Announcing Trouble

by Amy Fellner Dominy

  I slant him a look. “Is that weird?”

  He straightens one of the frames. “It is what it is.”

  I take a few more steps and come to a strip of handwriting on the wall with black slashes and dates. “What’s this?”

  “My mom used to measure us every year, growing up. She marked our heights and ages along with the date.” He points to a fading black marker and I follow the lines down, sinking into a crouch. The penmanship at the very bottom is different. I glance up and Garrett must read the question in my eyes.

  “My dad started it.”

  “You were two?”

  He nods. “Felice was six. She wanted to know how tall she was before a trip to Disneyland. That gave him the idea and my mom kept it up over the years.”

  The very next line was written by his mom. His next words confirm what I’m thinking. “My dad quit on us when I was three.”

  Maybe there are no charmed lives—not even the ones that look like they are. I trace a finger up the line of Garrett’s history, standing as I do. “But this is cool. One day I want a wall like this.”

  “You moved around a lot?”

  “Never stayed in a place more than two years.”

  “Must have been hard.”

  “It is what it is,” I say, using his earlier words.

  A smile flickers over his lips. “What was it really like?”

  I lean against the wall, letting myself remember. “It was hard starting new schools, hard to make friends. But I hung out at the stadiums as much as I could, so it wasn’t as if I was lonely.”

  “You were close to your dad back then?”

  “We were a real father-daughter duo for a while.” I hate the bitterness that’s crept into my voice. “Anyway. I’d had enough of baseball when we moved here. I always liked to read so I joined the school book club for something to do. That’s how I met Mai.”

  “And how you ended up at a baseball game.”

  “And how I ended up here, shocking as that may be.”

  “Not shocking,” he says with one of his easy smiles. “Fated. Come on. Computer’s in my bedroom. You’re going to have to brave the Room of Sin.”

  I roll my eyes. “I’m surprised you don’t have that engraved on the door.”

  “Good idea, Walters.”

  I’m back on solid ground when he leads me into his room. There are no piles of clothes to climb over, but he does drop his pack next to a desk and quickly straightens the comforter on his bed.

  “Oh my God, is that a stuffed bear?” I ask.

  He’s tucking something under the comforter but he pauses and a second later, turns with it in his hand. It is a stuffed bear. He’s wearing a Cubs baseball jersey and hat. “His name is Wrigley, if you don’t mind.” He sets him back on his pillow. “Wrigley belonged to my uncle Max.”

  My smile fades, but a knot of memory loosens in my chest. “I had a Cubs bear, too. Mine had a batting helmet.” I take a look at the rest of his room and realize I had a lot of the same kinds of things. His room is painted a deep blue and covered in posters of the Arizona Diamondbacks and a framed ticket from the 2001 World Series. There’s a shelf of baseball bobble head dolls, team pennants, a crate full of baseballs, tattered gloves, and an old wooden Louisville Slugger bat. But what holds my attention are two rows of framed jerseys on the wall behind his bed.

  “Are those yours?”

  He slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “My mom can’t throw anything away.”

  “Yeah, I think my mom has a bunch of mine stuffed in a closet somewhere.”

  His face lights up. “You played?”

  “Oh yeah. T-ball, Pee Wee, Little League, even some club ball. I was good, too.”

  “That I believe.” The look in his eyes warms me. “What position?”

  “Pitcher. I had a good fastball.”

  “I bet you did.”

  I wait for a teasing smile, but the look in his eyes is sincere. I flush, his appreciation affecting me more than I want it to. I turn my attention away, focusing on the frames as a distraction. I realize they’re really shadow boxes, each holding a jersey from a different team. The jerseys are all different sizes—the smallest looks like it would fit an infant. “Very sweet,” I say.

  “I prefer to think of them as the physical manifestation of a sporting passion.”

  “Have you been talking to Mai?”

  “It’s the title of my final essay for English.”

  I widen my eyes. “Who helped you with the big words?”

  He gives me an angelic smile. “The cheerleading team. They do that kind of thing for me.”

  “Oh, please. You like playing up the stereotypes, don’t you?”

  “Only because you like believing them.”

  I hesitate—unsure what to say. He folds his arms across his chest, eyebrows raised, blue eyes challenging, and waits. He knows he’s got me. The truth is, I would have believed that about him a few weeks ago. Now, I know better. I know him better.

  “Fine,” I admit. “I might have judged you a little quickly, but I do have a locker near yours, remember? And you were acting the part, too. Ordering me around and shooting your finger gun and flipping back your hair.”

  “I don’t flip my hair,” he says. “I ruffle it in a manly way.” He demonstrates. “And to be clear, I think what you’re saying is that I’m a great guy, and you’re sorry for ever doubting it.”

  “Don’t push your luck.” But there’s a smile under my grumble.

  He disappears into the hall and comes back a minute later carrying a chair. He sets it beside the one already in front of the computer.

  “The wall of jerseys might make a good backdrop for our interview,” I say.

  He glances over his shoulder. “Sure. I’ll tell the guys you were making excuses to get back into my bedroom.”

  “Garrett Reeves,” I say, with evil in my voice. “You are not going to ruin my reputation.”

  “You don’t have a reputation, Walters. In fact, you’re in desperate need of one, but don’t worry. You’ve come to the right place.” He clears the desk of a few textbooks and a stack of notebook paper. “You can thank me later.”

  “I’m not adding my name to your list of castoffs.”

  “They’re not castoffs.” He sits beside me. “They’re happy runners up.”

  I gape, torn between laughing and groaning. “Do you say this crap to other girls?”

  “Of course not. But I feel like I can say anything to you.” He pauses, as if thinking that through. “Is that weird?”

  My brain immediately pulls apart what he just said, rearranging the words until they say, You’re special, Josie. I hide the thought behind a shrug, wishing I could shut my brain off for good. “I say weird shit to you, too.”

  “You mean you give me shit.”

  His smile eases my tension but does nothing to stop the flutter in the pit of my stomach along with an unbidden thought: You’re special, too.

  I half stand, moving my chair over a few inches. I need a reset. I am not going to think about Garrett like that. He’s already in love—with baseball. If I need more reasons to keep my distance, Garrett can recite a hundred of them.

  “So you ready for the link to my site?” I ask, pointing to the computer.

  He slides his hand over the mouse. “Let’s do it.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  An hour later, Garrett has done more than add some sidebars. He took the template I started, improved the graphics, changed colors and fonts, added features I didn’t know were possible and put together a newer, cleaner site. He’s got a better sense of design than I do, which he said was obvious to anyone who sees the way we both dress. It was hard to argue since I am still wearing Orange Crush. He’s linked our featured products to buying pages and incorporated all the ordering information.

  “What title do you want for the sidebar?” he asks.

  “Just put skin care for now. It’s my mom’s niche.”

&
nbsp; “She has a niche?”

  “You have to. Lots of people sell essential oils, so you need a specialty. Cleaning products, or health care, or oils for moms with new babies.”

  He wiggles the mouse and a box pops up. He starts typing. “So what’s your niche?”

  “Skin care. I just told you.”

  “That’s your mom’s thing.”

  “Her thing is my thing. It’s going to be our business.”

  “You can’t take her niche. You gotta pick something that matters to you.”

  “Like what?” I ask drily. “Essential oils for baseball players? Healing rubs that regrow elbows and cartilage?”

  His hand freezes. “They have that?”

  “No!” I smack his shoulder, and then point to the computer screen. “Save that before the power surges.”

  “The power isn’t going to surge.” But he saves it, and then finishes creating the sidebar. “There has to be something you love about AromaTher. Otherwise it’s just a job.”

  “That’s the point. It is a job. And it comes with a paycheck.”

  He shifts back in his seat. “That’s…sad.”

  “What’s sad about doing a job well and getting paid well? Not everyone has a passion, Blondie. If you ask me, you’re better off if you don’t.” I can see he wants to argue, so I speak before he can. “I grew up with a dreamer, and he surrounded himself with other dreamers. I saw it play out a hundred times. All you’re doing is setting yourself up for failure.”

  “Jeez, Walters. You sound like my dad.”

  “Is he really so bad?” I ask. “He wants you to have something to fall back on if baseball doesn’t work out.”

  “He doesn’t want baseball to work out.”

  He’s getting angry, and with all I’ve been through with my dad, I’m having a hard time feeling sorry for him. “At least he wants you with him now. He wants you to come and work with him.”

  “Now, when it’s convenient for him.” His eyes narrow. “You think you were the only one without a perfect father? When I was little, my sister Felice was in and out of hospitals. The three of us kids were under seven and my mom was barely holding it together. That’s when I needed my dad, and you know what he did? He left. He quit because it was too hard for him.”

  His words land on my lungs like bricks. In his eyes, I see a reflection of everything I still feel. Anger. Sadness. Betrayal.

  “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

  He turns away a second, his voice rough. “It’s not something I share. Not usually.”

  The words seem to cost him something. Maybe that’s why I’m able to open up. “It was easier for my dad to leave, too. He didn’t even consider staying. And when he got to Japan, he told reporters that he would have made it to the major leagues if he hadn’t had the distraction of a family.”

  His head shakes with the same sense of helplessness I feel. “That was one of my dad’s tricks, too. Blame it on us. On the kids.”

  Our eyes meet. We’re sitting so close I can see flecks of green in his blue irises.

  “How does a parent do that?” he says. “Make a kid feel like they’re to blame. What are we supposed to do with that? Feel like shit every time we open our mouths or need a Band-Aid?”

  “You think if you’re good, if you’re worthy, it’ll be okay.”

  “And then they leave anyway.”

  His words are followed by a heavy silence. The fronds of a bush brush the window glass. The wind must have picked up while I’ve been here.

  “I’m sorry,” he says.

  “Not your fault.”

  “I mean that I keep bringing up your dad.”

  That causes a small smile. “You didn’t know.”

  “Do you…” He pauses. “Do you talk to him?”

  The computer screen flashes black and then the screen saver comes on. A swirl of baseballs in a field of green. They bounce from corner to corner, locked in a never-ending loop.

  “I haven’t in about two years.” In my mind I see my suitcase toppling down the incline. Yankees blue and covered in fading baseball decals. Side over side, dust shooting up as it bounced and skidded and tore out of my life. I’m shocked to feel tears dangerously close to the surface. I blink hard, my eyes stinging.

  “I did it again,” Garrett says. His hand rises to smooth back loose hairs over my ear. “Sorry, Josie.” I shake my head, and I know I should pull away, but I don’t. It feels good, this connection. I’ve never talked about my dad with anyone who really got it.

  “It’s their loss,” he says.

  “Damn right.”

  His eyes roam over my face. I start to smile, but my breath catches as his gaze settles on my mouth.

  All the emotion, so close to the surface, slowly shifts, bubbling into something new. Heat rises in me—sudden and hot as if it’s been simmering there and the look in his eyes has brought it to a boil.

  His thumb moves over my cheek, but it’s not comforting.

  It’s questioning.

  It’s wanting.

  His eyes are so dark I think he’s boiling, too. “Josie,” he says, barely audible, and yet my name is a roar in my head.

  My face lifts, my breath fast, but not as fast as his. Our lips are close. So close we’re sharing the same air. So close I can almost taste him.

  Can taste how much I want to kiss him.

  Want him to kiss me.

  Stupid bad idea. Oh God. Kiss me. Please kiss me.

  No!

  I yank myself back with a sharp breath of sound that breaks the mood. He jerks away. My heart hammers at my own fierce emotions.

  His hand, the one I can still feel on my cheek, is rubbing over his mouth as if wiping away a kiss that never happened. His eyes meet mine, stricken. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—I shouldn’t… It’s not—” He swallows. “I—” He dips his head and runs a hand through his hair. “Shit.”

  I know exactly how he feels. “Garrett.” I lick my lips and then wish I hadn’t when the movement draws his gaze to my mouth. My pulse is sprinting. The question I blurt isn’t planned or thought out, but it’s the only one that matters. “What are you doing on Saturdays? With Kyle Masters.”

  It takes a second for him to look me in the eye, but he’s not surprised, that’s obvious.

  “You’re training with him, aren’t you? You’re still hoping to play.” I hold my breath because his answer determines this. Determines us.

  His nod is small but certain. “My dad has agreed I can have until graduation to make a comeback. If that doesn’t happen, I do it his way. College. Accounting. I can’t afford to live on my own.”

  “What about your mom?”

  “She’s always supported my dream, but after my grades dropped…” He blows out a long breath. “He’s got her convinced this will be good for me. So I’m down to my last shot.”

  Disappointment curls my fingers into fists. Without admitting it to myself, part of me has been hoping he’d given up on playing again. That he might find a way to stay in baseball without stepping on a field again—without living that life. “What about your arm? The bones might have healed, but what about the torn labrum in your shoulder? That’s not an injury most pitchers come back from. How can you create the velocity you need?”

  “Not every pitcher relies on speed.”

  “Oh, so you’re going to be the one successful sinker ball expert?”

  “Not the only one. Brandon Webb. Derek Lowe.”

  “There’s also Braden Garnet. Ever heard of him?” But of course he hasn’t. “He was on my father’s Double A team. He messed up his arm, just like you, and tried coming back as a side-arm pitcher. Then he tweaked that to throw submarine style. Ended up wrecking his arm even more, and he never made it back.”

  “At least he tried.”

  My voice rises. “Did you even hear what I said? He fucked up his arm. That means lifelong pain. You really want that?”

  His jaw hardens. “It’s one story.”

  I w
ant to shake him. “And your arm is holding up?”

  He looks away, but not before I see a flash of pain. So no, the arm is not holding up. “What’s your brilliant Plan E, Garrett? You gonna try pitching leftie next? Is that it? See what you can do to your other arm?”

  “Other guys have made the change.”

  “Are you serious?” Tears hover behind my lids. Angry, frustrated tears because he’s never going to give up, and that means everything I’m starting to feel for him is a mistake. “There’s always some other guy, Garrett. Always. It doesn’t mean it’s going to be you.”

  “But you don’t know that it won’t be me.”

  “You have no idea how much I know.” My voice trembles, but I don’t care. “I lived that life. Rookie ball, Low A, High A, Double A, Triple A. Up and down and down and up. Lying awake at night checking stats on my computer because if my dad had a hit then tomorrow would be a good day. And if he went enough nights without a hit, then it meant we might have to move again.”

  I close my eyes, swallowing against the rise of other, darker memories. When my gaze finds his again, my eyes don’t waver. “I will never get involved with a guy chasing that dream.”

  He doesn’t look away. “And I will never get serious with anyone until I’m done chasing.” He slides his chair back, putting more space between us. “What almost happened—it won’t happen again.”

  I nod in agreement. I feel like I was standing too close to the edge of a cliff and barely saved myself from going over.

  “Friends?” he asks.

  “No,” I say. “Partners.”

  The word expands between us, creating distance. “Partners” is safe. “Partners” is the way we planned it. We’re together for the contest, for a chance to prove myself. For Garrett to find a way back into the thing he’ll always love more than anything or anyone.

  “I should get going,” I say. I busy myself with my backpack, though there’s really nothing for me to do. I never even unzipped it.

  “I’ll drive you home. Let me find my keys.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And I’ll get you a flash drive with everything we did here tonight.”

  “Thank you for the website, Garrett. You didn’t have to do this, and I, well, whatever our disagreements are, I want you to know I appreciate it.” He nods, and I follow him out. My heart, safe behind its protective wall, still feels the loss.