Game On (17 page)

Yeah. It works like a charm.

“Who the hell decides what it means to be nice?” she says.

My attention snaps to her. “Huh?”

She swallows audibly. “I dated this guy for five freaking months. At first, he was
nice
. And he was charming, and he actually acted like he liked me, you know? And
then
—” She puts her hands on her hips. “And then, he turns into a possessive asshole. Calls me all night long. Tells me that I'm stupid, and that I'm clueless, and that I should just let him do the talking.”

Oh.

Her
face flushes crimson, but she keeps on, “And when I finally break up with him, when I finally realize that I deserve better than a voice feeding crap to me all day, every day, he keeps calling, and keeps texting. And people have the nerve to tell me that I need to be
nice
to him?”

I'm ready to take another rage kick for her. “Fuck that,” is the first thing that slips from my mouth.

She nods once, her jaw rigid. “Yeah. Fuck that.” She retrieves the ball and lines it up again.

I've known Matt Harris since kindergarten. He's always been one of those guys who gets off on the sound of his own voice, but Bri dated him for months, so I'd assumed there had to be
some
redeeming factor there. But looking at her now, in tears and pissed to high hell because of this guy, I'm tempted to hunt him down just to punch him again.

“I'm not boyfriend material,” I catch myself saying.

She scrunches her eyebrows. “What?”

I have no clue why I told her that. Even though I know it shouldn't bother me this much, it does. It confirms everything I've been feeling for the past few months.

I'm a joke to everyone in this town.

So I add, “I asked Laura to the dance because hell, I actually kind of like Valentine's Day, and I wanted something to do on Saturday night, and she told me that I'm not boyfriend material. I'm not asking for a freakin' stroll on the beach, for Christ's sake. Just something other than the backseat of her Bronco.”

Her head down, she prepares for another kick. “That's what girls say when they're only using you for your dick.” She gasps right as my eyes widen. Ouch. “I—holy crap, I'm so sorry. I didn't—”

I
cut her off with a shake of my head. “No, you're right. I'm a stress release. I'm
fun
. I'm not the one you bring home to your dad. Whatever.”

Her face falls. “Don't listen to anything I say right now,” she says. “I'm cynical. I hate everything and everyone today.”

Silence falls between us, heavier than a two-ton weight. Sweat trickles down her face, same as mine, as she holds my gaze. Taking a deep breath, I change the subject. “Do you want food?” I ask, a nervous laugh escaping with the words. “Because I really want food. And I have a feeling you've kicked up an appetite.”

She purses her lips. “I could definitely go for food.”

“You can come to our house, if you want. Tonight's lasagna. Stouffer's lasagna, if you're okay with the freezer stuff, but it's, like, fifty times better than if Momma made it herself. Just don't tell her I said that.”

Whoa
.
Dude. Shut up
.

She tilts her head to the side. “Eric, I swear to all that's holy, if you're trying to sneak your way into my pants—”

Again with the pants thing. I hold up my hands. “I promise, I'm not. I just—” My shoulders drop as I sigh. “Maybe life will suck a little less if we stick together right now. Call me nuts, but I actually like talking to you.” I pause. “And we haven't talked in a long time. Kind of miss it. You know?”

The words hang in the air as she chews on her lip. “So you want us to hang out again?”

“I would like for us to hang out again.”

She's silent for a moment. “I miss being friends,” she says quietly.

Something
tugs in my chest. “Me, too,” I tell her. “And like, even if you need a running partner, I can do that, too.”

She scoffs. “Please. I could totally outrun you.”

“Prove it.”

Wait. What am I talking about? She could kick my ass in running.

“I guess what I'm saying,” I add, taking a step toward her, “is that you don't have to live by yourself. I'm right next door whenever you need me.” Or want me. I'm good with either one.

A strange look passes over her face, and I can't tell if it's confusion or relief or some weird mixture of both. “You really mean that?”

My pulse quickens again as I tell her, “Every word.”

She inhales deeply before picking up the ball and tucking it under her arm. “Okay then,” she says, starting toward the fence. “I'll have dinner with you. As long as your family doesn't care that I'm sweaty and disgusting.”

Brett and I lived under one roof while playing baseball for all our lives. Sweaty and disgusting are a way of life in our house.

Chapter
Twelve

Eric

So, I must not be entirely terrible. After our practices, Bri's had dinner at my house all week. And even though it's been a while since she's eaten with us, it's like nothing has changed at all. My dad likes her. My momma loves her. My sisters would replace me with her if they had the chance.

And I've gotten used to having her around again. I
like
having her around.

But life sucks sometimes, and nothing good ever seems to last. When we pull into her driveway on Saturday afternoon, there's already something parked in her spot: her dad's truck cab.

Her car jerks to a stop behind the cab and the girl's out of her seat faster than Usain Bolt, leaving her keys dangling in the ignition. I cut the engine and grab the keys for her.

She sprints across the yard, the front door opening as soon as she hits the porch. Her dad steps outside, his grin—and his beard—visible all the way out here. Bri practically tackles him with a hug.

I should be happy for her—the girl's been by herself for nearly a month—but honestly, I've kind of liked having her to myself. Well, to myself, and my sisters, and my parents. Same difference. And her dad's a good enough guy—tall and burly and one of those dads who
looks
like a giant teddy bear—but he's never liked me much. I was a smart-mouthed kid who drove him up the wall; I still don't think he's forgiven me for attacking him with water balloons one summer, when he walked out the front door instead of Bri. (In my defense, it was payback for
her
ambushing me with a water gun the day before.) And even though he's hardly in town anymore, all the dads here have their own top secret communication when it comes to who's screwing whose daughters.

Ever since he threatened to eat my chicken when Oscar snuck into his yard a couple months ago, I haven't liked him much, either.

He pulls out of Bri's arms. Spots me. And there goes the smile. Good to see some things never change.

I slide out of the car. “Hey, Mr. Johnson,” I call. “Long time, no see.”

He looks from me to Bri and back to me as I cross the lawn. “What're you doin' in my daughter's car?”

Ah, here it comes—the one-sided get-away-from-my-daughter chat.

“Is that a trick question?” I ask, stopping at the edge of the steps. I toss Bri her keys.

She catches them effortlessly, narrowing her eyes at Mr. Johnson. “Dad. Seriously.”

He holds up a hand, silencing her. “I have a right to ask. I leave for a couple weeks, and suddenly you two are—”

She crosses her arms, her lips falling into a frown. “Four weeks,” she interrupts sharply. “You were gone almost four weeks this time. A lot can happen in a month.”

“Just how much are we talkin' here? You've got better things to do than cart this boy around.”

This boy
. Nice. That's nice.

“Okay,” I shout above them, clapping my hands. “I'll show myself next door. Mr. Johnson, always a pleasure. Bri, I'll see you later.” Shoving my hands into my pockets, I stride to my house, keeping my eyes straight ahead. The man's always hated me, so I have no clue why
he's
getting to me now. Maybe because he's never actually laid into me in front of Bri. Of course, I'm not sure why that matters. She's my neighbor. A friend. Crossing those lines never leads to anything but someone getting demolished.

So it's a damn shame that I can't get her out of my head.

Some VeggieTales episode blares from the living room TV as I walk inside. Praise-and-worship music from Momma's radio streams from the kitchen, along with the smell of mac and cheese, which was probably for lunch. I may be starving, but I'm suddenly more exhausted than anything. Emma's mattress screeches from behind her closed door when I walk past her room and into my own, meaning naptime must be a bust. I kick the door closed and collapse onto my bed.

I glance over at Brett's old bed, beside mine. I knew I'd miss the guy when he left, but damn it, I could use him right now. He was good at pulling me out of my head, at getting me out of the house when I needed it. But that's hard to do when you're grounded and your parents are in the next room.

Someone knocks on my door. It swings open before I can tell whoever it is to go away. Momma stands in the doorway, so it's probably a good thing I didn't get the chance.

“We need to talk,” she says.

My pulse spikes. No good ever comes from “we need to talk.”

She sits on the edge of my bed, tucking her leg beneath her. “Your daddy and I are leaving first thing in the morning,” she reminds me. “And we already talked about you spending the week with Kellen and his family.”

She and Dad go on a trip to North Carolina every year for some week-long marriage retreat. Kellen's dad always covers Sunday services as a guest pastor, and this year, I'm supposed
to
stay at their house while Grace and Emma stay at friends' houses all week. Pushing myself up onto my elbows, I nod.

She sighs, looking to the ceiling. “I can't believe I'm even suggesting this,” she murmurs, “especially after the last few weeks. But Mr. Johnson stopped by to talk to us when he got back this morning. He's leaving town again. Tuesday.”

Ouch. The man just got back, and he's already running out again? That's going to destroy Bri when she finds out.

“Here's the thing,” Momma continues. “He asked us to keep a close eye on Bri while he's gone. Said that she's seemed really down in the dumps every time he calls her lately. Which I can imagine, given that she's over there by herself half the time, but that's not my business. What
is
my business is that I told him we'd be glad to keep an eye on her.” She sighs again. “Which means that for the next week, I'm going to need you to look out for her while your dad and I are out of town.”

I narrow my eyes. “From Kellen's?”

She smacks my foot. “From here, genius.”

I have no idea what's going on, but something miraculous just occurred, and you don't question miracles. I actually get the house to myself. For a week. With instructions to look out for Bri.

This probably shouldn't excite me as much as it does.

“So,” Momma says on an exhale. “Ground rules: School. Practice. Home. Kellen's dad will be calling you every single night. His mom is taking our road home from work to make sure your truck is in that driveway by the time practice is over. You screw around, you will get caught. Clear enough?”

“
Crystal,” I say with a nod.

She holds my gaze, hers not wavering for a second. “We are trusting you,” she says slowly. “One slip, and I swear to heaven above, you will not step one foot out of this house ever again. Do we understand each other?”

I hold up my right hand. “Hand to God.”

Bri

I've spent the last four weeks alone in this house. On Tuesday, the countdown starts all over again.

Dad's leaving. Already. He was home for ten minutes when he told me.

I sit outside his room in the dark hallway, knees to my chest, listening to his snores drift through the closed door. And I'm trying really, really hard not to cry, and failing miserably. When he took this job two years ago, I knew this was part of the deal. Money was tight, and the economy sucks in a tiny nowhere town, and he had to do what he had to do when he was laid off from the factory. I thought I could handle it. I'm a big girl, and big girls don't cry when their dads leave for work. But there are only two guys a girl can trust in this world—her dad, and Jesus—and when one is gone for weeks at a time, things get freaking lonely.

We're all each other has had since Mom left. Now
he
keeps leaving. And I try to be brave and smile and tell him I love him when he leaves, but really, I want to dismantle the engine in that truck cab.

Sniffling, I push myself to my feet. Being careful to keep the screen door from screeching, I step outside and settle onto the porch swing. The Perrys' house is bright, the energy practically radiating from their little patch of land. I've spent every night there for the past week.
I
almost wish I could've spent tonight there, too. Dad probably wouldn't have even noticed that I was gone; he went to bed right after telling me about his next trip.

I used to love alone time. Now, it feels like a tiny piece of me drifts away with each minute that passes. Eventually, all that'll be left is a shell.

I don't want to be a shell.

My face scrunches as more tears fall, and it seems like all I do lately is cry, and cry, and cry, and I'm really not a crier. I'm
not
. But when you keep things bottled up, when you keep them buried, they always bubble to the surface and bust through.

Headlights illuminate the road as a truck roars past. Eric's truck turns into his driveway, the crackling of the gravel like firecrackers against the night. He hops down and starts toward his house. Glances at mine. Pauses.