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But as I drag my ass up the sidewalk back to my house, I realize no one has gotten that message, because Jamie is sitting on my steps, waiting for me, and I already know why.
“Hey,” I say as I approach the bottom of the porch steps.
“Hi.” He stands up and looks at me, staring directly into my eyes. “Well, at least you’re not still drunk.”
My muscles tighten, already prepared for a fight I’m sure I won’t win.
“No. Contrary to popular belief, I don’t walk around sipping alcohol from a paper bag all day.”
He chuckles wryly. “Keep doing what you’re doing and it’s only a matter of time.”
“You clearly have something to say. Why don’t you go ahead and say it?”
He folds his arms over his chest. “You’re a mess. Seriously. Watching you last night was like looking at a dumpster fire.”
“Wow, thanks for the support.”
“You want support? Why don’t you man the hell up and face what’s hurting you? Stop acting like an asshole and deal with your pain.”
“You know, it’s easy for you to say that. You have no idea what this year has been like for me. What it’s still like for me. Baseball was the one thing that grounded me. It’s the one place where I always knew who I was,” I say, defeated. Then I shake my head as anger wells in my stomach again. “Come talk to me if you ever lose the game.”
He scoffs, then an evil look crosses his face. “It’s different.”
“How’s it different?” I ask bitterly.
“Because it’s not like you were gonna play pro, anyway.”
Fire rages inside me. “Fuck you!” I don’t even realize I’m saying the words until they slide out, burning my tongue on the way.
He smiles victoriously. “Finally. Some fight.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I bark.
“I know you’re a mess, but I haven’t seen you make any effort to get out of it. You either let life happen or you gave up. You quit going to PT, that’s not fighting. You’re trying to drink your problems away, and that’s not fighting, either. Tell me, did you fight for baseball? Did you fight for Rae? Did you fight for yourself?” He looks at me, disappointment flickering in his eyes. “The Aaron I know isn’t a quitter. He fights. He always fucking fights. I don’t know who this version of you is, but I have to say, I don’t like him very much. Get your shit together, Aaron. You’re better than this.”
I open my mouth to say something, to tell him to fuck off again, but nothing comes out before he walks away.
I stare down the street as an ugly mix of anger, hurt, and self-loathing settles in my stomach.
I give up, I think.
Well, ifthat’snot proving his point.
“Fuck this,” I growl to myself. I spin around and walk up the porch stairs.
I stalk into the house and slam the door behind me.
“Aaron? Is that you?”
Shit.
My mom walks in from the kitchen, cleaning her glasses. She pops them back on her face and stares at me.
“Sorry about the door.”
Her brow furrows, but the rest of her body softens as she walks over to me. “I don’t care about the door, sweetie. I care aboutwhyyou’re slamming it.”
Emotion bubbles in my chest, but I push it down.
