by Julie Cross
I can’t look at Dad. I can’t even move a muscle, but I see Savannah shoving him from behind.
Savannah’s eyes sweep the room. I start breathing fast, anxious breaths. My clothes are scattered everywhere. My bra is lying over a chair out in the open. Finally, my gaze lifts up to Dad. I’ve never seen him so shocked, like a rug has been yanked out from under him and his non-leg has been swiped in a matter of seconds.
We all watch as Dad slowly raises his hands up in front of him, shaking his head. His focus zooms in on Brody, who looks absolutely petrified. “How could you? I trusted you. Anything else…anything at all could be forgivable, but this—”
“Listen, just let me explain—” Brody pleads.
“Don’t talk to me right now! I’m trying very hard not to kill you, and I suggest you don’t give me another reason to add onto this pile.” Dad turns to me, his features sharp. “Get your clothes, Ann.”
I’m still frozen in place, my gaze bouncing between Dad and Brody. But when Dad raises his voice and adds, “Now!” I move quickly, snatching my jeans and my Royals T-shirt from the floor. Savannah tucks my bra and panties into the pile in my arms and steers me toward the door.
“We were gonna tell you,” Brody starts, even though Dad told him not to say anything.
“Tell me what?” Dad booms. “That you’re playing games with my daughter?”
“You didn’t have a problem with me hanging out with her before,” Brody argues.
“That’s because I never thought you’d cross that line with her!” Dad is turning a light shade of purple. I sink back against Savannah, not sure what to do. I want to say something, but I don’t want to make things worse. “I’ve spent practically her whole life keeping her away from guys like you.”
“Guys like me?” Brody repeats, hurt and disgust rolling around with the words. “You mean a former juvenile delinquent from the wrong side of the tracks? Right. I get it.”
“It’s true. That’s what you are. What the hell do you want me to say? That I’m okay with all that?” Dad’s voice shakes. “I thought you were better than what they say about you, but you’re not. You’re not the man I thought you were.”
The pain on Brody’s face is so obvious, it’s almost too hard to look at him. It hurts too much.
“Jim…” Savannah says, stepping around me to grip the back of Dad’s shirt. “That’s enough.”
Dad shrugs off her grip but turns, heading for the door. His hands land on my shoulders, and he pushes me out in front of him. He doesn’t let go of me until we’re safely in the confines of my and Lenny’s suit.
I turn to face him. I need to tell him it’s my fault, not Brody’s. “Dad—”
He stops me, his hands balling up at his sides. “Not now, Ann. Not now.”
“But Dad,” I say, my clothes still in my arms, “it’s not Brody’s fault.”
I move closer, and he backs away. Tears tumble down my cheeks. I hate this wall between us. We’ve never had a wall before. “Please, Dad, just listen to me. This isn’t a one-time thing. We’ve been together—like a real couple—for a while.”
“Is that supposed to help me understand what the hell is going on in my own daughter’s life? Is that supposed to make me feel better about you screwing a nineteen-year-old ballplayer?” He shakes his head. “I don’t even know you right now.”
The knot full of guilt that I had in my stomach yesterday over Brody’s game is nothing compared to the one I have now. For lying to Dad. For hiding this from him. I never want to see him so disappointed, so shocked, so lonely again.
I drop the clothes from my arms and tighten the borrowed robe. “Dad, tell me what to do to fix this. Please, I’ll do anything…” I choke up on the last word, swallowing back more tears.
Some of the anger drops from Dad’s face, and he finally meets my gaze. “Anything?”
I exhale, close my eyes, and nod.
“Stay away from him,” Dad says, his voice quiet but dead serious. “No calling, no texting, no running together, no ballgames.”
The lump in my throat grows, and several more tears spill down my cheeks, but I wipe them away quickly. I want to tell him that I can’t give up Brody, but I know if I do, things will never be good between him and Brody again. And I can’t do that to Brody. He needs my dad, in some ways more than he’ll ever need me. I wrap my arms around my waist and manage to say, “Okay.”
Relief washes over Dad’s features, and he moves closer, both hands landing gently on my arms. He lowers his head until we’re at eye level. “Look at me, Ann.” I draw in a breath and nod. “I know his type. I know that down the road, this will be the best decision you’ll ever make. Trust me, okay?”
The door to Lenny’s bedroom opens, and she emerges wearing pajama pants and a confused expression. A knock on the hotel room door followed by Savannah alerting us that it’s her on the other side—where was that warning earlier in Brody’s room?—causes Dad to release me and let Savannah in.
“Did I miss something?” Lenny whispers to me.
I just shake my head and wipe away a few more tears that escape.
Dad and Savannah have this silent showdown. I don’t know what it’s about, but he turns his head, looking pissed off all over again. His hand is on the door, ready to leave, but before he does, he turns to Lenny and me. “Do not leave this room, understand?”
Savannah touches his shoulder. “Jim, you can’t go back to—”
“I’m just going for a damn walk,” Dad snaps, and then he’s on the other side of the door.
I sink onto the couch, finally feeling the impact of what has just happened. What I’ve just agreed to.
My hands are shaking and I’m crying again when Savannah stands in front of me and asks, calm professional face planted on, “How long has this been going on?”
I wipe my face and take a breath. “Since summer…end of June, I think.”
She looks at Lenny. “I take it you knew?”
Lenny’s eyes widen. She looks from Savannah to me and finally nods, probably realizing what has happened this morning while she slept in.
Savannah sighs. “You should have told me, Annie. It goes beyond you and your dad. Brody’s reputation is on the line. Do you know what this could do to him? You know better than anyone how hard he’s worked to overcome all these obstacles, to be respected.”
“It’s not my fault people are so judgmental and won’t see us as anything but Brody hooking up with a high school girl,” I say with some trace of defiance. I need to argue with someone about this. Dad was too hurt to have this fight with him.
“No,” Savannah says, returning the defiance and anger. “That’s what they’ll think if you sneak around and get caught. If someone else is the one to break the story.”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
But Savannah isn’t finished. “Sneaking around is what impulsive, immature teenagers do, Annie. If you want the relationship to be taken seriously, if you want to be treated like an adult, then you should have been honest and upfront about it. I could have worked with this. I could have spun it into a story that people would root for rather than look down on. But that’s a little hard to do when there’s evidence of Brody at red carpet premieres and big fund-raisers with girls who aren’t you.”
The knot of guilt doubles in size. I should have listened to Brody a month ago when he wanted to tell Dad. All I could think about was myself and how I didn’t want to confront Dad about it. How hard it would be for me. Never once, even last night, did I really see myself telling Dad, standing up to him and asking for him to accept us. And we just punched him right in the gut with it instead of easing him into the idea. In Dad’s mind, Brody and I went from friends to naked in a hotel room together. Overnight.
The tears come down at a nonstop pace, and Lenny takes a seat beside me, her body stiff with nerves. I shake my head and finally say, “It doesn’t matter now. It’s over.”
Chapter 29
BRODY: You ok?
/> BRODY: Annie, come on. talk to me…
BRODY: your dad won’t even stand in the same dugout as me. I can’t have both of you ignoring me
BRODY: ok. I get it now. You picked him. I would probably do the same. So yeah, I get it
“No cell phones, Annie,” Coach K reminds me.
I glance over Brody’s messages one last time—text messages that stopped more than a week ago—before dropping the phone into my gym bag. One of my teammates has my race number and safety pins in her hands, ready to help me.
I’ve read those texts from Brody at least a hundred times, and every time, this sinking feeling that I’m doing something wrong by not replying gets heavier. But it’s the opposite. Replying would be wrong. I promised Dad. I shouldn’t have even read Brody’s words.
Another part of me argues, What if it was an emergency? What if Brody needed something? Who else would he contact? No one. He has no one else. But he might have my dad again if I stay away.
“You ready, Ann?”
I shake out of my haze and glance up to see Dad standing beside Coach K under our cross-country team’s tent.
“Did you hear the news?” Dad says. “The Dartmouth track coach is here, recruiting distance runners.”
I force a smile. After my teammate Kennedy has finished pinning on my number, I busy myself helping her with hers.
“Could be a big day for you,” Dad says.
I attempt to joke. “With my grades?”
“You have a three point oh.”
Technically this is true, but that’s because an occasional A balances out an occasional C. I doubt Dartmouth lets in students with Cs. Athlete or not, they’re still Ivy League. And this recruiter is not even watching my best events—the mile and two mile, on a track, not up and down muddy hills like this cross-country race. Which is three miles. A distance that seems especially daunting today.
Just when I’m about to fake an ankle sprain so I can go home and lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling, the varsity runners are called to the starting line. Dad gives me a hug and plants a kiss on top of my head, wishing me luck. I try to look fired up, but I’m not.
Not even a little bit.
All I can think about when the gun fires, signaling the start of the race, or when I’m barely making my way to the middle of the pack, is how much I miss my runs with Brody. I miss thinking about him during a race. I miss thinking about him thinking about me.
With every runner that breezes past me, the voice in my head grows louder, telling me that I’m tired, that it hurts too much, that I can’t. I just can’t.
My chest aches, and my stomach, too. My arms and legs feel heavy, like dead weight. I rub my palm against my chest.
So this is what a broken heart feels like.
“Are you hurt? Sick?” Dad asks on the ride home from the meet.
Yes. I’m hurt and sick. Even on my worst day, my times are never terrible, so it wasn’t a total flop. But I definitely didn’t give Dartmouth any reason to overlook my non-spectacular grades.
I shrug and stare out the passenger window. Dad pats my leg and smiles. “Dartmouth is probably full of east coast snobs anyway.”
I glance at him for a second, attempting a smile, and then clutch my phone tightly in one hand. I can’t read Brody’s messages again like I want to, but I can feel them through my fingers. He understands why I’m doing what I’m doing. Why I’m choosing Dad. That should make this easier, but it only makes me worry about Brody more.
Dad pulls into our driveway but doesn’t move to get out of the car. “I’ve got to get to the stadium. We started batting practice at ten, so I’m already late.”
“Right.” The pennant race. Game one. This afternoon. Yankees. I grip the door handle, preparing to exit. “Thanks for coming to my race, Dad. You’re allowed to miss one every once in a while, you know?”
He grins. “Not a chance.”
“Even if I suck, like today?”
The smile drops from his face. “You didn’t suck, Ann. You qualified for state. Nothing sucky about that.”
I exhale and nod, the heaviness returning to my legs and chest.
“Get some rest, okay? Load up on carbs.” Dad reaches for my hand and gives it a squeeze. “I love you.”
“Love you, too, Dad.” Tears are brimming in my eyes, so I exit quickly and head for the front door before he can see any fall down my face. I can’t even explain the emotional outbursts that keep hitting me when I least expect it. It’s been this way for well over a week. It’s more than breakup aftermath. Something is wrong, something I need to fix or undo. I can’t shake it. Nothing I do to please Dad is helping. And I thought it would. I thought Dad’s forgiveness was the answer.
After dismissing Caroline, I curl up with Grams on the couch while she watches the Game Show Network. I try to hide the fact that I’m crying even though Grams isn’t going to tell Dad or anyone, but she still notices.
She shakes her head at me. “Always so dramatic, Ginny.” But then she lifts a hand, reaches over, and rubs my back until I fall asleep. I try to pretend it’s the real Grams with me, the one who knows me as Annie. It helps a little.
When I wake up nearly two hours later, Grams is still beside me—thank God—but she’s no longer watching Game Show Network.
She’s turned on the ballgame. Even though I vowed not to watch it, even though it’s probably going to kill me to see Brody on the pitcher’s mound, I sit up, eyeing the remote control lying on the couch between Grams and me.
And I leave it right where it is.
Chapter 30
“Rookie of the Year or not, Jason Brody should come out of this game.”
And that’s how I find out that Brody was voted Rookie of the Year. Not from him, not from Dad or even Savannah, not from the internet or newspapers, because I’ve steered clear of those. The source of this big piece of news comes from an offhand comment the game announcers make during the seventh inning.
Over the course of the game, I’ve drifted from the couch, to the living room carpet, to sitting a foot from the TV like maybe if I get close enough I can teleport to the game.
“He’s struggling, Bob. Frank Steadman might have claimed this flu wouldn’t affect his pitching, but obviously it has.”
Flu? Is Brody sick?
“And this is not the kind of game you want to play at less than a hundred percent.”
I snatch my phone from the coffee table and quickly type in: Jason Brody flu. While I’m waiting for results, I watch Grams’s head fall to the side. Her trademark snoring rises above the announcers’ voices.
The headlines pop up on my phone, all stating the same thing: Royals pitcher and Rookie of the Year is down and out with a nasty flu bug during the biggest game series of his life.
My own grim feelings get pushed aside, while I lean in closer to the TV, studying Brody. He looks pale. The camera zooms in on his face as he winds up, showing the dark purple lines beneath his eyes. He looks miserable.
Brody walks another Yankee batter, and Frank calls a time-out. Frank walks toward Dad first, but Dad turns his back and heads to the bullpen. To an outsider, it probably looks like they made a decision about who to put in Brody’s place and Dad has gone to let the pitcher know, but I’m not sure that’s what happened. I think Frank tried to ask for Dad’s input, and he refused.
Because Brody is involved.
Now who’s being immature?
Frank joins Brody on the mound, claps him on the shoulder, and they duck their heads, exchanging words. The station goes to commercial for three minutes and when they return, Brody is in the dugout, now wearing a jacket zipped all the way up. His head is resting against the wall of the dugout like he’s not strong enough to hold it up.
I snatch the remote and crank the volume up so I can hear the announcers over Grams’s snoring.
“What most people don’t realize is the toll dehydration can take on your body. Especially when you’re playing a game this big. There’s no room
for weakness.”
“Let’s just hope Brody gets the rest and hydration he needs before it’s his turn in the lineup again. The Royals owe much of their record-breaking season to this rookie.”
“Absolutely, Bob. Also, Frank Steadman and Jim Lucas have really done a great job turning this team around.”
There is about five seats’ worth of space between Brody and the other players on the bench. One of the trainers squats down in front of him, exchanging words we can’t hear. Brody shakes his head, accepts the wet towel the trainer hands him, and then closes his eyes.
Dad is far away, in the bullpen. Frank is near the other end of the bench watching the game with a careful eye. And Brody is alone.
Miserable and alone.
I sink back onto my butt, putting some distance between the TV and me. Now that the shock of that morning in Brody’s Chicago hotel room has worn off, I’m able to process the words Dad said to him.
“I’ve spent practically her whole life keeping her away from guys like you.”
It’s what Brody feared more than anything. What had he said to me only a month ago when he first wanted to tell Dad about us?
“All I know is that I want to be the person you and your dad think I am. Maybe even more than I want to be a great pitcher.”
If I had just let him talk to Dad right then. If we had marched straight over to my house and confessed to everything, maybe Brody would still be that good person in Dad’s eyes. Maybe he wouldn’t be sitting by himself on the bench, sick and miserable.
I reach for my phone, ready to text him, but I stop myself. No, that’s impulsive and immature. I promised Dad. I need to go about this the right way this time.
I have energy flowing through my veins for the first time in forever. And the problem—the feeling I’ve been carrying around for days that something was wrong—is suddenly clear. Choosing Dad had seemed like the responsible choice, but really, all it accomplished was to shut Brody out. Because no matter what, I’m always gonna be there for Dad. He always has me. And I have him.