by Sarah Sutton
“Everything revolves around baseball,” I said finally, biting my lip.
“Baseball is life, you know.”
I couldn’t help but roll my eyes, prompting Walsh to say, “I saw that.”
“Everyone in this stupid community praises you players like gods. That’s enough to turn any sane person’s stomach. I guess I’m just…sick of it.”
For a moment, I wondered what I was doing. This relationship was fake, and I shouldn’t have been baring my soul. But today, just the two of us spending hours together, made things feel different.
I opened my eyes, but he wasn’t even looking at me. Walsh was staring at the roof of the car, eyes open but unseeing. The ends of his hair were still damp, curling ever so slightly. Something was wrong, something he wasn’t telling me. But there was no way I was going to force information out of him.
I didn’t know how to make him feel better. “Are you okay?”
“Ask me a question,” Walsh murmured to the roof. “For the article. Ask me something.”
“Does Bayview High ever cheat to win?” The words came out of left field, blurting from my mouth before I even had a chance to screen them.
Walsh chuckled at that, and quickly, too. As if the idea was absolutely absurd. “I know it might seem like it, but no. We’re just that good.”
I sat in his answer for a moment, mulling it over. Was it possible that his teammates were cheating and he just didn’t know? “Do you think you’re a good fit for captain?”
Walsh turned his head and was quiet for a long time. So long that I thought I’d imagined asking the question. Blue eyes looked at me intensely, deeply, like if he looked at me hard enough, he could see into my soul. “Next question.”
“But—”
“Next question.”
I knocked my sandals together, racking my brain for something else to ask. The deep questions were pushed out of the way, answered and ignored, and I had to come up with something. “When did you know that you wanted to play baseball?”
Walsh’s lips curled into a smile, but this time it looked genuine, authentic. “My mom took me to a baseball game when I was seven. Bought me a foam finger and a baseball from one of the insanely over-priced gift shops. Ever since, I’ve been obsessed.”
There came the mention of his mother again. I couldn’t hold back this time, my curiosity getting the better of me even though this was supposed to be for the article. “You said you had a rough night. Something about your parents?”
“It’s more my mom. We just haven’t been seeing eye to eye. It’s not a big deal.”
I looked out of my window to my house, staring at the collection of dark windows and the empty front porch. His words connected with me in a way that he couldn’t have known. I considered the idea of saying “I know the feeling,” but my mouth clamped shut. It had been a while since my parents and I saw eye to eye on something.
Little voices came from the dark of the cab, hostile and echoing. You’re not good enough for Scott, not good enough for your parents. You have to force Walsh to fake date you. This article, no matter how good you think it is, won’t be enough.
A thinness took over the air, for the breaths I pulled in weren’t enough to satisfy my lungs. Don’t think like that, I willed myself, swallowing hard. It’ll be enough. You’ll be enough. They’ll see.
I didn’t even realize how firm my grip was on my leg until Walsh’s hand slipped over mine. “Hey. Where’d your mind go?”
“I’m okay.” I didn’t look at him but rather at our hands, trying to breathe through the dread that was welling in my chest. Rough patches lined the skin at the tops of his palms, callouses from how hard he gripped the baseball bat, I guessed. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Anything that goes on in that head of yours matters.”
I wanted to roll my eyes at that line, shaking my head in the darkness. “I’m just thinking about the article.”
“You can be honest with me, Sophia.”
“I am being honest,” I lied.
“Just letting you know.” He gave my hand a squeeze, expression softening. “I’ve been told that I’m a good listener.”
I tried to shrug off his serious, kind words, but failed. They were already burrowing deep inside of me, nestling their home in my heart.
“Say you’ll come to the game on Sunday,” Walsh said, backtracking to that conversation. “I could play the guilt card and say you’re the only one that comes to watch me.”
“Except you’d be lying, because we both know half of the people in the bleachers are there for you. They probably even make cheesy signs.”
“Yeah, but you’re the only one I care about.” One side of his mouth tipped up, looking none too modest. “Will you make me a sign?”
“Oh, no. Nope, totally not doing that. I’m bad at signs. Besides, what would it even say? ‘He stole second base and my heart’?”
Walsh tipped his head back, giving the first genuine smile I’d seen since we left the beach. “Please do that, Sophie. I’d love you forever.”
I drew in a sharp breath, pulling my hand from his. My skin still felt warm, even without his fingers against mine. “I’ll think about it,” I told him finally, reaching for the door handle.
If I was going to be honest with myself, part of me wanted to go and watch Walsh pitch. But I was really good at lying to myself, so I was convinced that if I went, it’d only be because I couldn’t risk missing anything newsworthy. No other reason.
I slipped free of the car, stretching my legs. We’d been sitting in there for a long time. “Goodnight, Walsh.”
“Goodnight, Sophia,” he responded, and when I turned around to shut the door, I saw that Walsh’s hand rested on his seat buckle, as if he’d been just about to pop it free.
Chapter Twelve
Sunday morning, my phone chimed with a text from Walsh mere minutes before I headed out the door for the baseball game. I managed not to get lost in article-writing, to keep an eye on the clock so I could make it to the field before they started.
My eyes scanned my phone’s screen. I’m not playing today. Home sick. Text you later.
Much to my surprise, disappointment tugged my insides. Not about missing the baseball game.
I wasn’t going to see Walsh today, and that was what was bothering me.
I wondered how sick he had to be to miss a baseball game. For how much he loved playing, I imagine he’d have to be pretty sick. Or did he really ask Coach to put the other pitcher in? There was no way of knowing, not unless I asked.
An idea burst through my mind, and before I gave it a second thought, I headed out the door to get my bike.
* * *
Walsh’s house from the night of the party was a haunting fairytale, with lights like pixies dancing around his property, lulling music leaking from the foundation. In the daylight, it was much less dramatic, like somehow the life had bled from the walls.
I realized, as the breeze whisked across my sweaty skin, that I probably should’ve called. I didn’t know why this felt different. After our conversation in his car, something changed. Or at least it felt that way to me. And whatever that change was, it left me wondering where we stood.
Which was dumb, because this was a fake relationship, and I shouldn’t have even been caring, but here I was.
My tires skidded on the concrete when I slowed to a stop, sliding off the seat. I took the tin can out of the basket and laid the handlebars down along the pavement, turning to stare up at his house. No faces peeked out from any windows, and no doors opened. No one was coming to greet me. I guess I’d have to pull on my big girl pants.
Stepping up to the door, my breathing went shallow. The idea of knocking made me nervous—why had I done this? Putting myself out there wasn’t my thing. I should’ve just sent back a text with a frowny face and went about my day.
I pressed the little doorbell that was set into the brick, my heart jumping as the sound resonated from the other side of the
door.
Not even a minute passed before the oak swung inward, revealing a short woman with graying hair. “Hello, can I help you?” She looked up at me expectantly, her voice soft.
I rolled the tin can in my hand anxiously, the contents sloshing around inside. There wasn’t any resemblance to Walsh in her features, and she wasn’t as young as I’d been expecting. She looked like she was in her early sixties. “Hi. Is Walsh home?”
“Walsh?” The woman quickly touched the hem of her shirt, straightening it almost uneasily. “He’s at his baseball game, dear.”
Uh. Did he lie to me? Had he changed his mind about wanting me to come? “I-I’m sorry. I was told he was home sick.”
“Well, hmm.” She rubbed her arm, looking around the porch. “I don’t know—”
“Hey.”
I looked up at the sound of a low voice, conjured by the mere mention of his name.
Walsh looked—off. Like he’d just rolled from bed. He really did look sick, with purple circles under his eyes, hair tousled and sticking up. He was wearing sweatpants and a graphic tee that had a hole near the collar. His skin was pale, his pale hair washing him out.
I’d never seen him so un-put together in his life. “It’s okay, Janet. I know I said not to let anyone in, but Sophie’s got clearance.”
I blinked. This was Janet, his chef/housekeeper/nanny/therapist, not his mom. She let out a little squeak, her entire expression transforming. “You’re Sophia! Come inside, please. Oh, gosh, I’ve been keeping you on the doormat this whole time. Can I get you something to drink, sweetheart?”
She ushered me into the entryway, which was much prettier without the red cups and dancing bodies littering around. Smaller too. It seemed homier now, warmer.
I slipped my tennis shoes off, not wanting to dirty the carpet. “Maybe some water?”
“Why don’t you two sit down in the family room and I’ll bring out a tray?” She looked between Walsh and me for a quick moment before going off in the direction of the kitchen.
Walsh watched us from the bottom stair, leaning against the railing, expression unreadable. Inexplicably, my tongue decided that words were overrated, and I just stared at him. Mute. Awkward.
Without a word, I shoved the can at him, totally aware that I’d been clutching it like a lifeline.
He looked at it guardedly. “What is it?”
“Chicken soup.” I cleared my throat. “It was either that or tomato. Chicken soup actually has less sodium than tomato, so I thought this would be better. You said you weren’t feeling good.”
Walsh stared at the can for several more moments before plucking it from my fingertips, setting it on the flat part of the staircase newel. “My favorite. Thanks, Sophie.”
“It’s Sophia,” I corrected him, but my lighthearted tone fell flat. I was too unsettled by his worn-out appearance to be properly sarcastic with him.
He hopped down from the last step, leading the way into the family room. “Come sit down.”
I trailed after him, but at a distance. “I smell.”
“What? You do not.”
“You haven’t gotten close enough. Biking all the way to your house in this heat was an awful idea.”
Walsh fell onto the couch, lining his arms along the back of the gray cushions. He looked exhausted; if he were to relax, he could’ve fallen asleep. “It can’t be as bad as sweaty baseball players.”
I rolled my eyes. “Totally worse.”
Walsh’s gray expression broke, the clouds in his eyes parting to show a ray of light. The sun on a rainy day. A surge of triumph came over me, knowing I was responsible for this break in the weather. “Is it sad that you rolling your eyes at me makes my entire day?”
I plopped down next to him on the couch, deciding that I didn’t care if I smelled or not. “Rough night?”
“Are you that good or are the circles under my eyes that dark?”
“Both.”
Janet’s socks made no noise as she moved into the room, carrying a tray with a water pitcher and two glasses. She set it down on the coffee table, and Walsh leaned forward to stop her from pouring. “Let me get it, Jan.”
She allowed him to take over, pressing her palms together. “You’re very beautiful, Sophia. As pretty as Walsh said you were.”
That sentence startled me, but I tried not to let it show. Instead, I looked at Walsh accusingly. “I haven’t been talking to people about you. Now I feel like a bad—”
My mind seized on the word and choked, forbidding my mouth to speak it. I’d never said that word in reference to him before.
“Girlfriend?” Walsh covered smoothly, leaning back and handing me a glass of water. “Don’t worry. You haven’t hit the red zone yet.”
Cue my second eye roll.
“Be nice.” Janet swatted his arm. “I’ll give you two a little privacy. It was great to meet you, Sophia.” She shot me a little smile as she headed back out of the room.
Walsh leaned deeper into the couch, moving so his inner elbow was brushing the skin of my neck. Ugh, I hoped I wasn’t as sweaty as I felt. “You told Janet about us?”
“I figured if I’m going to be living a lie, I might as well practice it everywhere I go. That way I won’t screw up, right?”
A sour feeling simmered under my skin, hot and itching. I moved out from underneath Walsh’s arm, letting it drop to the seat of the sofa with a thunk. “It was your idea.”
His eyes went wide, clearly caught off guard. “What was my idea?”
“‘Living a lie’? I never asked you to. You were the one to start all this.”
At that, his eyebrows slammed together. “I’m not mad about it, Sophie. I just thought if I’m being consistent then—”
“It’s just one vowel, Walsh. How would you feel if I called you Welsh?”
“—I’d be less likely to accidentally say the wrong thing to the wrong person.”
“Does this bother you?” I set my drink down, even though my throat was dying for a sip. “Lying, I mean.”
Walsh rubbed his eye with a closed fist. “No, it doesn’t. It’s not really a lie, anyway. It’s like acting. A stretched truth. We have been hanging out more often.”
“Because of the lie.”
“So you asked me to go to the dog park the other day just because of who we might’ve run into? And the bay?”
No. “Yes.”
Walsh’s face screwed up as if he’d tasted something incredibly bitter. “Well, I didn’t think about it that way.”
Sometimes, I wondered if Walsh was just playing me. If I was part of his acting scheme. Because he’d go and say things like that, say things that made me feel warm, and I couldn’t figure out why. I wasn’t an interesting person, and it would only be a matter of time until Walsh figured it out. Scott tried to change the uninteresting things about me, but it didn’t work. I was still a nerdy girl obsessed with her article.
“You’re not really sick,” I said, looking at him closer. “Are you?”
A surge of weariness overpowered his features, and he spoke to his glass of water, eyes downcast. “I had a really—” He dropped his voice, “—really bad night.”
“If you keep skipping out on games, aren’t you going to get cut from the team?” My words sounded rude, but I was genuinely curious, and couldn’t figure out a different way to phrase it.
“Coach knows what’s been going on.”
“What is going on?”
Walsh shook his head, a muscle in his jaw popping. “I had a fight—a disagreement—with my mom last night. And as stupid as it sounds, I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I’m a good listener, too, you know,” I said, kicking his socked foot with my own, echoing what he’d said the other night.
He didn’t say anything in response to that.
I didn’t want to see him like this for a moment longer—upset without speaking about it—but there wasn’t much that I could do. There was no way I was going to force information o
ut of him, but I didn’t know how to make him feel better.
“Let’s do something,” I said on impulse, trying to pitch my voice high and cheerful.
“Like what?”
I glanced out the window, seeing the cliff in his yard. “Swimming.”
“Swimming,” Walsh repeated, finally looking up. His blue eyes were treading with a sea of emotion, but the first one I recognized was amusement. Good. That was good. “Again?”
I nodded, latching onto that positive look. “Swimming. It’s summer. We can swim more than once this summer.”
“You don’t have your suit.”
I glanced down at my denim shorts. “Yeah, but I didn’t wear white undies today, so I should be fine.”
Walsh seemed to stop breathing, blinking up at me like I spoke a different language.
“That was a joke,” I deadpanned. “I’m going to keep my shorts on.”
The back of his head touched the couch cushion as he stared up at the ceiling, pressing a hand to his chest. “Oh my gosh. I think I’m having a heart attack.”
I swiped my water from the coffee table, sliding past Walsh’s legs and heading for the back door. He still wore the startled expression when I glanced back, eyes wider than I’d ever seen them. I couldn’t hold in my laugh. “Get your mind out of the gutter, lover boy, and come on.”
* * *
My tennis shoes still squished when I got home, my thighs itching from how my shorts chafed at the skin. My movements were quiet as I slipped off my shoes, but the house was quieter, and I attracted attention.
“Sophia, can you come to the kitchen, please?” Dad called to me, and I followed his voice.
Mom and Dad were opposite of each other in the room, both trying hard not to catch the other’s eye. It made sense, then, why I hadn’t walked in on voices if they were both in the cold shoulder phase. Dad was busy trying to not look at Mom while she sat at the table.