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“Oh. I—I just assumed…” Cassie clearly has no idea what to say, and I don’t blame her.
“My grandfather has some health issues. He can’t manage the farm by himself. And we can’t afford to pay someone.”
“That’s really selfless of you.”
I shrug. “It’s what family does.”
Cassie nods.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. It’s not something I love talking about.”
I love Gramps. I love Matthews Farm. But the closer it approaches, staying in Landry feels an awful lot like being left behind.
“I get it, Lennon. Well, maybe not entirely,” Cassie corrects. “But I understand it. We’re good.”
I give her a weak smile, relieved to see our buzzer light up on the table. We head to the counter to retrieve our food and coffee, effectively abandoning any heavy conversation.
I leave the coffee shop a couple hours later and drive straight to the high school.
There’s no sign of Caleb yet.
I walk out onto the field and take a seat on the grass, tilting my face back and closing my eyes.
It rarely dips below freezing here, but it’s been months since it’s been warm enough I’ve purposefully prolonged my time outside. The rays of sunshine soaking my face feel heavenly. My breathing turns deep and even as my muscles relax.
A car door slams, effectively ending my daydream. I open my eyes and shade them with one hand, watching Caleb walk toward me, carrying a duffel bag I assume must contain baseball equipment. He didn’t forget, and I’m surprised by how happy that makes me.
“Hey, Matthews,” he greets.
“Hey,” I reply, standing and dusting off my jeans.
Caleb drops the bag on the grass next to me and unzips it to reveal a bat and glove on top of a bunch of other sports equipment.
“Here.” He holds out the bat to me, tucks the glove under one arm, then continues to rifle through the bag.
“Thanks,” I reply, taken aback by how brusque he’s being. I walk over to home plate, and Caleb takes his spot on the pitcher’s mound.
“I’m just going to toss a few to start,” he tells me. “So I can figure out what’s messing you up. I wasn’t paying close enough attention during gym.”
“I thought the whole reason you’re doing this is because you had to watch me mess up?” I ask, a bit testily.
It looks like Caleb clenches his jaw, but I’m too far away to tell for certain. He throws the baseball. It’s faster than Mr. Evans’s throws. I instinctually jump back, so it hits the chain link behind me with a loud clang.
“If you don’t swing, I can’t help,” he calls.
“I wasn’t ready,” I shout back, feeling my face warm.
Caleb grabs another baseball. I step closer to the base and lift my arms, prepared to swing. But he doesn’t throw it.
“What are you waiting for?” I finally ask.
“Oh, are you ready to hit it now? I couldn’t tell.” Caleb’s voice is nasty. Mocking.
“Ass,” I mutter. I know he couldn’t have heard what I actually said, but his derisive smile deepens, like he has a pretty good idea.
He finally pitches the ball. I swing this time, but it’s a few seconds too late. The next time I swing too early. After the tenth failed attempt, I start to lose patience.
“Lower your stance,” Caleb coaches. “And straighten your arms a little more.”
