Authors: Katie McGarry
watch us with interest. Scott holds out his hand to Dad. “Scott Risk.”
Dad shakes it with a badly suppressed smug smile. “Andrew Stone.”
“City Councilman Andrew Stone?”
“Yes,” Dad says with pride. “I heard rumors you were moving back to town.”
He did? That’s the sort of news Dad should have shared.
“This town always did love gossip.” Scott keeps the friendly look, but the light tone feels forced.
Dad chuckles. “Some things never change. I heard you were looking at buying some
property nearby.”
“Bought,” says Scott. “I purchased the old Walter farm last spring, but asked the Realtor to keep the sale quiet until we moved into the
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home we built farther back on the property.”
My eyebrows shoot up and so do Dad’s.
That’s the farm right next to ours. Dad takes a step closer and angles his back to make the three of us into our own circle. “I own the property a mile down the road. Ryan and I are huge fans of yours.” No, he’s not. Dad respects Scott because he’s from Groveton, but loathes anyone from the Yankees. “Except when you played the Reds. Home team takes precedent.”
“Wouldn’t expect anything else.” Scott
notices my baseball cap. “Do you play?”
“Yes, sir.” What exactly do I say to the man I’ve worshipped my entire life? Can I ask for his autograph? Can I beg him to tell me how he stays calm during a game when everything is on the line? Do I stare at him like an idiot because I can’t find anything more coherent to say?
“Ryan’s a pitcher,” Dad announces. “A
major-league scout watched him at a game last night. He thinks Ryan has the potential to be picked up by the minors after graduation.”
Scott’s easygoing grin falls into something more serious as he stares as me. “That’s
impressive. You must be pitching in the upper
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eighties.”
“Nineties,” says Dad. “Ryan pitched three straight in the nineties.”
A crazy gleam hits Scott’s eyes and we both smile. I understand that spark and the
adrenaline rush that accompanies it. We share a passion: playing ball. “Nineties? And you’re just now getting the attention of scouts?”
I readjust my hat. “Dad took me to Reds’
tryout camp this past spring, but…”
Dad cuts me off. “They told Ryan he needed to bulk up.”
“You must have listened,” Scott says.
“I want to play ball.” I’m twenty pounds
heavier than last spring. I run every day and lift weights at night. Sometimes, Dad does it with me. This dream also belongs to Dad.
“Anything can happen.” Scott looks over my shoulder, but his eyes have that far-off glaze, as if he’s seeing a memory. “It depends on how badly you want it.”
I want it. Badly. Dad checks his watch, then extends his hand again to Scott. He’s itching to pick up some new drill bits before supper. “It was nice officially meeting you.”
Scott accepts his hand. “You too. Would you
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mind if I borrowed your son? My niece lives with me and she’ll be starting Bullitt County High tomorrow. I think the transition will be easier for her if she has someone to show her around. As long as that’s okay with you,
Ryan.”
“It would be an honor, sir.” It would. This is beyond my wildest dreams.
Dad flashes me his all-knowing smile. “You know where to find me.” The crowd near the barbershop parts like Moses commanding the Red Sea as Dad strolls toward the hardware store.
Scott turns his back to the crowd, steps
closer to me, and runs a hand over his face.
“Elisabeth…” He pauses, rests his hands on his hips, and starts again. “Beth’s a little rough around the edges, but she’s a good girl. She could use some friends.”
I nod like I understand, but I don’t. What does he mean by rough around the edges? I keep nodding because I don’t care. She’s Scott Risk’s niece and I’ll make sure she’s happy.
Beth. A strange uneasiness settles in my
stomach. Why does that name sound familiar?
“I’ll introduce her around. Make sure she fits
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in. My best friend, Chris, he’s also on the team.” Because I’ll try to work Chris and Logan into any conversation I have with Mr.
Risk. “He has a great girl who I’m sure your niece will love.”
“Thanks. You have no idea how much this
means to me.” Scott relaxes as if he dropped a hundred-pound bag of feed. The bell over the clothing shop chimes. Scott places a hand on my shoulder and gestures at the shop. “Ryan, I’d like you to meet my niece, Elisabeth.”
She walks out of the shop and crosses her arms over her chest. Black hair. Nose ring.
Slim figure with a hint of curves. White shirt with only four buttons clasped between her breasts and belly button, fancy blue jeans, and an eye roll the moment she sees me. My
stomach drops as if I swallowed lead. This is possibly the worst day of my life.
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“IT’S NICE TO MEET YOU,” Arrogant Taco Bell Boy says as if we never met. Maybe he doesn’t remember. Jocks usually aren’t smart. Their muscles feast on their brains.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me.”
I’m in hell. No question about it. This bad version of the town from
Deliverance
is certainly hot as hell. The heat in this forsaken place possesses a strangling haze that envelops me and seizes my lungs.
Scott clears his throat. A subtle reminder that
fuck
is no longer an acceptable word for me in public. “I’d like you to meet Ryan Stone.”
Once upon a time, Scott used to say words like
s’up
and
sick
. Variants of
fuck
were the only adjectives and adverbs in his vocabulary.
Now he sounds like a stuck-up, suit-wearing, cocky rich guy. Oh wait, he is.
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“Ryan’s volunteered to show you around
at school tomorrow.”
“Of course he has,” I mumble. “Because my life hasn’t sucked enough in the past forty-eight hours.”
God must have decided He wasn’t done
screwing with me yet. He wasn’t done
screwing with me when Scott blackmailed me into living here. He wasn’t done screwing with me when Scott’s wife bought these tragically conservative clothes. He wasn’t done screwing with me when Scott told me he was enrolling me at the local redneck,
Children of the Corn
school. No, he wasn’t quite done screwing with me yet. The damn icing on this cake is the conceited ass standing in front of me. Ha fucking ha. Joke’s on me. “I want my clothes back.”
“What?” Scott asks. Good—I messed with
him without cursing.
“He’s not dressed like a moron, so why
should I?” I motion to the designer jeans and starched Catholic-schoolgirl shirt disgracing my body. Per Scott’s request to play nice with Allison, I stepped out of the dressing room to look at this atrocity in the full-length mirror.
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When I returned, my clothes were gone.
Tonight, I’m searching for a pair of scissors and bleach.
Scott censures me by subtly shaking his
head. I have close to a whole year of this bull in front of me, and the woman I’m trying to protect I can’t even see—my mom. A part of my brain tingles with panic. How is she? Did her boyfriend hit her again? Is she worried about me?
“You’re going to love it here,” says Taco Bell Boy—I mean Ryan.
“Sure I am.” My tone indicates I’m going to love this place as much as I’d love getting shot in the head.
Scott clears his throat again and I wonder if he cares that people will assume he’s diseased.
“Ryan’s father owns a construction business in town and he’s on the city council.” Underlying message to me: don’t screw this moment up.
“Of course.” Of course. Story of my
freaking life. Ryan’s the rich boy that has everything. Daddy who owns the town. Daddy who owns the business. Ryan, the boy who
thinks he can do anything he wants because of it.
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Ryan flashes me an easygoing grin and
it’s sort of hypnotizing. As if he created it just for me. It’s a glorious grin. Perfect. Peaceful.
With a hint of dimples. It promises friendship and happiness and laughter and it makes me want to smile back. My lips start to curve into an answer and I stop myself abruptly.
Why do I do this to myself? Guys like him don’t go for girls like me. I’m a toy to them. A game. And these types of guys, they all have the same rules of play: smile, trick me into thinking that they like me, then toss me to the side once I’ve been used. How many countless losers do I have to stupidly make out with only to regret it in the morning? Over the past year—too many.
But while listening to Ryan easily digress into a conversation with Scott about baseball, I swear that I’m done with loser guys. Done with feeling used. Just done.
And this time, I won’t break the promise—
no matter how lonely I get.
“Yeah,” Ryan says to Scott as if I’m not
standing right here, as if I’m not important enough to involve in conversation. “I think the Reds have a shot this year.”
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God, I hate Ryan. Standing there all
perfect with his perfect life and perfect body and perfect smile, pretending he never laid eyes on me before. He glances at me from the corner of his eye and I realize why he’s
pouring on the charm. Ryan wants to impress Scott. Guess what? Misery definitely loves company. My life shouldn’t be the only one that sucks. “He hit on me.”
Silence as my words kill the moronic
baseball conversation. Scott rubs his eyes.
“You just met him.”
“Not now. Friday night. He hit on me and he stared at my ass while he did it.”
Joy. Utter joy. Okay, not utter, but the sole joy I’ve had since Friday night. Ryan yanks off his hat, runs his hand through his mess of sandy-blond hair, and shoves the hat back on. I like him better with his hat off.
“Is this true?” Scott asks.
“Yes,” stutters Ryan. “No. I mean yes. I
asked for her phone number, but she didn’t give it to me. But I was respectful, I swear.”
“You stared at my ass. A lot.” I turn and lean over a little so I can give a demonstration.
“Remember, there was a rip right along here.” I
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slide my finger along the back of my leg.
“You bought me tacos afterward. And a drink.
So I’m assuming you must have enjoyed the view.”
I hear muffled male comments and I peek at the crowd of men farther down the sidewalk.
The first genuine smile slips across my face.
Scott’s going to love a show. Maybe if I push hard enough I’ll be home in Louisville by dinner.
“Elisabeth.” Scott drops his voice to trailer-park pissed. “Turn around.”
Twelve different shades of red blotch Ryan’s cheeks. He doesn’t even look at my ass, but at my uncle. “Okay…yes, I asked her out.”
Scott does a double take. “You asked her
out?”
Hey now. Why’s he surprised? I’m not a
dog.
“Yes,” says Ryan.
“You wanted to take her on a date?”
Uh-oh. Scott sounds happy. No. I’m not
going for happy.
“Yes.” Ryan holds out his hands. “I
thought…I thought…”
“That I would be easy?” I snap, and Scott
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winces.
“That she was funny,” Ryan says.
Yeah. I’m sure that’s exactly what he
thought. “More like you thought it would be fun to screw with me. Or just plain screw.”
“Enough,” hisses Scott. His narrowing blue eyes rage at me as I thrust my hands in the stiff pockets of the new jeans. Scott lowers his head and pinches the bridge of his nose before forcing that fake relaxed grin into place. “I apologize for my niece. She’s had a rough weekend.”
I don’t want him to apologize for me to
anyone. Especially not to this arrogant ass. My mouth drops open, but the brief white-trash glance Scott gives me shuts it. Scott becomes Mr. Superficial again. “I understand if you don’t want to help Elisabeth at school.”
Ryan has this blank, way too innocent
expression. “Don’t worry, Mr. Risk. I’d love to help
Elisabeth.
” He turns to me and smiles.
This smile isn’t genuine or heartwarming, but cocky as hell. Bring it, jock boy. Your best won’t be good enough.
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THE WALLS OF OUR KITCHEN used to be
burgundy. As kids, Mark and I would race
home from the bus stop and when we’d burst into the kitchen we’d be greeted by the aroma of freshly baked cookies. Mom would ask us about our day while we dunked the hot cookies in milk. When Dad came home from work,
he’d sweep Mom into his arms and kiss her.
Mom’s laughter in Dad’s arms was as natural as Mark’s and my constant banter.
With an arm still wrapped around her waist, he’d turn to us and say, “How are my boys?”
Like Mark and I didn’t exist without each other.
Thanks to the renovations Dad finished last week, the kitchen walls are gray now. And thanks to my brother’s announcement and my father’s reaction to the announcement this
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summer, the loudest sound in the kitchen is the clink of knives and forks against china.
“Gwen came to your game,” says Mom. It’s
only the third time she’s mentioned it in the past twenty-four hours.
Yeah, with Mike. “Uh-huh.” I shove a hunk of pot roast into my mouth.
“Her mom said she still talks about you.”
I stop mid-chew and glance at Mom. Proud
for earning a reaction from me, she smiles.
“Leave him alone,” Dad says. “He doesn’t
need a girl distracting him.”
Mom purses her lips and we enter another
five minutes of clinking forks and knives. The silence stings…like frostbite.