by Megan Green
Except it was bad. Miles stupid-face Johnson embarrassed the heck out of me today. And to hear her make it sound like it was nothing only adds to the frustration I feel.
“Nothing?” I shout as I lift my face from the pillow and shove myself up into a sitting position. “Were you not there today, Avery? That jerk made me look like an idiot.”
Avery shrugs. “He’s a good pitcher, Car. You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself. You definitely weren’t the only person he struck out today.”
Hearing her call him that—a good pitcher—just pisses me off even more. “You think he’s good? You’re supposed to be my friend, Avery. You’re supposed to be on my side.”
She holds her hands up in surrender. “Hey, hey, hey. I am. I’m always on your side; you know that. And just because I think he’s good doesn’t mean I think he’s as good as you. He’s just…good.”
I collapse back on my bed again, throwing my arm over my eyes, as if that will somehow hide me from the world. “Ugh. You don’t get it, Smalls. I’m supposed to be the best pitcher this county has ever seen. That’s what everyone is saying. I’m supposed to be the best. And I should’ve been able to read him. I should’ve known exactly what pitches he was going to throw and when. Instead, I got up there like a freaking newbie and swung at the stupidest pitches ever.”
“Maybe you were just nervous. I’m sure you’ll get him next time.”
I roll my eyes behind my arm, knowing that trying to explain this to her is pointless. Avery is the coolest girl in the eighth grade, but even she doesn’t get it sometimes. Everybody is going to be talking about this at school on Monday. How I struck out against Miles Johnson, the pitcher for our school’s biggest rival, and did it in just three pitches.
Coach is never going to let me hear the end of this.
“Can we just talk about something else?” I ask, rolling over to face the wall, so I can sulk in private.
“What do you want to talk about?”
“I don’t care. Anything.”
I can practically hear the smile form across her face. “Well, in that case, I found the perfect wedding dress in the magazines my mom had brought home yesterday.”
I groan. “Aavveerrrryyyyyy.” I drag her name out to epic proportions, hoping it conveys even a fraction of my disdain for this topic. “I meant something that would make me feel better. Not want to gouge my eyes out.”
“Too late,” she says, and I can hear her reaching down to grab that dang notebook she always has out of her backpack, flipping to the page with her latest entry. “Look. Do you see that neckline? Isn’t it so perfect, Carter?”
I groan again, trying to uphold my insistence that this is the last thing I want to be talking about. But, inside, I’m smiling. Because, even though I act like it bugs me, I could never hate something that makes her so happy. Just seeing the light in her eyes and the smile on her face as she takes in the details of that dress is enough to make me forget this whole afternoon.
Miles who?
I wake with a smile on my face, the dream a pleasant memory despite the fact that fucker Johnson embarrassed me in front of all my friends and family. That day ended up being a turning point in my baseball career, and I threw myself into my training and practices with a renewed determination to finally beat the bastard. Besides, Avery and I walked down to the corner store after I was done throwing my hissy fit and got ice cream. And there isn’t a damn problem in this world a little ice cream and a lot of Avery can’t fix.
I push up off the bed, wiping the sleep from my eyes as I check the time on my phone. There are still a couple of hours before I need to head to the field, and I briefly debate on lying back down and squeezing in a little more sleep. With the Rampage only a few games away from clinching their spot in the playoffs, Coach has been riding our asses twice as hard as usual. Lord knows my body could use the extra rest.
But I also know that, once I’m awake, I’m up for the day. Curse of growing up on a farm. My body got used to rising early and working itself hard until it was time to go to bed. Naps aren’t exactly something I’ve ever been able to take advantage of.
Tossing the covers off the lower half of my body, I get out of bed and head to the bathroom to brush my teeth and empty my bladder. Once that’s all taken care of, I head down the hallway to my oversize kitchen to grab a cup of coffee, clad in only my boxers and a pair of house slippers.
Perk number one of living alone: not worrying about the fact that wearing house slippers is about as sexy as Mrs. Doubtfire.
I’m all about the comfort, baby, and these tiled floors are cold as fuck.
I pull my favorite mug down from the cupboard, running my thumb over the small chip along the black rim. The painted lettering is faded and peeling with age, but there’s no way in hell I’d ever throw this away. Avery gave me this mug for my birthday one year, and I’ve used it almost every single day since then. I even pack it up and take it on the road with me most of the time.
I trace the letters as my coffee brews, the iconic saying from The Sandlot—the best movie ever made—making me smile once again.
An overwhelming desire to call and hear her voice washes over me. First, it was the dream. Now, the mug and the memory of the nickname. Avery is never very far from the forefront of my mind, but today seems to be even worse than usual.
I blame that damn bridal shower.
Despite my reluctance to go, it actually ended up being a pretty good time. It was great to catch up with people I hadn’t seen in a while, and seeing Avery again was the icing on the cake. I somehow managed to overlook the fact that I was there because she was marrying that fuckwad, and I just enjoyed myself.
But, now that I am back in Seattle, all those few days in Stetson did was further solidify that I would never have the one thing I truly wanted. I spent hours with her over the weekend, and all I had to show for it was a heavy heart and a raging case of blue balls.
Because, every time she smiled, every time she laughed and leaned into me, every time she put her arms around my shoulders and hugged me to her, it only made me realize how much I loved her. How much I wanted her. And how much I could never have her.
No longer in the mood for coffee, I put the mug back in the cupboard and head back to the bathroom, cranking the shower over as hot as it’ll go.
Calling Avery right now would be a mistake. It wouldn’t be fair to her. And it sure as shit wouldn’t do me any good.
When I left Stetson a few days ago, I vowed to be happy for her. My feelings for Miles aside, I can see he seems to truly make her happy. And I’ll be damned if I let myself ruin that for her. I’ve promised myself that I’ll stand aside and just let her live her life. I’ll let her marry another man, I’ll let her have his babies, I’ll let him touch and hold her at night. And I’ll do it with a smile on my face, no matter how much it might be killing me inside.
It’s time for me to put this whole infatuation thing behind me and move on with my life.
No matter how much it hurts.
Chapter 6
Avery
One Week Later
I jab the red button on my phone to disconnect the call and toss my phone on the passenger seat beside me, rolling my eyes in exasperation.
This is the fifth time I’ve called Carter in the last three days and the fifth time he’s sent my call straight to voice mail. If the asshole wasn’t on national TV every night, I might start to think something bad had happened to him out there, in that big city.
But, no, Carter still takes the mound every night. Still smiles for the camera and chats up the reporters after each game.
He’s just ignoring me.
I curse him under my breath as I pull my car into the parking lot of the grocery store. It was a long day today, Mrs. Banks taking yet another turn for the worse this afternoon. It won’t be long now, and I want nothing more than a bottle of wine and something fattening and full of carbs to help dull the ache in my chest.
Fuck Carter Hughe
s and whatever the hell has crawled up his butt.
I head straight for the booze when I walk in the store, grabbing a bottle of my favorite moscato before heading over to the frozen foods. Some extra-gooey, frozen mac and cheese sounds just about perfect right now.
When I turn down the aisle, I’m met with a familiar face. Mrs. Donovan, my tenth grade science teacher, is standing in front of the same section I’m headed for, and I smile as I approach her.
“Hey, Mrs. D. Looks like you had the same idea I did for dinner tonight.”
Doesn’t matter that it’s been five years since I sat behind a desk in her classroom. I still can’t seem to get over the habit of calling my old teachers by their formal names whenever I see them around town.
She jumps a little at the sound of my voice, the package of lasagna dropping to the floor as her hand comes to rest on her chest. “Oh, Avery, you frightened me.”
I bend down to pick up her entree, handing it back to her with a smile. “Sorry about that. I forget how easy it is to get wrapped up in making a decision on cheesy deliciousness.”
She takes the carton from me, placing it in her basket and stepping out of the way of the display. “Yes, well, I should be going. It was nice seeing you again, Avery. And I’m so sorry about what happened.”
She scurries away before I can ask what she’s talking about. I turn and watch as she hustles down the aisle, moving like someone just yelled the words, Free cake.
Shaking off her weird words, I turn and survey the frozen display case before me. A bright red package with the most decadent mac and cheese I’ve ever seen on the front catches my eye, and I grab it off the shelf before I even have a chance to look at the other options. I don’t want to end up standing here, debating on my choices for thirty minutes when I could be at home, getting ready to devour my dinner and already on my third glass of wine.
I see a few more people I know on my way to the register—curse of living in a small town is that you know everybody—but they all avert their eyes as soon as they see me, one of them pulling a Mrs. Donovan and running in the opposite direction when I lift my hand in greeting.
I look down at my clothes, wondering if maybe I somehow managed to lose my pants or something on my way from the car to the store.
Why is everyone being so weird?
They’re not. You’re just being paranoid again, I tell myself, remembering the day at the bakery when I convinced myself I’d seen Miles about to kiss the cashier.
Today has been rough, and now, I’m imagining that everyone around me is treating me differently.
I suddenly feel like I can’t get home and started on this wine soon enough.
Getting in line behind Mr. Crawford, who gives me a brief glance but refuses to engage in conversation when I try to say hello, I turn and look at the magazines lined up along the checkout stand.
Kim and Kanye.
Meghan and Harry.
A picture of that hot Hemsworth brother.
My eyes scan the usual fare, stopping every so often to read a headline. I’m not big on celebrity gossip. But reading the tabloids in line at the grocery store has always been a guilty pleasure of mine.
I’m reaching for the copy with the new Duke and Duchess on the cover when another magazine catches my eye. It’s stuffed in behind another, upside down from the looks of it. I’m pretty sure that I can make out the words sex tape though, and that instantly piques my interest.
You’d think, by now, these idiots would realize that making a sex tape is never a good idea. Not when the entire world is constantly trying to get all up in your business.
I pull the magazine out, slightly disappointed when I see the sex tape story is just an afterthought added on in the bottom right corner. Whoever it is must not be too important. Definitely not a Kardashian.
My eyes focus on the words underneath the pixelated photo of a dark room and two bodies.
And my heart stops.
MLB Star Johnson bares his johnson in the newest sex tape scandal.
Desperately, I flip through the pages until I get to the larger article referenced on the front. Surely, there’s been a mistake. Johnson is a common name. There’s no way it could be Miles.
But, as soon as I turn the page and get to the story, I know I’m wrong. There, in all his glory, is my fiancé, naked as the day he was born and with a woman who most definitely isn’t me.
Sure, all the important bits are blurred. But there’s no doubting what they’re doing. There’s no mistaking that look on Miles’s face. The one he makes when he’s buried deep inside me, seconds away from release.
The look I foolishly thought was reserved only for me.
I drop the magazine to the floor, slowly backing away from it, as if I’m scared it will somehow grow legs and run after me, forcing me to look again. Assaulting me with those images, with the knowledge that I was stupid enough to believe that a man like Miles would ever be faithful to a woman like me.
As if on cue, my phone starts to ring.
Miles’s ringtone.
With the last shred of dignity I have left, I set down the items I was intending to buy only moments ago, turning and leaving the store without looking anyone in the eye.
And, suddenly, it all makes sense.
They all know. Everybody saw the news before me.
And none of them wanted to be around to watch me break.
Almost as soon as it stops, the ringing on my phone starts up again, and by the time I reach my car, Miles has called and hung up three times. I climb inside, closing the door shut behind me, creating a barrier between me and the outside world.
I’m torn between wanting to answer to see if there’s some sort of explanation for all this and wanting to hurl my phone out the window and back over it a time or three hundred.
The sensible side of me wins out though. Sliding the Answer icon across the screen, I press the phone up to my ear.
He doesn’t even wait for me to say a word before he launches his attack.
“Avery. Oh, thank God. Please tell me you haven’t seen the news. Don’t turn on the TV. Don’t go on Facebook. Just…just tell me where you are, and I’ll come get you.”
He sounds so frantic, so completely out of control, that I can’t help the brief pang of sympathy that flashes through me. But then I remember the entire reason he’s making this call in the first place.
“I’ve already seen it, Miles.”
“Fuck,” he mutters, letting out a long breath. “Look, Avie, it’s not what it looks like. I swear. That was back before we got engaged. Back when we were still just sort of dating off and on.”
All hope I had that this was somehow a mistake vanishes with those words. He doesn’t deny that it is him in the tape. Doesn’t argue that it was Photoshopped or some sort of trick photography. He doesn’t give me anything to hold on to, one last straw I can cling to in order to not completely destroy my life.
“That’s odd. Because, in the photos I saw, you had your Larks tattoo on your shoulder. That happened after you were drafted. And definitely after we were engaged.”
Miles is silent for a long moment, and I start to wonder if he disconnected the call. If he realized he’d been caught and decided just cutting and running was better than trying to explain himself. I pull the phone from my ear and glance at the display, only to find he’s still with me.
“Nothing to say to that?” I prod after another long, awkward silence.
“I, um…fuck, Avery. I’m so sorry. You have to believe me. It was just the one time. I had too much to drink that night and she was there and I was stupid. I’d never purposely cheat on you. You have to know that. I would never hurt you.”
My mouth falls open at his words, an acerbic laugh bubbling up from my chest. “Jesus Christ, Miles. How stupid do you think I am?”
“Avery, please—”
“No. Just shut up. I’m so goddamn sick of your excuses. Of your constant desire to keep me in my place. God, all these yea
rs. All the years we’ve spent together, me feeling like I’ve never quite measured up. And you somehow turning that back around on me, telling me it’s my fault I am so self-conscious and insecure. I’ve been so blind. So fucking stupid.”
“Baby, please just—”
“Good-bye, Miles. I’ll have my dad drop your shit off. I’m done.”
I hang up the phone, holding down the side button until it powers down. I don’t want to deal with the incessant calls he’s sure to make the rest of the night. And I sure as hell can’t go home now. He’s bound to show up there at some point tonight.
I lean back in my seat, wondering where in the hell I can possibly go where Miles won’t be able to get to me. Talking to him just now was enough. The idea of facing him, of having to see his face as he tries to lie his way out of this one, is too much to bear. Mostly because I’m not entirely sure I can be strong enough to walk away. Not with him right there in front of me, playing his stupid mind games and making me feel weak.
No, it’s better I don’t see him right now. Not until my head is on straight and I’m thinking clearly.
My parents’ house is out. That’s the second place he’ll go if he doesn’t find me at home.
Sammy is out of town this week. I don’t have any other friends I can stay with, and even if I did, Miles knows everyone in Stetson. It wouldn’t take long for him to track me down.
I need to go somewhere he’d never think to find me…
A sudden thought pops into my mind, and a devilish smile curls the corners of my lips when I realize it should’ve been the first place I thought of.
There isn’t any place I can go where Miles won’t be able to find me.
But there’s sure as hell one place I can go where he’ll never follow.
Carter’s.
Chapter 7
Carter
That son of a bitch.
I turn off the TV, having just spent the last ten minutes listening to two sports commentators talk about the piece of shit that is Miles Johnson.