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“Just promise me you’ll try,” she pleads. “It doesn’t have to be now. It doesn’t even have to be this year. I just want to know that you’re going to do everything you can to make sure my little boy is happy after I’m gone.”
The tears come up hot and sudden, and I don’t fight them. “I will, Mom,” I tell her, curling onto my side so I can press my face into her thin upper arm. She strokes my hair. I feel like I’m six years old again. “I promise I will.”
Onemoreweek.
My family is complete for one more week.
And then it isn’t.
Those first few days after Mom passes, I move in a fog. I do everything my dad asks of me. I spend every night on an air mattress beside Lilly’s bed, reaching up with my aching arm to hold her hand until she falls asleep. Then I turn onto my back and stare at the ceiling, occasionally drifting off but mostly just listening to my sister breathe, until the sun peeks through the curtains.
I stand in the receiving line at the visitation, accepting handshakes and hugs from people I know and people I don’t. I speak at the funeral, but by the time I return to my seat, I can’t remember a word I said.
When it’s all over and we’re left with a living room full of flowers and a freezer full of meals and an empty spot at the dinner table, I can’t stand it for very long. Four days after the funeral, I pack up my stuff and head back to school. Back to the team.
Dad is emotional when I leave, but he hugs me goodbye and says, “This is what your mom would have wanted.”
It is. She told me. I decide to let him believe that I’m doing this for her, for the promises I made. No good would come from him learning the truth: that I don’t have a fucking clue what else to do with myself.
Chapter Thirteen
Azalea
“Okay,this,Istilldon’t get,” I say, motioning to the Cubs game on TV. “Why are they all on one side of the field? Isn’t the third baseman supposed to be over there?”
From his spot splayed out on my dad’s couch, Maverick glances up from his phone. I’m sitting on the floor, splitting my attention between the game and the puzzle on the coffee table. “It’s called a shift.”
“What’s it for?”
“The guy batting for the Rockies hits a lot of balls to the right side of the field,” he explains, “like, between first and second. So they shift all the defenders in the infield over toward that side for a better chance at getting the out.”
I don’t reply as I watch the next batter. He takes a few pitches, then swings and hits a ground ball to the right side. There are no holes for it to get through, and the Cubs record an easy out. I look back at Maverick, who raises his eyebrows at me. “See?”
“Hmm.” I smile, and he grins.
Maverick has had his ups and downs since his mom passed away about two months ago. He managed to pass all his classes—two of them by the skin of his teeth, but passing is passing—and he rejoined his team for the remainder of their season. School and baseball provided much-needed distraction. Now that it’s summer, I don’t think he’s had enough of those.
Today he is acting like his normal self. I’m relieved. I would never deny him company when he needs it the most, but sometimes it’s hard to be emotionally strong for the both of us. It pains me to see him staring into space with a blank expression and empty eyes. All I want to do is the one thing I can’t—fix it.
He still prefers to come to my house rather than have me over to his. I never argue. I’ve been there a few times since Laney passed away, and the air is permeated with grief. It’s too quiet. With the memories that I’m sure lurk around every corner, I don’t blame him for wanting an escape, and I provide it whenever I can.
Sometimes we get food or see a movie. We’ve gone back to Ames a few times to hang out with Callie and Grant, but Maverick is trying to be around for his dad and sister, and I want to be close to him. Mostly we just hang out and watch the Cubs. This summer has taught me more about baseball than I ever knew before. I won’t admit this to Maverick, who would gloat into eternity, but I sometimes turn the Cubs on even when he isn’t around.
“Is your dad here?” he asks quietly.
“He’s up in his office, I think.”
Maverick turns onto his side to face me, head propped in his hand. “How was meeting Jessica last night?”
I purse my lips. Dad and Jessica have been dating for about four months but only went public last week, when she posted a picture of them together on Facebook. My dad—who has never sent me an emoji,ever—commented with heart eyes. The next day, Dad told me that he’d like to introduce me to Jessica. There was nothing I would have rather done less, but of course I agreed, dressed up, and summoned my best behavior.
“It was fine,” I tell Maverick, my voice hushed. “She was nice.”
And she was. As much as I wanted to find a reason to hate her, a valid reason to beg my dad to never see her again, there wasn’t one. She asked me questions about myself and listened intently to the answers. Her fourteen-year-old son, Heath, was quiet and overly well-mannered, addressing my dad as “sir” and me as “ma’am” until Dad told him it wasn’t necessary.
The most important thing—the only important thing, really—is that Dad is completely enamored with Jess, and she with him. If the Facebook emoji wasn’t proof enough, the way they interacted throughout dinner would have told the whole story. I think Heath could see it, too, judging by the way he ducked his head and blushed every time they started flirting.
“It’s still weird for you, huh?” Maverick asks me.
