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“He isn’t still being a jerk to you, is he? Because sister privilege takes precedence over the codes of our friendship, and I will kick his ass if need be.”
I laugh lightly. Sarah is a formidable opponent. “No, but he’s still not talking to me. I don’t know. He’s still angry a lot. He seems to hate all of his classes. He’s still upset about baseball, but it’s more than that. I can feel the pain coming off him, but he denies it. He’s been working out more than normal—I think to try to work off the anger—but he just ends up pissed off and sweaty. I don’t know. I’m trying to be supportive but not push him at the same time. And he keeps saying it’s fine or there’s nothing to talk about.”
“Guys are idiots,” Mackie says.
I grab the brownies from the table and pull another from the container. I hold it up. “Here’s to that.”
Sarah and Mackie each take one and bump it against mine.
“Here’s to us,” Sarah says.
Aaron
Miles places another beer in my hand and hops onto the couch next to me. It’s the first guys’ night we’ve had in weeks—at least with all of us here. Miles, especially, hasn’t been around much. His type-A side has taken over as he tries different clubs and activities, half out of interest and half out of future resume building. With as shitty as I’ve felt lately, I’ve missed the simple relaxation of hanging with the guys.
Joel, Tommy, Miles, and I all stop talking when a play happens in the baseball game we’re watching. Then we all yell at the TV. Unsurprisingly, the Mets are playing like shit.
“They need to pull the pitcher,” I point out. “He’s throwing like trash. His neck is tense. He’s too in his head and it’s only going to get worse.”
They all stop and stare at me.
I roll my eyes. “Look, just because I’m not pitching anymore doesn’t mean I can’t spot a bad situation when I see one.” I look to Miles for backup. I’ve always been good at reading issues with pitchers, but playing catcher for so long, Miles is pretty good at it, too.
Miles nods. “I bet the next pitch is high and outside.”
And it is.
“You’ve still got it,” I say, smacking him on the shoulder.
“You still have it too,” Joel says, eyes narrowed at me.
I huff out a sigh. “What does that mean?”
“You could still play.”
My vision gets fuzzy as rage fills me. Miles groans.
I could still play?
“Fuck. You.”
I launch off the couch, wanting to punch something. It shouldn’t be my best friend’s face.
A deafening silence falls over the room as I pace like the fucking Beast. Blood thunders in my ears as my heart slams in my chest.
If I could still play, why wouldn’t I? Why would I continue to be this miserable crapbag of a human if I could do the one thing that makes me feel better? The one thing that centers me?
I grab my coat and am about to open the door when Miles’s hand lands on it, keeping it shut.
“Don’t walk away pissed. You have all this anger in you. I can see it, I can feel it. Talk to us.”
I stare at him. “Convenient that you want to talk now. You’ve been nonexistent in my life for the past few weeks. The second it inconveniences you, you care.”
I shake my head, then turn to Joel.
“I can still play, huh? Then why did I spend most of senior year riding the bench? Why couldn’t Coach M offer me a pitching position? Because newsflash, I wasn’t stuck in my own head! My hand is fucked, Joel. I can barely grip a ball, let alone throw the way I used to. I have a hard time writing, for fuck’s sake. Thank God we live in the age of electronics or I’d never be able to take notes for class. You aren’t in my body. You aren’t dealing with what I’m dealing with. So back the hell off and shut the fuck up about it, because I don’t need you making me feel worse than I already do!”
I turn back to Miles. “There, I talked.” Not giving a fuck about his hand or what he wants, I swing the door open and stomp out.
