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He pauses for so long I’m not sure he’s going to continue; then he clears his throat loudly, as if breaking himself out of a fog. “Anyway. My point in telling you all that is, that’s why your mom fretted about you having a one-track mind where baseball was concerned. I convinced her that you should take the scholarship, that you wouldn’t get in so deep like I did.”
Silently, I wedge my finger inside my cast to scratch an itch.
“She started to feel guilty about it all, toward the end. That’s why she encouraged you to enter the draft. I was glad, but now I see you floundering,” Dad continues, “and I wonder if she was right all along.”
I freeze. “What do you mean?”
“What do you want your life to be like, Mav?”
I stare at him. He stares back at me, letting the silence stretch for longer than is comfortable or necessary.
“That,” he says finally. “That’s exactly what I mean. You’ve never pictured a life where you’re not playing professional baseball. Now that’s out of the picture, and you’re trying to convince yourself and everyone around you that you want to be an accountant. In reality, you have no idea what you want.”
Jesus,I am not up for this conversation. I didn’t know we were coming out here to have a fucking therapy session. But he seems determined, like he’s going to fix me right here, right now. “I’m going to figure it out, Dad. I need some time.”
“That’s fair,” he admits, uncrossing his arms and letting them fall to his sides. The movement seems to release some tension from his body. “A lot has happened.”
“Yeah.” I let out a long breath. “It has."
Dad grabs the empty cartons from the table and walks them over to the trash. I relax, thinking I’ve made it to the other side of this conversation.
Then he walks back over and says, “You never answered my question about Azalea.”
My back teeth grind together. I brush some dirt off the table and onto the ground, avoiding his eyes. “We’re not really talking right now.”
“What?” Dad furrows his brow. “You’re always messing with your phone.”
I scoff. “Not talking to her.”
“You know, your mom also thought—”
“I know what she thought,” I interrupt because I can’t stomach hearing it right now. “She told me. She made me promise that I’d go for it with Azalea, and I did. In Chicago. Then I got hurt and was a total dick to her and ruined it.”
Dad sighs. “Maverick.”
“I know.”
“She’s your best friend.”
“Iknow, Dad.” I prop my elbows up on the table, press my face into my hands. “She seemed so done with me the last time we talked. You were right before. I don’t know what I’m going to do with my life now, and I let it get between us.”
Dad looks troubled. He taps his fingers on the table, considering. “Do you regret what you did? Jumping in front of that car for her, knowing what it cost you?”
“No.” My response is immediate. “Never.”
“Then maybe I underestimated you before.” Dad’s expression softens into something new, and it takes me a moment to understand what it is: respect. A look I haven’t been getting from him much lately. He reaches out to give my shoulder a squeeze. “Sounds like your priorities are already pretty well in order.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Azalea
Wednesday, August 10, at 3:22 p.m.
Hi Maverick. I’ve been thinking about you today. I mean, I do every day, but I’ve started to feel like maybe I’ve been too harsh. I’m still really hurt over how you pushed me away but you’ve been through hell this year and I don’t want you to think I’m not in your corner. I am, and if you need me, let me know.
Thursday, September 1, at 9:05 p.m.
For whatever it’s worth, I would knock down your door and force you to talk to me if I thought you were alone. I know you’ve got your family and other friends, though, so I’m going to keep my distance. I’m still mad at you. But I also miss you.
