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Not sure anyone will still want me, either, but there’s nothing I can do about that right now.
“This is shitty and I wish it wasn’t happening,” he says, “but I’m impressed, man. You’ve got your priorities in order.”
I hear what he doesn’t say:for once. Grant is serious about playing in the MLB, but not to the exclusion of everything else. He’s probably spent three times as much time with his family as I have since we graduated high school. He dates sometimes and has casual sexallthe time. Meanwhile, I’ve done little in college besides work out and moon over a girl who doesn’t want me back.
It’s unsettling to realize that it took such a dire situation for me to step back and notice how consumed with baseball I had become. And I feel like there’s more I need to explore there, more I should be noticing about myself and my life…but I’m in survival mode now. It’s about getting through each day, trying to make the most of the time I have left in this world as I’ve always known it.
I probably should have learned something from Grant a long time ago, to be honest.
Pax enters the room. His hair is sticking up in twelve different directions, like always. “It looks weird in here,” he says. “Is there anything else that needs to go?”
“Just this,” I say, gesturing to the backpack slung over my shoulder. “We’re done.” I cast one more glance around the room, then force myself to turn my back on it. “I better get going. I told my parents I’d be there in time for dinner.”
We leave the apartment and hustle down the stairs, our breath steaming up in the late February air. My car is parked right outside, stuffed to the brim with boxes. We’ve taken a few steps down the sidewalk toward it when Grant stops. “Oh. We’ll leave you alone.”
“What?” I ask, following his line of sight. My heart trips over itself when I see Azalea standing on the sidewalk about twenty feet away, bouncing gently on the balls of her feet. Her coat is zipped up to her chin and she’s wearing her white earmuffs. She’s the only adult I’ve ever seen wear earmuffs. It charms the hell out of me every single time. “You don’t have—”
“I would rather go ahead and remove myself from the pending sexual tension,” Pax announces way too loudly. Grant guffaws, not even trying to stifle it.
With a glare that I hope is strong enough to shrivel them both, I say, “Alright, well, thanks for all the help.”
In an instant, Grant has grown serious once more. He pulls me in for a quick hug, slapping my back hard. “When you’re in town and you have time to hang out, let me know,” he says. “I’ll be around.”
Pax repeats the sentiment, minus the hug, because he’s not really that kind of guy, and then they walk off.
I turn back toward Azalea and see her already walking up to me, a small smile on her lips. “What are you doing here?”
“I decided to try to catch you before you left,” she says. We’re standing next to my car now, and her eyes drift over it, pausing on the window that’s cracked open so the head of a lamp can stick out. “Is it really a good idea to drive all the way to your parents’ like that?”
“I’ll be careful.” Disapproving dark eyes meet mine, and I fight a smirk. “We can go back in if you want.”
“No, it’s fine. I don’t want to hold you up.” Azalea steps into my space and slides her arms around my middle, and the humor immediately leaves me. Looking up at me with her chin on my chest, she whispers, “Are you okay?”
“I don’t know.” I’m distracted for a second when I notice that one of her earmuffs has slipped, leaving the top of her ear vulnerable to the cold. I fix it, and when I look back into her face, I see that her eyes are shiny. “Are you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why are you crying?”
She sniffs. “I don’t know,” she repeats. “Lots of reasons, I think.”
I curl my hand around the side of her neck, letting it sneak under her hair and the collar of her jacket so I can touch her warm skin. One of us—I’m not sure who—starts swaying, and then we are rocking side to side, our arms tight around each other.
“I’m proud of you, Mav,” Azalea says eventually.
Her pulse is strong and steady beneath my touch. Did I imagine that it sped up a bit when I first put my hand there? Or is it just wishful thinking?
I give her a squeeze and let out a breath. “I’m glad someone is.”
Beingathomeisnice. I haven’t lived there full-time since the summer after high school. Obviously, a lot of things are different now, but most of the humdrum routines of the household are familiar and comforting. Dad usually cooks dinner. We play board games and watch TV, the four of us squeezed in at the kitchen table or on the sectional in the living room. Mom harasses me about my grades and I give her zero pushback. Dad, always more of an academic than an athlete, asks me about my season so far and screws his face up when I answer, like he doesn’t quite understand. Lilly begs me for piggyback rides, oblivious to the fact that she’s really too tall now. I suck it up and give them to her anyway.
In the mornings, Dad takes Lilly to school and then heads to work. Mom works remotely now, with only the occasional trip into the office, so she and I take to sitting at the kitchen table with coffee and toast. I’m not sure I’ve ever taken this much time to just sit and talk to Mom, something that makes me irritated at myself but also grateful that we have the opportunity now. She never asks me about my grades during these breakfast chats. Instead, we talk about Dad and Lilly, our extended family, her work, Azalea—she always asks about Azalea specifically—and my other friends. Sometimes we delve into the past, reminding each other of memories that nobody’s brought up in years. We laugh together.
I look forward to this time with her, but it also doesn’t escape my notice that every day, as Mom sits across from me, she seems a little bit paler. A little bit smaller.
One day while I’m sitting in class, my phone buzzes.
My heart sinks as soon as I see that it’s my dad. He knows I’m at school right now. He wouldn’t call if it wasn’t an emergency.
