as fuck, if I’m being honest here.
“Morris.” I let out one dry chuckle. “Do you happen to counsel a snotty little shithead named Rudy?”
“Who? Oh. You mean …”
“My kid brother Rudy. You remember? He would’ve been six the last time you saw him.”
“Oh, wow. I didn’t even think about that.”
“Started high school this year. Yeah. So is he one of your kids or not?”
“I … I don’t think so. Rudy Baker. I would’ve noticed the name, I’m sure. It’s freshmen and sophomores that I have, last names A through F, so … I should have him. Wow. What a … a …”
He can’t seem to complete the sentence.
Can’t fault him for that. I can’t seem to rise off this bed again, crippled as I am by mystery pain and bruises I haven’t seen yet, not to mention the massive hangover.
And whatever else is torturing me.
Maybe it’s the fact that I might have been saved last night by my ex-best friend toward whom I carry a sort of teenage grudge.
“Why won’t you look at me?”
His question kicks me right in the ribs, just like this random anonymous beast who apparently got the best of me last night.
Finally, I turn my eyes onto Ryan Caulfield.
It’s a lot different seeing him head-on instead of curled up and half-snoring in that chair.
His eyes hit me first. They’re the same intense, hazel eyes I connected with every time before I’d pitch to him across our field by his parents’ house. His face has filled out and his shoulders still look firm and broad, which is encouraging somehow. He still has that slender, long build I remember so well, yet he looks healthier. Ryan has certainly aged well.
Maybe eight long years behind a desk hasn’t gotten him all soft after all.
“Well?” I grunt at him. “I’m looking at you. Now what?”
A tiny smile breaks across his face, a smile I haven’t seen since high school. It still has Caulfield’s signature brand of I’m-up-to-no-good. I miss that smile of his.
Then I resent missing it right away. He made his own choices back then and threw away our friendship.
As quickly as it had come, that tiny smile of his vanishes. “I’m sorry, Stefan.”
I quirk an eyebrow. “What for?”
“The way we left things.”
I shake my head and look away, breaking eye contact. “Don’t go digging shit up, now. I’m too hung over to even count my toes.”
He chuckles nervously. “Well, you still have ten.”
“Good to know.”
“Sorry. Um …” He clears his throat. “I can … go make us some coffee or something. You like coffee?”
“I sure do. Black.”
He’s out of the chair at once. “I’ll put on a pot. If you … If you need to, like …” He makes an odd gesture at me, clears his throat, then finishes, “You can take a shower if you want.”
I smirk, then lift my gaze. Something about the look in Ryan’s eyes makes me forget my grudge and remember a hundred things at once. Sleepovers. His laugh. All our hours on the field.
“The bathroom is right across the hall,” he adds with a nod. “Spare towels on a shelf over the toilet. You’re welcome to it.”
I lift an arm and give my pit a sniff. “I’m pretty rank, huh?”
Ryan shrugs. “And probably stained with beer and blood.”
“So a typical Friday night, then?”
That makes Ryan laugh, though it’s short-lived and tight in his throat. “I’ll … I’ll make coffee.”
Then he’s out the door before I can draw my next breath. I watch him go, then feel a tiny pinch of pride. I don’t know what it is about Ryan, but he always seems really quick to want to please me. I hate to think of him like some obsequious, bowing servant of mine, but the image amuses me too much not to think just that. I can already see poor him nervously bumbling around in his own kitchen forgetting where he keeps his coffee filters.
