The Truth About Air & Water (Truth in Lies #2) (40 page)

I manage to keep it together as I kiss my kid good-bye after purchasing a Greyhound one-way bus ticket from San Fran to Fresno. I decide that should be a title of a movie—
San Fran to Fresno
. Now
that
would be epic. The bus ride is estimated to be about five hours according to Julian, the ticket guy, because of a few stops along the way scheduled to provide the extra fun, and we just make it in time for me to get in line the before the bus is loading and due to take off because that is the kind of luck I’m having today.
With Greyhound.

Ten missed calls from Kimberley now.
Call me. Call me. Call me. The tone of her voice starts out casual but by the tenth message it sounds mildly desperate. ‘Hey, Tally! Call me back ‘kay?”

But we know what she’s calling me about. And still nothing from Lincoln Presley himself.

As the miles pass, service becomes intermittent. I’ve tried to call Linc a few times, but it goes straight to voicemail, and I don’t leave a message. I’m secretly relieved because actually talking to him seems impossible right now. And as we descend into the central part of the San Joaquin Valley, I decide an ambush—
I mean, surprise
—of him is best.

He did it to me. Why not return the favor?

Engulfed in anguish over calling it off with Sam and this blazing fury at Linc that seems to take me over, I stare out the window at the passing countryside but register absolutely nothing. I’m encircled in some strange bubble; it protects as well as centers me. I remain suspended within it in this ever calm state. Nothing can touch me. Nothing can reach me. It’s as if I can see all of my fears lining up on the other side—failing, losing, falling—they’re all there waiting for me, but nothing can get through this bubble.
Yet.

I’m reminded of the train ride Katniss takes that first time to the Capitol in
The Hunger Games
. Same kind of deal I suppose, only it’s happening to me in real life.

I wish I had a bow and arrow like hers though.

That would come in handy because you never know what you’re going to require in Fresno.

These outrageous thoughts makes me laugh and Rose, the little old lady, sitting next to me thinks for about ten seconds it’s a way to break the ice and have a conversation with this semi-famous ballerina after all. She recognized me right away and proudly told me she has season tickets to the San Francisco Ballet, but I was unable to do more than thank her for her patronage—I think I actually said that, ‘thank you for your patronage.’
Mikhail would be so pleased with me.
Beyond signing an autograph on her checkbook cover, we haven’t spoken since then. It remains unlikely we will, and I know my face tells her this again now.

But still, it surprises me, when she pats my right hand and says, “it’s going to be okay, dear.
It is.
The world can be a hellish place and full of disappointment but there’s always a silver lining. Tomorrow is another day.”

So she reads the tabloids, too.

Does everyone?

The coined phrases slay me too. Tomorrow’s silver lining, my ass.
But all I say is, “it’s Wednesday. It’s his only day off. It
has
to be today.” She pats my hand once more, and then I have to look out the window because I can’t handle the sympathy I detect in her warm brown eyes for the crazy bus passenger she’s ended up sitting next to.

I check out.

I don’t get as much clear thinking done as I thought I would, but I’ve got a plan. I typed up a plan.
Tally’s Epic Plan.
Because if Lincoln Presley thinks he’s going to break my heart for a third time; he’s mistaken. Payback is a bitch, and he’s about to find out why. First, I’m going to wear the dress like he wanted. Then, I’m going to do the deed with him like I wanted. And then I’m going to break his heart and leave him because that’s what everybody wants to see. But first we’re going to perform for the LA Times and a few others. I’ve already called Candy Baxstrom and told her to be ready.

Yeah, I’ve got everything. A wedding dress made of French silk and Tulle by Catherine Deane. His Armani tux. I’m all set. I just haven’t quite decided when the show will begin. I fish his engagement ring out of my pocket and look at it for a few seconds. He left it on the steps before he drove away in the early morning hours on the first of February.

He left a note, too. “Thank you, Tally. I want you to keep this for now. Let’s see where things go.”

I’ll show him where things go.

I slip the ring back in my pocket and continue to study
Tally’s Epic Plan
.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Dare You To Move -LINC

Fresno is dusty but doable. Just like I anticipated, nobody expects me to know their name and there is profound relief in not having to meet everyone’s expectations on that front.

My dad is mostly satisfied with my pitching. He declares the season long, and it’s early, so he returned to LA to close up his house a week ago. He’s still hell-bent on moving to San Fran, despite the upheaval of my life over the past seven months. He remains surprisingly optimistic that the Giants will return me to the line-up before summer ends, and he wants to be settled in San Fran for that.

I have my doubts about returning to the majors, but I’ve kept those to myself. No sense getting my dad all riled up about my confidence level in throwing a baseball in the strike zone. He remains steadfast and entirely focused on that aspect of my life far too much already.

“Hey, Presley. We’re headed to O’Riley’s. You coming?” Doug Hillman taps the dirt from his ball shoes and then places them on the bleachers nearby. He’s already changed out of his uniform into his evening attire—Polo shirt, jeans, and black dress shoes.
Ferragamos.
I have the exact same pair in my locker.
He looks up from what he’s doing when I don’t respond.

“It’s not a date or anything,” he says with a hesitant laugh. “It’s just what we minor-league players do. We play ball together. We drink together. In other words, we
socialize
with the other players and try to find the fun in Fresno. Your dad’s gone, right? So, now that the close examination of how fast you’re pitching or not has come to a close with his departure, maybe you can afford to let loose a little with us mere mortals who still play ball because it’s fun and might eventually lead to something else down the road.”

His words sting as intended. The underlying resentment for my dad and for me and my lofty baseball career follows me to Fresno. Nobody likes the guy who appears to have everything. I don’t like that guy either. But I’m not that guy—even if this ballplayer doesn’t see that.

Anger rushes me.
If I had just left five minutes earlier. If I hadn’t hung out to take a few extra practice swings with the bat.
Because in the minor leagues, sometimes pitchers handle a bat as much as a baseball as part of the lineup.
And I am rusty or washed out. One of those.

I suck air in order to get my temper under control and shake my head. “No, I can’t make it today. I’ve got to get some more time in throwing.”

“You can overdo the throwing thing. You know that, right?”

“Yeah, but my trainer—”

“We’ve all heard what your trainer says, what your coaches say, what your dad says, what the infamous Beau Wilson says, and what your hot publicist Kimberley something or other, says. Hell, the only one we haven’t heard from about you is your supposed fiancée Tally Landon. What does
she
say?”

Do I want to get a drink with this guy or deck him?

“Hillman, back off.”

He raises his hands at my warning and takes a few steps back. “No foul, Presley. It’s just a drink, man. Forget it.” He turns and heads towards his car in the team parking lot.

“Where again?” I call out after him.

He turns back, shading his eyes. “O’Riley’s.”

I nod slowly. “Okay, I’ll be there.”

O’Riley’s is the epitome of Fresno. It’s a joint off of Main Street with fine film encircling the place like fairy dust, complete with Budweiser beer as the only on-tap offering and free overfilled baskets of peanuts where the establishment’s patrons are encouraged to drop empty shells onto the floor. There’s a black-and-white tiled dance floor at one end that looks like it has been around for a few decades, while the tall bar tables and stools front the bar bookending what remains of the space. It’s only half past seven on a Wednesday night, so the place hasn’t gotten all that crowded yet. This 411 is according to Hillman. “The place rocks when the band starts up,” he says.

Right now, the four tables nearest the bar are filled with Fresno Grizzlies ball players. Hot and thirsty and ready for whatever O’Riley’s has to offer. I’m surprised to see so many ballplayers here since today is only one of two days we all have off this month. Maybe they’re like me—maintaining an all out focus on baseball because anything else serves as an unnecessary distraction. Or, they’re just really bored and there’s really nothing else going on in this town.

Brandy, our waitress, sets down a fresh round. She has already been propositioned twice since she started serving us. Both times she’s rolled her eyes, set down our drinks, and retreated before one of the guys could get too familiar with any of her assets. We’ve all noticed them, of course, and some have talked about them at length among themselves; however, it turns out that Hillman is a nice guy like me, so we take care of the tab and protect Brandy the blond beauty from the more lascivious among us. She seems to have already figured out Kevin Steinway and Seven Tall—his actual name, a name his mother was convinced from birth that would afford him the ability to hit his way to fame with baseball, or so he tells us, over and over.

The bad-boy behavior causes Brandy to make a wide berth. She’s started avoiding that end of the table all together. So now we hand Seven and Kevin their beers whenever Brandy approaches asking us to pass them down in order to help her out.