by Sarah Sutton
It wasn’t just his good looks; his heart was just as beautiful.
I could write a whole article just on him—beautiful and unique and kind.
Electricity zapped my skin, every nerve responding at once.
Walsh’s eyes were a little wide as I pulled my hand away, soft lips parted as he watched me. “Your eyes,” he whispered, breath caressing in my ears, its fingers running down my spine. “I love them.”
“First my glasses and now my eyes?” I shivered at the intensity of his gaze. My stomach hollowed out at his words, and I couldn’t figure out why he’d said them. Whether or not they were true was a whole other thing, but there was no one around to hear him. “You really know how to get a girl going.”
A small smile rested on his face, so faint I wondered if he knew he wore it. “Come on, let’s sit down before the fireworks start.”
I followed after him, watching as he readjusted the pillows and blankets. In that moment, the dread and anxiety came back and hit me in full force. New words wanted to come from my lips, truthful but condemning. I’m writing an article about baseball, but it’s not what you think. And I can’t tell you, because if you knew, you’d hate me. Drop me like Scott did. And you can’t drop me, too.
“So, my article is coming along,” I told him instead, lying down on the inflatable. I propped myself up enough that I could sip my slushy. Walsh sat down, causing the air inside it to bob, settling beside me. “I hope Mrs. Gao likes it.”
Walsh’s body pressed up against mine, his hair tickling against the pillow. “Are you nervous?”
“Part of me feels…unsettled.” An understatement.
“Pre-game jitters,” he said helpfully, waving a hand at the sky. “I get them all the time, especially just before pitching. But they’ll fade, and you’ll be a rock star.”
He sounded so sure when he spoke, full of certainty, and I allowed myself to relax a bit. Tension ebbed from me, if only slightly. “I hope so.”
We both looked at the stars in quiet for a moment, finally the cover of the sun ebbing away so that they could shine. “I was thinking we could get breakfast before we walk dogs tomorrow,” Walsh murmured to me. “There’s this place in Greenville that makes the best crepes. Mary’s Place, I think it’s called. Have you ever been?”
“I worked there last summer,” I said, taking a small sip from my straw. The rush of the syrupy-sweetness filled my taste buds, the right amount of refreshing. The straw made a clogging sound as it met resistance, and I cringed from how loud the noise sounded. “I’ve never had one of their crepes, though. But you don’t have to do that.”
“Do what?”
“We’re not an actual couple who has to do dates and things.”
Walsh shifted, his weight causing us to sink closer together by an inch. “I know. I want to anyway. Oh, but speaking of, we should take a photo,” he said, pulling out his cell phone. “You know, to capture the moment.”
“And so you can post it,” I teased with an eye roll, settling in beside him so I could get in frame. “I swear, I think you’re obsessed with social media.”
I stared straight into the camera lens as he held it above us, his head coming in close. The soft scent of him washed over my senses, making me feel imbalanced.
Even though I knew this wasn’t real, I found myself pretending that it was. Just for a second. Pretending that Walsh really liked me enough to buy this float and hang out with me on the Fourth of July. Only me. I pretended that Scott didn’t exist, and the article didn’t exist, and it was just the two of us.
I tried to push the mental image away. When he lowered the phone, though, I looked over to find him already watching me, gaze steady.
Lost in the world of pretending, everything shifted. It was like I’d been looking at this situation with a pair of binoculars, and as I shifted the focus on it, everything become crystal-clear.
Electricity hummed along my skin, zapping me at each and every point our bodies touched. My arm and his arm, his ankle on my leg. And I just wanted closer, closer.
Kiss him, a voice whispered in my head, one that had been conjured by my “what if” thoughts, tempting and irresistible. You know you want to. What would it hurt?
My heart skipped a beat. What would it hurt?
A loud, earth-shaking boom exploded into the sky, and I jerked against Walsh’s side. Quickly, I put my slushy down on the grass, leaning against the float as an even louder noise roared in the sky, color lighting the ground around us. The next firework burst in a colossal mass of blue and purple, screeching as it burnt out. As it reverberated, a shudder went through my entire body.
“That one was pretty,” Walsh said softly from my side, raising goosebumps on my arms.
And we laid like that, listening to the fireworks boom overhead, watching the colors dance across our skin. If someone looked at us, they would’ve seen a couple lying with each other, enjoying the fireworks in the comfort of their backyard. No one would have guessed we were faking it all.
I added this moment to the list of things Walsh could never know. He couldn’t know about the article and he could never know that this didn’t feel fake to me. He could never know I’d thought about kissing him—if only for a moment.
But as Walsh shifted closer, his hand brushing mine, I allowed myself to entertain the idea that I wasn’t the only one who felt those things, felt that way. If only for a moment.
Chapter Sixteen
My opinion on Mom and Dad’s divorce changed drastically from how I first felt, and I was certain they would be happier with my amended response. No longer was this the best thing that could’ve happened to the family, not in my eyes. I found myself close to tears at the idea of it, weighed down by what could happen.
Things were always subject to change with them, but with the paperwork passing back and forth, I started to fear they were serious.
The other night, I’d inched downstairs to get a glass of water and saw something I wished I hadn’t. Dad sat in front of the TV, still dressed in his clothes from work even though it was way past his usual bedtime. I opened my mouth to say something, to let him know that I was there, when he put his face into his hand and made a muffled noise, low in his throat. My chest tightened at the sound, the quiet sob, and I sprinted as silently as I could back up the stairs.
Yeah. I wasn’t thrilled about the divorce at all anymore.
It’d been a week and a half since the Fourth of July, and Walsh and I had hardly seen each other. Last week, the team had two away baseball games and then something called “team bonding nights” in preparation for their final game coming up—which, according to Walsh, included bad pizza and crude jokes. Not something he was interested in but, as captain, was forced to attend.
We’d only seen each other twice, and those were the days that we walked dogs.
I tried to convince myself that it was okay. The Back to School newsletter was nearly complete. I had my body paragraphs written and was just waiting for the kicker. Something big that would really take people’s breaths away and make them boycott the whole game for good.
Only ten days left until the article was due, and only a few days left of our fake relationship contract.
Was there even something bigger to report on? I mean, this was just the Bayview High baseball team, not some drama show Mom liked to watch on TV. Maybe the kicker was the paying off of players.
Surprisingly, and even more distressing, I missed spending time with Walsh to the point that I just found myself wanting to see those blue eyes and hear that voice. We texted back and forth, witty conversations included, but it wasn’t the same.
The clock on our relationship was ticking. By the time August rolled around, by the time school started, this would all be over. A memory.
The dread inside of me grew.
But, breaking the monotony of the past week, Walsh called me Saturday morning after he finished up practice. “I’ve been thinking about it, and I really want you to come over,”
he said, chuckling a little. “I want you to meet my dad. He’s great. Kind of like me, but his jokes aren’t as funny.”
I smiled faintly as Mr. Denton’s terrier squatted down in the city boulevard. “Will your mom be there, too?”
Walsh had talked here and there about his dad, but hardly ever about his mom. His parents were still together, I knew that much, but she didn’t come up in conversation often.
Walsh’s voice lost its amused edge. “Yeah, she will be. So, can I pick you up at eight?”
“Eight?” I got out a plastic bag, flapping it against the wind. “Isn’t that a little late?”
“My mom likes to eat dinner late, if that’s all right.” His voice was hesitant. “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to. I just want to see you.”
I just want to see you. He must’ve still been around someone, trying to show off. The words made my breath hitch anyway, and I hated myself for it. Even though the Fourth of July and Walsh’s sweet gesture was over a week ago, things never normalized. At least not for me and my stupid brain. All those sweet things he said burrowed their way into my head and heart, refusing to budge.
“No, eight is perfect.”
“You sure? Because we can do something else. There’s that mini-golf place in Ashville that I’ve been wanting to hit up. I play a mean game of mini-golf.” Walsh paused. “Or if you need to work on your article, you can. I know your deadline is coming up.”
Ten days. “No, this is perfect. I want to meet your parents, since you forced me to introduce you to mine.”
“I don’t remember such a thing,” he teased. “I’ll see you tonight. Wear your sweatpants and your grungiest t-shirt.”
When we hung up, my mind was buzzing with anticipation and nervousness. Him wanting me to meet his parents felt strange—less impromptu than him meeting mine on the Fourth, more planned. Meditated. Sure, I’d met Janet on the fly, but he was inviting me over for dinner. Why did that feel so serious?
All I knew was that using him for the article felt wrong now—way, way wrong.
It felt like the deepest betrayal.
* * *
Convinced Walsh was being sarcastic about the sweatpants thing, I found my nicest pair of jeans in the bottom of my dresser, pairing it with a blue striped shirt. Since I’d braided my hair after my shower this morning, there was a wave clinging to the strands. Pretty, but not trying too hard. At least, I didn’t think so.
I dug through the bottom of my closet to find my black sneakers, well-loved with a hole near the eyelets. That was grungy enough for him, right?
It was seven-forty-eight when I decided that pacing around my room didn’t pass time quickly enough, so I headed downstairs. Halfway down the steps, I heard the telling sign of my parents’ fighting: Mom’s soap operas on high volume, trying to drown out the tension that hung like smoke in the air.
“We need to talk about it, Richard.”
“I’m trying.” Dad let out a sigh, and the image of him scrubbing his hand over his face the other night, his stifled cry, came to my mind. “I’m trying to talk to you. I have been.”
“How?” Mom’s voice wavered. “You’re never home! You’re always at the office. Don’t blame me—blame that stupid job of yours.”
Sinking down onto the steps, I pressed my head against the railing, feeling like a normal kid. Hiding around the corner, heart racing.
“Oh, please,” Dad said back at her, voice cracking. “Make this my fault for working too hard. We were fine until you went and rented out that new studio by the bay. The one on River Street was perfectly fine!”
Mom said something low and under her breath, and I couldn’t catch it.
“Well, then, I’m sorry, Amber.” Dad’s voice got closer, but I was too dazed to move. “I’m sorry I ever wanted to help you, help this family, help—Sophia?”
Dad looked at me through the posts of the railing, his back curving with the posture of a defeated man.
“Were you eavesdropping?”
Mom appeared over his shoulder, eyes widening a little bit. I tried not to look too closely, but I could still see the tears in her eyes. “Sophia.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said emphatically, using my anger to deflect my hurt feelings. Not that they’d know the difference. “When you’re yelling the house down, I thought it was okay to listen in.”
Dad frowned. “We weren’t yelling.”
Right, because when I could hear their voices through the floorboards, that still counted as a whisper.
I briefly closed my eyes, wishing that this would disappear if I refused to look at the situation. “I should be used to it by now, don’t you think? Living with parents who yell at each other and ignore their daughter.”
I should’ve been used to it, but I wasn’t.
“Sophia.” I didn’t have my eyes open, but I could hear the hurt in Mom’s voice, broken and chopped.
The gear-grinding screech of bad brakes hinted that Walsh pulled into the driveway, ready to pick me up. Practically jumping down the stairs, I moved past Mom and Dad, making sure they couldn’t see how close I was to tears. “I’m going to Walsh’s.”
“Sophia, wait,” Dad called after me. “Let’s just talk, okay? Just wait—”
I hauled open the front door and whirled around. They’d stopped about a foot from me, an ironically united front. “I’m still here,” I told them slowly, my throat tight and pained, “even though it’s easier to pretend that I’m not.”
They were words that were better off unsaid, words that only did damage, and I watched as they did just that. Mom’s face crumpled in on itself, a look of sheer pain flitting across her features, and Dad’s frown broke into a defeated look. I so badly wanted this to be their wake up moment, the moment where they saw the error of their ways and everything would change. But hoping for that burned me in the past.
“Don’t wait up,” I told them, and I hate, hate, hated how my voice cracked. Without giving them a chance to respond, I pulled the door shut behind me.
I half expected them to open it back up and yell at me while I hurried down the porch steps, maybe even try to ground me again for talking back, but they didn’t.
Walsh was already out of his car and in the process of shutting the door when he spotted me cutting across the yard. He frowned, removing his sunglasses. “Those are not sweatpants, Sophie.”
“Get in the car,” I told him with a voice that was thick and splintered, my hand shaking as I reached for the handle. “And drive.”
Walsh didn’t hesitate, didn’t ask whether or not I was okay, didn’t look at me with a question in his eyes. He simply replied, with unwavering speed, “You got it.”
Chapter Seventeen
Walsh remained quiet as he pulled into the attached garage, effortlessly maneuvering it around the sports equipment that cluttered the space. He didn’t ask me what happened and I didn’t offer the information up. I couldn’t talk about it—not yet. So we sat in silence.
His fingers drummed against the worn steering wheel with a restless energy, knee bobbing up and down.
I couldn’t believe it. Walsh Hunter was actually nervous.
I’d taken enough deep breaths to get the tears to subside from my eyes, to get my voice back under control. But that didn’t mean that the emotions were gone; pain and hurt were still sitting just underneath the surface, simmering. “Wow, I would’ve thought you’d have a guy that parks your cars for you.”
Walsh glanced over at me, his eyes still shielded by darkened sunglasses, popping open his door. “We give him Saturdays off.”
I watched him as he slid from the car, moving effortlessly, like he was being filmed for a commercial, leaving me sitting incredulous.
Just before he shut the door, Walsh poked his head back inside. “I’m kidding. Come on, let’s go inside.”
The urge to hit him upside the head worked its way over me. Brat.
There was a small mudroom/hallway that connected the house to the gar
age, walls completely filled with windows. It was beautiful, of course, and way nicer than the main entrance of my house.
The idea of meeting his family was starting to sink in, delayed from my fight with my own parents. Walsh opened the glass door that led inside, stepping back to allow me to go first. Even as I passed, I could see his eyes darting around, not resting on a single place for too long. “Let’s go see what Chef Hunter is cooking up for us tonight, shall we?”
The little hallway deposited us in the formal dining room, with a crystal glass table that could fit twelve people. Four plates were set out with polished silverware, looking like a fancy restaurant setting. I felt so out of my depth.
As soon as I stepped over the threshold, I caught a whiff of sauce and melted cheese, like a gourmet pizzeria or a high-end Italian restaurant. I almost stopped in my tracks, the smell so good that my mouth instantly started watering. “Whatever that is, it smells like heaven.”
“It’s baked ziti with a cheese sauce, paired with garlic knots and a Caesar salad.” A man came out of the kitchen, stained apron covering his nice shirt. It had what looked like tomato sauce smeared across the front, and more questionable stains near the hem. “Or, at least, that’s what the recipe I printed off the internet said.”
The resemblance to Walsh was striking. Mr. Hunter’s hair was a bit duller than Walsh’s, still blond but streaked with gray, and almost the exact same length. The only thing different about the two of them were their eyes—Mr. Hunter’s were brown and framed by glasses.
“You must be the young lady my son is so obsessed with,” Walsh’s dad said warmly. Walsh’s eyes closed as his dad extended a hand, dirty with flour. Mr. Hunter’s face broke into a sheepish expression. “Oops, sorry. I’ve been cooking all day in preparation for this. My social skills are rusty.”