by Sarah Sutton
Walsh’s eyes were liquid pools of night, reflecting the moon, focused solely on me. “You aren’t selfish for wanting to be in a home, not an empty house. Where your parents check up on you, bake cookies, have movie nights. Where you’re loved, appreciated, and cared for. It’s not selfish for wanting things to be different. It’s your parents who are selfish. Not building up their relationship instead of tearing it down. Not building you up.”
Walsh knew exactly what to say, when to say it. It was like he was taught from a young age what exactly to say, to win over someone with a bat of his eye and the glint of his teeth. If a class existed for it, I needed to take it.
“It’s hard to remember my mom sober.” His words were almost as breathless as my own, being dragged from the pits of his soul. “It used to be an occasional thing, her drinking and getting drunk. And now—it feels like it’s been so long since it’s been her. Really her. I stay up at night until I hear her go to bed. Until I know she’s not wandering around the house, drunk—won’t fall down the stairs or something stupid.” Walsh’s jaw tightened as he stared up at the stars. A rough exhale ripped from his lungs, voice dropping low. “You’re not selfish for wishing things were different, Sophie. If you were, I’d be selfish too.”
The wind shifted across the baseball diamond and found us lying in the grass. Tears tugged at the corners of my eyes, but I desperately tried to blink them away. Walsh’s words, they unlocked something inside of me, opened part of my heart that made me feel warm and cold at the same time.
Walsh’s eyes darkened to the color of the deepest part of the ocean as they traced my face, and it was then that I realized how close his face was to mine. Mere inches separated us, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Any other thoughts dried up instantly, my body warming to a sharp degree.
Walsh sat up, pushing to his feet. He stretched a hand down. “We should get the equipment put away before it gets too dark to see.”
I rocked my head back in disappointment, allowing him to pull me up. But I didn’t stop moving, not until my arms were wrapped around his neck. It took him by surprise, and he rocked back a bit by the weight of my sneak attack. I hung on, needing him to ground me, the firmness of his shoulders and the strength of his arms as they swept around me.
Breathing in his scent, I felt like I was getting lost.
I think I already am.
“Thank you for listening,” I whispered into his shoulder.
“I told you I’d always listen.”
Walsh’s hand made a gentle, smooth gesture against my back, lulling, hypnotic. I could’ve stayed in that moment all night, under the glimmer set of stars and in the warm arms of Walsh Hunter. It was our first hug, first embrace. I could feel his heart beating through the fabric of his shirt—or was that my heartbeat, so rushed that it made me feel slightly dizzy? Because he was so close, and he smelled so good, and he was so warm. I don’t remember Scott ever being this warm.
I wanted closer, and I didn’t know what that meant.
Walsh’s voice sounded like it was inside my head, a whispery breath. “Sophie, I…” He trailed off, pulling back slightly.
In this moment, this quiet moment where the air became more charged than before, I found myself leaning closer, straining to hear what he might say next. “What?”
I watched his lips, waiting for them to part, to watch the way they moved when he spoke. And I knew—I just knew—I’d remember the way they curved forever. Because his words were soft, almost drowned out by the ringing in my ears.
“I really, really want to kiss you.”
Every part of my body froze solid, all of the air vanishing from my lungs. My stomach literally dropped to my toes, a sharp, rushing warmth flying through my veins. His hand holding mine was the only thing keeping me from falling away along with it.
They weren’t words I’d ever thought I’d hear him say, least of all to me. Not when there were no people around. This was the opposite of fake dating, and yet…
I wanted it so badly, but something in me hesitated. I knew that my feelings for him—unwise, unbidden, reckless and insane—were real. I couldn’t deny the way he made me feel. With just a simple look, he made me feel more myself than I ever had with Scott. Where I hid myself away for Scott, Walsh made me feel like I could spread my wings and fly.
But I couldn’t do it. Not without telling him about the article. I couldn’t let him kiss me, couldn’t open my heart to him and let him have the key, and still dig around behind his back.
If I kissed him, allowed myself to feel what I’d been trying to lock away, and he rejected me?
The effects would be devastating.
“You can’t kiss me.” I pulled away from his embrace, tearing myself from his gentle fingertips and seductive mouth in a desperate movement. “We…we made a rule.”
It was a rush of words, but they held their effect. This beautiful night started to crack to pieces, and I could practically see the shards falling to the grass.
Walsh scrubbed a hand across his mouth, quickly, roughly, as if he could wipe away his words, my words, all of it. “Right, yeah, the rule,” he said, voice sounding quite normal. “I’m sorry, I just—I forgot about our rule.”
I felt like I was choking. Oh, shoot me. Universe, just shoot me. “It’s fine, really. I just…I just don’t think…I mean…”
“The stars got me a little carried away.” When he smiled, I found my heart skipping a beat. He smiled like there was nothing wrong, like I hadn’t just rejected his kiss. Like this moment wasn’t that big of a deal, even though it was to me. The only sign that something was out of the ordinary was that he wouldn’t look me in the eye. “We should, uh, put this stuff away. I’ll grab the machine and the bat if you want to get the tee and the baseballs?”
Walsh didn’t wait for me to answer, turning to gather the equipment. I wanted to join him, but his words were still echoing in my head. I wasn’t sure I’d ever forget the feeling before I spoke. The feeling of falling, hoping arms would catch me before I hit the ground, but totally unsure of who would catch me. Or if anyone would.
However, the silence also brought other thoughts. He’d said that the stars carried him away. Did he only want to kiss me because of the mood? Did he only want to? Or was he like me, needing to?
I guess I’d never know.
Chapter Nineteen
I was expecting a grand welcoming when I got home, expecting my parents to be camped out, ready to shoot me down with loud words. My parents weren’t ones to let things fizzle out, and after our fight and leaving them like that, I was expecting confrontation of epic proportions.
Except my parents weren’t camped out. When Walsh dropped me off at the curb with an awkward, quiet goodbye, no parental figure was in sight.
I let myself in, locking the door behind me. The house was deadly silent. My parents hardly ever went to bed this early on a Saturday night, but their door was shut, and all the lights in the house were off.
For a long moment, I just stood in the hallway, breathing in the quiet.
“Sophia?”
I jumped at the sound of Dad’s voice, seeing him move into the hall. His hair was tousled, his t-shirt rumpled. He blinked, bleary-eyed.
For a moment, I entertained the idea that he’d been waiting up for me, wanting to make sure I got home safely. But surely that wasn’t the case. “Hey, Dad.”
We faced off, staring each other down. “How was Walsh’s?”
“Good,” I said cautiously. I wasn’t sure what sort of ground we stood on with each other, not since I ran out earlier. “I met his parents.”
“How are they?”
“Interesting.” I glanced around the quiet house. “Where’s Mom?”
“She’s sleeping. She wasn’t feeling well.” Dad moved across the hall from me and leaned into the railing of the stairs. He looked tired, bone-weary, exhaustion lines creasing his features and making him look ghostlike. “I like him, you know. Walsh. He seems like a gr
eat young man. You should bring him around more.”
It felt wrong, wrong, wrong to be lying to Dad, which didn’t make much sense. We’d just finished an outing of lying to Walsh’s parents, we’d been faking in front of his friends for weeks. Why lying to my dad was different, I had no clue. “He’s really busy with baseball, Dad.”
“We should go to one of his games sometime.”
I frowned. “You never went to any of Scott’s games.”
Dad’s response was simple, easy. “I didn’t like Scott.”
Of course. I couldn’t keep from rolling my eyes, heading for the staircase. “I’m going to bed.”
“We are trying, Sophia,” Dad murmured, forcing me to pause. “I want to do what’s right by you and your mother.”
A wave of tiredness rolled through me, and I bent down to untie my shoes, needing to look at something other than him. “This is what you two do,” I said sharply, bitterly, all the compound hurt and anger hitting me at once. “You argue and you tear down your relationship instead of building it up. Doing your best isn’t giving up—it’s putting your all in.”
Dad raised his hand to knock my words right out of the air. “You’re too young. It’s hard to understand.”
“I’m seventeen, Dad. You may have missed a few birthdays, but I’m not a kid anymore.”
Dad’s eyes widened at my words, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he was shocked at me being seventeen or my other comment. I was in this room, this narrow hallway, with this man who looked at me so intensely, but I never felt more alone, more unheard.
We exchanged a long look with each other before I turned and headed up the stairs, leaving him in the hallway and taking my lonely thoughts with me.
* * *
I wasn’t sure when I’d started to become a teenage girl who thought idiotically about boys. Especially the teenage girl who thought idiotically about Walsh Hunter. I didn’t want to be “that girl,” but Walsh’s words played constantly, like a never-ending tune that I didn’t want to get out of my head.
I really, really want to kiss you.
My skin still remembered the faint trace of his fingertips, his breath tickling my hair as his lean body pressed close.
My response had touched the tip of my tongue, frantic and relieved. I really, really want you to kiss me.
Why, oh why had I pushed him away? To torture myself, surely. I should’ve just kissed him and suffered the consequences. They couldn’t have been worse than now, lying in my bed, replaying the near-moment over and over.
And it was real. He couldn’t fake that look he gave me. No one was around to witness it. There was nothing to prove and no one to prove anything to. He couldn’t have been faking it.
Right?
I threw all my confusion into my writing, trying to distract myself from the reality that was boggling my brain. My pen scrambled to keep up with the words as they shot through my head.
“‘Each spring, the locals are riled up with the smell of freshly popped popcorn, the smell of fresh grass in the air, and the clack of a ball hitting the metal bat. Bayview High is no different,’” I read aloud as I wrote, trying to get my pen to move faster. “‘Every school has a sport that brings people together. Some schools prefer football, but at Bayview High, they like to play ball. And they’re good at it. Four straight years of county championship trophies in a glass case seem to prove so, but what if the players praised like gods are more sinful than angelic?’”
I heard a car door slam shut outside, immediately throwing my not-so-fantastic-writing to a halt. My alarm clock only read just after eleven, and no one should’ve been home that early on a Monday. After waiting a few seconds, I heard the front door open and promptly slam shut.
Abandoning my pencil and notebook, I tip-toed toward my bedroom door and peeked down the steps. Nothing. I didn’t even hear anyone, not Mom’s footsteps or Dad’s breathing.
I sidestepped Shiba on the staircase, gripping the railing and peering into the living room. It was also empty, as was the kitchen. The lights were off, the TV was off, no sign of life existed.
The door to the bathroom hung slightly ajar, the lights glowing from the crack between the wood and the jamb. A shuffling noise came from within, and I slid off the last step, walking into the doorway.
My mom leaned against the toilet, her light hair falling out of her bun, her workout shirt darkened with moisture. The stinging scent of vomit clung to the air, and I pressed a hand to my nose. “Mom, are you okay?”
A lame question, because she clearly wasn’t, but she lifted a hand from the porcelain. “I’m fine, I’m fine.” She fought to keep her voice even and made a noise in the back of her throat.
I took a slight step back, afraid she’d throw up again. I didn’t think I could handle hearing her get sick.
“Do you want me to call Dad?” I asked, wavering in the doorway, strangely embarrassed for witnessing my own mother curled against the bathroom floor.
But she evidently wasn’t as concerned as me, and she stretched up to pull the handle of the toilet. “No, no need, I’m feeling much better.” Mom glanced up at me. Her mascara was smudged like a black eye under her lashes, her cheeks red and eyes swollen. “I’ve just been queasy for the past few days.”
I thought about the day she came home from work sick and napped the rest of the day. “Have you seen a doctor?”
“It’s just stress,” she assured me, holding a hand out. “Help me up.”
I got her to her feet, surprised by how weak her grip was. “Are you going back to the studio?”
Mom gave me a soft smile, like she enjoyed how concerned I was. She patted at her ratty bun, trying to smooth it down. “No, I canceled my afternoon sessions. I’m going to brush my teeth,” she told me, moving to close the door between us. “Do you want to make some lunch? Maybe sandwiches?”
Even though a moment like this would’ve normally bothered me, her asking for something when I hardly asked for anything, I hurried to agree.
I padded my way to the kitchen, the buzzing of Mom’s electric toothbrush buzzing growing fainter and fainter. I forced myself to think of other things. Not my article and definitely not Walsh.
So I thought of my parents. Like two pieces of fabric, Mom a wild floral pattern and Dad a thick piece of flannel. At one point, they fit together like puzzle pieces, perfect, sewed to perfection, but the more times they ripped apart, the less perfect it was each time, the stitches failing to hold.
For the first time in a long time, I wondered what it was like when Mom and Dad were young. Whether or not their love story was a spark of a connection or a slow burn. Did they quickly embrace the other’s strange quirks? Was it work that drove them apart? Dad’s late nights, Mom’s early mornings?
I’d grown up wondering if my love story was going to be like theirs. An echo of their music, a cover of their song. Doomed to relive their mistakes. I always wondered if it was inescapable, especially when I was with Scott. Resigned to only be around people who barely needed me.
And even now, I still wondered. But for the first time ever, when I thought about my love story, I didn’t feel discouraged. I actually felt…hopeful.
* * *
After sandwiches, I left Mom on the couch and retreated back to my room, falling on my bed. Lying there, I was barely breathing as I waited for a message from Walsh. But there was nothing. Not a single text, and not even a missed call.
Why wouldn’t he call? After two days, wouldn’t he have sent something? Wasn’t he thinking the same thing I was, constantly replaying Saturday night in his head?
Oh gosh, what if he wasn’t? What if that whole ordeal really meant nothing to him?
I let my phone fall to my chest, staring at the ceiling. A crack ran through the plaster near the light fixture, in the shape of a wiggly lightning bolt. I needed to grab a book and read, get my mind off everything, and just lose myself in the words. I was good at that. That was something I knew, not boys and ex-boyfriends and
fake boyfriends and prospective boyfriends. That was all uncharted territory to me.
But the idea of Walsh not thinking twice about Saturday night left a tight pressure in my throat, like something was being pulled taut inside of me.
Was this all a game to him? Walsh? And Saturday night, just another game?
Ugh, I needed to just call him. Edith would tell me to call him. She’d tell me to stop being a chicken and just call him. Edith—
My phone vibrated, and it about flew out of my hand because I jerked it up so fast that my skin zapped alive. I answered it without even looking at the ID. “Hello?
“Hearing your voice sounds so weird!” Edith’s chipper voice rang out from the other line, much too high pitch for my low mood. “It’s been too long. How hath the dark ages been, young one?”
I groaned, disappointed.
“Sheesh, that bad? Oh, wait. You thought I was lover boy, didn’t you?” Edith clicked her tongue, a loud noise even through the cell phone. “Figures. Can I come in?”
“Come in where?”
“Into your house, silly. Your front door isn’t locked, but your mom’s car is home early for a Monday morning, and I wanted to make sure the warden wouldn’t get mad or anything.”
I could almost see her cupping one hand over her eyes, peering into one of the windows, chatting away. “Yeah, I’m in my room. Just be quiet. Mom’s sleeping downstairs.”
The front door creaked open over the phone, and I heard the quiet click as she shut it. “I feel like this is a boss level in one of my brother’s video games. Do not wake the mother unit.” I could hear her on the stairs. “Don’t roll your eyes at me.”
“I didn’t.”
“Please. I could practically hear those things rolling through the phone.”
And then she poked her head into my bedroom, smiling, her cell still pressed to her ear. I disconnected the call first, setting it back on my nightstand. “Hey.”