I don’t wake until tires crunch over gravel. Jerking up, I look around, only to see that we’re in Bri’s driveway. Her house is dark, but mine is brightly lit. Her dashboard clock says it’s almost ten. My parents had a date night tonight, so thank God I made it home before they did. As long as my sisters don’t rat me out, I’ll be all right.
They don’t know about everything that’s happened over the past year. I mean, they know I’m no angel. They know about the drinking, the parties, and, thanks to not-so-quiet whispers, the occasional run-in with the cops here and there—all of that’s pretty par for the course for every guy in this town. But we have this weird understanding that as long as I don’t get into any serious shit, we’re good. So the last thing I need is for them to catch me stumbling in like… well, like this.
“Why’d you do this to yourself?” Bri asks.
Rubbing a hand over my face, I glance over. She’s staring at me, almost like she’s trying to put together some sort of puzzle. If that’s true, she’s going to be looking for a long, long time, because I don’t even know where all my pieces are.
“Coach released the team roster yesterday,” I tell her. “You’re looking at the Bulldogs’ new starting pitcher.”
“I know,” she says. “I was on my way to the big celebration, remember?”
Of course she knows. Everyone in town probably knows by now. “Well, I’m sorry for screwing up your night.”
She rolls her eyes. “Starter is a good thing,” she continues. “Isn’t that what you were waiting for? You were next in line to the pitching throne. Shouldn’t you be celebratory drunk instead of”—she gestures to me—“mid-life-crisis, woe-is-me drunk?”
That’s how the night started. And then my phone rang, and I checked my voicemail, and Coach Taylor’s voice was in my ear, telling me that a buddy of his from The Daily Gazette gave him a heads-up about some article the paper is running tomorrow. An article about me.
Coach doesn’t call you on Saturday night with good news. Coach calls when your life is about to get effed up.
And that’s when the beer turned to shots, and the celebration turned to terrified-out-of-my-freakin’-mind.
Instead of telling Bri all that, I step out of the car. “Thanks for the ride,” I say and slam the door closed. My stomach flips, and flops, and clenches. I barely make it to the bushes before the entire night spills from my gut.
All hail the new king of Lewis Creek baseball.
Chapter Two
Bri
Watching Eric stumble across his yard and puke in the perfectly landscaped bushes beside his porch is the saddest thing I’ve seen in a long time. I don’t know what the heck happened to the Eric Perry I’ve lived next door to for ten years. This isn’t the guy who used to give me a boost into his dad’s deer stand in the woods by our house, or fixed my bike and my bloody knees when I didn’t clear the curve on Taylor Store Road as well as he and his brother did. And it’s definitely not the guy who’s more confident than anyone I’ve ever met.
I have no idea why he’s so out of it—this is supposed to be the night of his life. Any other guy in Lewis Creek would kill to be in his shoes right now. But sometimes, what seems perfect on the outside is a screwed-up mess beneath the surface. It’s safe to say I know that better than just about anyone lately. I can only judge so much.
Time to shove him out of my head, though. The last thing I need is to be thinking about him when I’m supposed to be meeting my boyfriend, like, now. Of course, it’d be easier to forget him if my car didn’t reek of the alcohol that I’m pretty sure seeped through his pores.
Once Eric’s safely inside his house, I roll down the window of my old Toyota and take a deep breath of fresh air before backing out of my driveway. I shouldn’t be too late getting to Randy’s house. I would’ve been there way earlier if Becca hadn’t run interference and dragged me to Joyner’s beforehand.
My stomach twists as I slow for a stop sign, and it’s not because of the stench clinging to the passenger seat. Becca’s words from tonight play on repeat in my mind, words that I know are true—words that I’ve known to be true for longer than I should probably admit. But just because you know something is true doesn’t make putting it into action any easier.
My lower lip quivers. I clear my throat and straighten in my seat. No time for tears. I gun the gas, my tires screeching as I push my little car through the intersection.
Randy’s house sits on a cattle farm about a mile down the road from Joyner’s. His parties are “legendary” and don’t usually die down until well after midnight, but I’m pretty sure that’s only because there’s nothing else to actually do in Lewis Creek. Parties are no big deal, but Randy’s are a little, um, intense and overwhelming for me—loud and wild, with booze flowing like water. Most definitely not my scene. But when you date the star center fielder, who also happens to be Randy’s best friend, they kind of become a weekend fixture.
After passing through the well-worn path between the trees, I find a spot at the tree line of Randy’s property and park next to the line of trucks. I was right: the party’s still going strong, with the bonfire flames tickling the sky. Most of the seniors are always here on Saturday nights, but with the new team roster announced last week, it’s even more packed than usual. The smallest bit of baseball news sends this town into an uproar. I squint a little, scanning the crowd through my windshield until I spot Matt right by the bonfire. Center of attention. His favorite place.
Meeting my boyfriend shouldn’t make my stomach flare up and my heart race (and not in the good way). My anxiety levels shouldn’t be through the roof, like a pot of water boiling over and rattling the lid. After last week’s party, I’m not even sure I want to step foot on the field at all.
I shake my head, blinking tears away. Now isn’t time for memory lane. That’s done. That’s over. Another night that didn’t destroy me. Tonight will be better. That’s what Becca doesn’t understand—it always gets better.
And then worse.
Dang it, Bri.
I flip down my mirror and cringe as the light illuminates my face. Mascara’s smudged beneath my eyes, both from exhaustion and the constant tear-ups during dinner at Joyner’s. I went there tonight knowing she would drop truth-bombs—I’m surprised she waited this long to let me have them. She didn’t trust Matt when we started dating in August. She got pissed when he started calling me every time she and I tried to hang out.
She downright hates him after he embarrassed the hell out of me during last weekend’s party. Which is why she took me to Joyner’s tonight.
“He’s not straight-out mean,” she said. “He’s hide-it-under-a-joke mean. Passive-aggressive mean. And I think that’s even worse.”
And the sad thing is that she didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know. But when other people start noticing those things, it brings this strange sort of validation, along with relief that maybe you’re not just being sensitive, like he says. That you’re not being emotional, like he says.
That you’re not really an annoying bitch, like he says.
But what people don’t take into account is how hard the right thing can be. Why you’ve been avoiding the inevitable for so long in the first place:
Sometimes, doing the right thing will also be your undoing. Especially when the right thing means that you’re contemplating breaking up with the town’s golden boy. The star center fielder. The student council president.
The guy who has everyone, including you, wrapped around his pinky finger. And who won’t hesitate to bring you down with him. Matt Harris always gets what he wants.
I step out of my car, my boots sinking into the mud. My eyes fall on Matt immediately, accustomed to singling him out in the crowd. And despite the burn of anxiety in the pit of my stomach, my heart does its little flutter. Hearts are funny things. They can be bruised and stomped on and torn to shreds, but they recover so easily that it’s deceptive.
It’s horrifying, actually. When
you think about it, hearts get us into an awful lot of trouble.
Music thumps across the field—Randy’s favorite, Luke Bryan’s “Country Girl,” which gets all the girls shaking their butts because Luke is telling them to. I make my way toward the bonfire, where Matt’s standing with Randy. Plastic cup in hand, he grins even wider when he spots me.
“Bri!” Randy shouts, holding his cup in the air. “Best-looking ass in town. It’s about damn time you brought it here.”
I roll my eyes. It’s a very real possibility that Randy has zero clue how to survive without being glued to Matt’s side. Worse than a leech, to be honest. “You’re disgusting,” I tell him.
He tilts his head, giving me an oh please look. “Accept the compliment. Be nice.”
Matt holds out his arms as I approach, ignoring Randy. “There’s my girl.” Despite the burn in my gut, I can’t hold back my own smile as he wraps me in one of his massive hugs. He smells like smoke and wood and beer, no doubt passing the smell along to my freshly washed hair, but these hugs—they’re everything.
This is the Matt I fell head over heels for last fall. This is the guy I agreed to date. This is the guy who makes the bad days manageable.
He presses a kiss to the top of my head. Grabbing my hand, he leads me to the cheapo lawn chairs set up around the fire. He plops into one with a grunt before pulling me into his lap.
“You’re late,” he says. His blue eyes meet mine over the brim of his cup as he takes a sip. “You missed half the night. And my killer keg-stands. I kicked Randy’s ass.”
“I texted you.”
“Didn’t get it.”
“Not my fault.”
His mouth curves into a smirk before planting a quick kiss on my lips. He pulls his phone from the pocket of his jeans, relaxing against the back of the chair as he scrolls through. Leaning against his chest, I scan the crowd. Sara Stringer is a fixture on Blake Thompson’s lap, and I guess they’ve forgotten that trucks are a thing that exist, because I’m 99 percent certain his hands are—
Yes. Yes, his hands are under her skirt.
“Harris!” Lance, one of the other baseball guys, appears behind us, slapping Matt’s shoulder. “Ready for this year, bro? More homers?”
Matt hit the home run that won last season’s state championship, making him more of a baseball god than he’s ever been in this town. That game was freaking amazing. Which he never lets anyone forget.
Matt’s eyes are glued to his phone, reading whatever’s there. He lets out a laugh, one that’d pass as lighthearted for Lance. But it’s a laugh I’ve heard plenty of times before, one that’s fake as all get-out. One that triggers a scattering of goose bumps down my arms.
Matt’s championship ring catches the light of the bonfire as he fist-bumps Lance. “I’m gonna bring a whole new level of kickass this year, man.” He shoves his phone back into his pocket, his gaze trained on the fire while Lance stumbles off.
And the anxiety burn is back in my stomach. That look on his face? That look is the reason for the bruised and stomped-on heart currently racing in my chest. If he’s Dr. Jekyll, it’s the look that always precedes Mr. Hyde. And I’m getting so, so tired of recognizing the switch.
Randy sinks into the chair beside Matt’s with an oof, but this time, my boyfriend doesn’t ignore me for his best friend; his gaze shifts to me. And though his eyes are glazed from a night that’s been chock full of cheap beer, his voice is clearer than ever as he says, “Where’d you and Perry go tonight?”
Crap.
My face must sink right along with my stomach, because that smirk of his returns. “Just saw your text. Came in right after Jared’s. He said he saw you leaving Joyner’s together.” He takes another sip of beer. “Did you fuck him? Because you know Perry loves to fuck people.”
Randy snorts from beside him, no doubt eavesdropping. I shoot him a glare. He holds up his hands in surrender, but says nothing.
“I gave a friend a ride home,” I say, though I’m not even sure Eric and I count as friends anymore. For some reason, when Matt and I started dating, Matt made this huge deal about Eric and me even talking, let alone hanging out. Seeing Eric was enough to send him to extremes, whether it was red-faced jealousy, or the total-shut-down silent treatment.
I used to think that the jealousy was flattering. That it meant he cared. But now, I’m not sure I’ll ever forgive myself for letting him come between me and the guy who once gave me a piggyback ride so I wouldn’t have to walk through a flooded ditch in the woods.
“I’m with you,” I tell him. “I’ve been with you for five months. You really think I’d screw my neighbor in the backseat of my car or something?”
He shrugs a shoulder. “I don’t know what y’all do. Hell, he probably would’ve screwed you in the front yard while his sisters watched, for all I know.”
And this—this is where Becca was wrong. Because sometimes, he is straight-out mean.
I slide off his lap before following through on the urge to junk-punch him. He shouts my name, but I stomp through the mud on the way to my car, the sounds of the party fading to a dim roar. I slide into the driver’s seat. Slam the door closed. Close my eyes and count to ten. Twenty. My breathing doesn’t relax until I reach fifty-six.
Becca’s words reappear in my head, twisting and mingling with Matt’s, and I wish more than anything that my brain would just shut the hell up until the only words in my head are my own.
You deserve better. Don’t be scared of being alone. Be more scared of someone sucking the life out of you.
Don’t cry.
You are so much stronger than you think.
Don’t you dare cry.
You don’t have to make ANYONE else happy. Make yourself happy.
Tears spill on to my cheeks, faster and harder than the freaking Mississippi, and my chest clenches and there’s no air and why don’t they ever tell you about this part of loving people? Why don’t they ever tell you how much their words can hurt, how much they can seep into your brain and cloud every other thing that you thought you knew about yourself?
Why don’t they tell you how hard it is to do what you know needs to be done?
A sob escapes me as I grab my phone from the dashboard, where I tossed it after getting into the car with Eric. I glance at the empty passenger seat. Maybe tonight was my fault. Maybe I shouldn’t have given him a ride home. I should’ve known better. I should’ve known it would piss Matt off.
I wonder what life is like when you’re not living for other people’s happiness.
With trembling fingers, I scroll through my phone’s contacts to call Becca. I can’t drive like this. I can’t sit here alone, either.
My passenger door opens and I jump, the phone clattering to the floorboard. Matt’s eyes widen as they pass over my tear-streaked face. Sighing, he closes the door. My heart’s on standby, my chest tighter than a steel cage because the poor heart has no clue whether it’s in the car with Jekyll or Hyde.
“Baby,” Matt breathes. “Baby, I’m sorry.” He takes my hand, pulling me toward him. Wraps me in a hug as the gear shift digs into my leg.
And as always, I let him. I let him hug me, and I let him whisper that he’s sorry, and I let him cling to me like I’m the only girl in the world.
I close my eyes. I don’t let any more tears fall. Not in front of him. Never in front of him.
“I’ll forget all about it,” he whispers into my hair. “I forgive you.”
And for some reason, those three words break through the brain fog. Those three words are all the confirmation I need. This needed to be over a long, long time ago. He shouldn’t have to forgive me for helping a friend. I shouldn’t be sobbing in my car at a party because he can’t keep his mouth shut.
He shouldn’t be able to control my emotions like a freaking puppetmaster.
But the problem is that, even when you know something needs to be done, it’s hard as hell to get the words out when you have the chance.
Right now, I have the chance. I’m pulling away and staring into his eyes, but they’re back to that clear blue that make me want to stay. Those eyes switch so quickly between rage and love that my brain is confused as all get-out.
He settles back against the seat and closes his eyes, lacing his fingers through mine beside the gear shift. And all I can do is stare at him, my mouth slightly open. My brain screams the words, but my heart keeps them tucked deep down. Because even when they’ve been beaten, hearts are stubborn.
“Matt?” I finally manage to say. “I—”
“Thanks for coming.” He turns his head, smiling at me. Brings my hand to his lips. “Seriously. No idea what I’d do without you.”
My voice fails me, along with coherent thought. “Yeah,” is all I can get out before his eyes close again.
The drive to his house across town is silent, just as it was with Eric. But as I watch a second Lewis Creek Bulldog stumble across his yard tonight, I don’t feel an ounce of pity.
I feel done.
Chapter Three
Eric
There’s a human sitting on my chest. A tiny, giggly human.
I open one eye. My youngest sister, Emma, bounces, because I don’t need to breathe or anything. “Get up, Eric! The sky’s awake! And it’s church day!”
A five-year-old’s language might as well be called EVERYTHING IS AWESOME.
My head sinks into my pillow as I glance over at my clock. It’s only seven in the morning. Emma’s blond hair is sticking up all over the place, but her bright-blue eyes are proof that she woke up way before the sky.
I’ve got the hangover from hell, so as much as I love my sister, this isn’t going to work. I put my arm over my eyes. “Go jump on Grace,” I murmur. “She’d be so upset if she overslept.”
Emma jumps off my bed, her feet hitting the hardwood floor with a thump. “Grace is awake. She’s yelling at Momma in the kitchen. Momma’s making pancakes! The box pancakes again. But it’s okay ’cause we got blueberries…” Her voice trails off as she walks out of the room, talking to herself down the hallway.
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