The Thirteenth Chance

by Amy Matayo

  Crap.

  I see her standing in front of my paused television and know that I’ve been discovered.

  “Oh.” A dozen other better, fouler words cross my mind, but I stop there.

  There are a few things about myself that I would rather not admit, and Olivia just discovered one of them. The evidence is clear, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling the beginning of a headache. Or public mortification. Right now it’s hard to know the difference.

  “About that . . . ,” I begin, gesturing toward the television.

  Olivia stops me. “What are you watching?” She laughs, turns to look at me over her shoulder, and then focuses on the television again.

  I clear my throat. “Just a show.”

  She presses her lips together. “I see that. What show?”

  I do not like her and I want her to leave right now. “General Hospital.”

  Her shoulders shake. I’m not amused.

  “That’s what I thought. The question is, why?”

  I look at the ceiling, suddenly thinking about Chicken Little. Why can’t something fall on me right now? Is a big piece of drywall too much to ask?

  “That’s none of your business.”

  That doesn’t faze her; she’s full-on laughing. “Well, why don’t we just finish this, since you’re obviously so into it.” She walks around the sofa, sits down, then reaches for a blanket. When I make no move to join her, she looks at me and jerks her head, indicating the spot next to her. I do the obedient thing and move. “But first, fill me in on the story line so I don’t feel left out.”

  I try to be mad. I really try.

  But there’s this thing stopping me. This thing I can’t deny, no matter how hard I want to.

  I used to watch General Hospital with my grandmother when I was a kid—every afternoon after school, a bowl of popcorn between us and a Coke in each of our hands. She would explain the happenings of the Quartermaines and the Spencers to my young, naïve self. Maybe it’s silly and maybe I should be embarrassed, but sitting in her living room on her old, worn-out sofa while we watched her “stories” is my favorite childhood memory. I would revisit those days right now if some genie in a bottle gave me the opportunity to make the wish.

  But I can’t, and it won’t, and I know this. So out of determination and a good amount of nostalgia, I’ve held onto the habit for years, keeping it to myself because . . . well . . . I have a reputation to uphold and most men would frown on this sort of thing.

  But Olivia . . . here . . . this is first time anyone has ever joined me in my little secret.

  And as I tug on the end of Olivia’s blanket, forcing her to share it with me, it hits me how much I like it.

  From my spot on the sofa, I watch her. The show ended five minutes ago, but I lost interest long before that, when she fell asleep next to me. Her head rests on the arm of the sofa, a stone-colored faux-fur blanket tucked under her chin, both hands clutching it to keep it in place. In an earlier moment of restlessness, she stretched her legs out to get comfortable, and one foot now rests fully under my thigh. I haven’t moved since, nor will I. That one simple touch has me feeling all sorts of inappropriate things, the main one being that I like this girl. Really like this girl.

  And thoughts of attaching myself to someone—especially someone like Olivia—are as inappropriate as they come.

  My thigh burns from the contact, and I know I should wake her. The right thing to do would be to gently shake her by the shoulders and whisper her name, and then see her to her apartment when she’s coherent enough to walk. It’s the right thing to do. The noble thing to do.

  I don’t believe much in being noble.

  I lay my head on the back of the sofa and cover myself with the blanket as much as I can without pulling it hard enough to wake her.

  Then I roll my head to the side and watch her a little longer until I eventually fall asleep.

  Chapter 20

  Olivia

  “That boy is on fire.”

  At those words whispered behind me, I bristle. This is never going to end. I’m going to be asked and asked and asked to attend these baseball games and it’s all starting to drive me a little crazy. What’s worse, what’s really worse, is that I don’t necessarily hate it. Will is playing a good—scratch that—great game. He’s managed to prevent three stolen bases, and now he just threw a guy out at third, pegging the third baseman’s glove dead center like it was only a few feet away. Spectators like the middle-aged drunk guy behind me have been chattering about Will for the last few innings, something that should have me feeling proud for him. But I don’t; instead, I’m bothered.

  Will keeps looking up into the stands as if to see if I’m still watching.

  I am. Of course I am.

  It’s all ridiculous and I feel like a teenager. A foolish young girl playing a silly but dangerous game with her heart, mind, and soul.

  I’ll never forget the moment I woke up on his sofa this morning and caught him staring at me. He quickly turned away, but I saw it. The look in his eye that said this charade was turning into more than just me being a lucky charm. Everything is quickly changing from just a fun game to . . . something more.

  But that doesn’t mean I have to allow it.

  Especially since I hate hate hate this game.

  Maybe not as much as I used to, but I definitely still hate it.

  “I don’t know if you realize this, but you’ve done wonders for his ability lately.” Kimberly waves at someone a few rows down. “I mean, he’s always been good, but not this good. Who knew what he needed was a solid relationship to really settle him down?”

  A solid relationship. One built on tales of stripper poles, fake cat rescues, and bribery. Solid is one word for it. Sordid and wrong are two others.

  “Oh, I think it’s just a coincidence,” I say. “A pendulum swings both ways, you know. He couldn’t lose forever; he had to start playing better eventually, right?” I study the field as though nothing enthralls me more than white jerseys and dirt stains, hoping that Kimberly will change the subject to something I’m more comfortable with. Like germs or junk food. I’d welcome makeup tips or more criticism of my choice of stylist in order to avoid the road we’re headed down.

  “To hear him talk, you’ve managed to single-handedly save his game.”

  My head snaps in her direction at this. Of course I know he thinks this, but I never expected him to admit it to anyone else.

  “He said that? All I’m doing is sitting here, and I contribute absolutely nothing to help him . . .” I eye the back of Will’s jersey, but all I can see is the number thirteen . . . on a blue jersey . . . years ago . . .

  “Don’t underestimate yourself, Olivia. Will hasn’t had a lot of stability in his life. Sometimes all a person needs is someone who calms them down, gives them a little confidence where they didn’t have it before. According to Blake, that’s what happened to him when he met me. I think with Will, it might be the same thing. At least that’s what he told Blake the night you were at our house.”

  She places two fingers in her mouth and delivers an ear-piercing whistle, but all I can hear is my heart pounding between my ears. This whole relationship is a sham, and good people like the DeMarcos are falling for it. And Will is encouraging it. It’s one thing for him to lie to me, but how can he lie to his friends?

  But the more prominent voice I hear is this: What if he isn’t lying?

  And then there’s the matter of the tiny voice whispering, You’re lying too.

  A dull panic settles in my chest as I overanalyze what it could mean. He’s a player. A gamer. Of baseball. I’m an elementary schoolteacher, and even I know the combination spells disaster. Everything I’ve ever wanted in my life—baseball represents the exact opposite. The only thing that would have me second-guessing the goodness of another person’s heart. Baseball. Right up there with criminals on my list of No Way Will This Ever Happen Not If I Can Help It.

>   As if on cue and because karma has a way of dealing it to me, my phone buzzes from its spot on my lap. A text from my mother. It’s all I can do not to let the phone slip between the seats and shatter all over the pavement twenty feet below.

  Her: Have you called him?

  No.

  Her: Are you going to?

  I haven’t decided yet.

  Her: You’re being unfair, Olivia.

  I don’t see how not being ready to talk to him is unfair, especially seeing how we ended things.

  Her: His court date has been moved up to next week. I think your presence there would mean the world to him and maybe give him a little encouragement. Don’t ignore your brother, Olivia. He needs you.

  With shaking hands, I stare at the message on my phone while something that feels like a dagger pricks the outer edges of my heart. He needs you, Olivia. Don’t ignore your brother, Olivia. I don’t like the ribbons of jealousy that were threaded through my heart years ago, but they exist. I try never to play with them so as not to entangle them further, but sometimes a fingertip slips in, and I pull. Tighten. I can’t help but acknowledge them. They knot and twist and cut in the form of a text. A spoken word. A feeling of inadequacy, even while sitting in a crowd at the request of someone who apparently thinks me not only adequate but necessary.

  Don’t ignore your brother, my mother said. I think long and hard about that request for a moment, and then decide to do her one better.

  With a swipe of my hand, I delete the entire text thread and stand up. Picking up my bag, I start down the aisle and then walk up the steps, ignoring not only my brother . . .

  But my mother and Will and even Kimberly, who calls after me, wondering where I’m going.

  Will

  I spin my key ring around my index finger so that the silver is nothing but a flashy blur. I’ve been to her apartment, I’ve driven up and down the neighborhood side streets, I’ve checked at the Waffle Shack—and that was all after I scoured the ballpark looking for her. According to Kimberly, she just left. She stood up with her bag, walked down the row of seats, didn’t respond when Kimberly called her name, and never came back. It’s the first time Olivia hasn’t waited for me in the last four games, and to be honest I’m a little put out. At myself. How quickly things become a habit—before we even realize what’s happening.

  And Olivia has become a freaking habit.

  If only I knew her well enough to know where she might try to hide. I stand in the middle of the Waffle Shack parking lot and turn a slow circle, trying and failing to weigh my options. The streetlight overhead isn’t working; shards of busted white glass litter the grassy area in front of me. No matter, it’s nice not to have a spotlight on my indecisiveness. Other than her quirks, her cat, and her obvious love for routine, I don’t know much about Olivia. Where would she go?

  Her love for routine.

  The key ring stops spinning when I grip it in my fist. I climb into the car and start it up. Only five minutes pass before I am pulling into the lot and parking next to Olivia’s car. For a guy who thrives on adventure and unpredictability, I’m learning to appreciate the opposite.

  “If you’re here to give a speech, you’re about four weeks too late.”

  She doesn’t even look up when she delivers the words. It’s as though she expected me to come, expected me to find her.

  “So this is your classroom?” I look around, take in the colorful banners taped to the ceiling, the names of well-known authors and inventors displayed for the children to learn. An intricate wooden clubhouse has been constructed in the far corner, the words “Reading Nook” painted over the top of it, pillows lined up from end to end to offer the kids comfortable places to sit. Buckets. Bins. Files. Organized. The place is very neatly arranged. Almost overly so.

  “Yes,” she says. Still no eye contact. “How did you get in?”

  I shove my hands in my pockets. “I parked next to your car, and since it was parked next to the side door, I took a chance the door would be unlocked and followed the only light in this place. You probably shouldn’t be here alone, you know.”

  She tucks her hair behind her ears. That hair . . .

  “I’m alone all the time.” I don’t think she means it the way it sounds. My hunch is confirmed when I see her wince. “I mean, I’m here alone all the time. Darkness doesn’t scare me.”

  “It scares me.” I take in the room and try not to shudder. It’s a partly true statement. I walk the rest of the way into the room, feeling all sorts of insecure and unsure, and none of it has to do with Olivia. I wasn’t the best student—the worst, actually. This room might have me breaking into a cold sweat of unwelcome memories if I didn’t have a job to do. Something tells me I’m going to need to sell myself to Olivia all over again. I’ve never had to do so much begging in my life.

  “Why did you leave the game early?”

  She gestures to the books in front of her. “I had things to do.”

  “At midnight on a Friday? Doesn’t school start in a month?”

  She sighs but still refuses to look at me, so I pull out a kid-sized chair and sit across from her. From this angle I can see that her shoes are off, revealing painted red toenails that surprise me a little. Olivia is conservative. Subdued. A fade-into-the-background kind of personality. Olivia is blue. I never figured Olivia for red.

  Her bare legs are tucked underneath her, a tower of children’s books perched in her lap, more piled on the floor in a perfect semicircle around her. I watch in silence as she checks the spine, opens to the first page, checks the spine again, then inserts each into the bookcase one by one. She’s on the seventh one when I decide I can’t take it anymore.

  “Olivia, tell me why you left.”

  She finally gives me an obligatory glance before studying those stupid books again. “I told you, I needed to work.”

  I reach for a small paperclip lying on the floor and place it on the desk in front of me. “Don’t lie to me, Olivia. The truth might hurt, but it’s always better than making something up.”

  She hurls Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone toward the bookcase. “Fine, you want the truth?” she practically shouts. “We’re lying to everyone, and I don’t like it. Especially to Kimberly, since she’s never been anything but nice to me. Do you know that during the game she went on and on about what a great couple we make? How perfect I am for you, for your game? It didn’t help that you kept looking up at me to make sure I was still there, as though you honestly think I’m the key to your winning streak.”

  I just look at her. “I do think you’re the key to my winning streak. But I don’t think all those things you mentioned are the real problem here.”

  I can feel her mentally lunging for me, gripping two hands around my neck, but she sits still, cool as a chilled glass of champagne. But everyone knows champagne is full of simmering bubbles that steal your breath on the way down.

  “Now you’re going to psychoanalyze me? What’s the real problem then, Will? Enlighten me, please.”

  I’m not one to back down from a challenge. “I think you’re starting to like me.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Get over yourself.”

  But I hear the way her voice catches on that last word. “Look at me, Olivia.”

  She doesn’t, just jerks her head. “There’s a mirror over there. Why don’t you go look in it and admire your image? That should last awhile.”

  At that I laugh. I like the feisty side of her a little too much. “No, thanks. I’ve done that plenty today.”

  “Why does that not surprise me?” She rolls her eyes again, reaches up to rub the back of her neck. “Besides, I’m dating someone, remember? Or did you already forget that?”

  So we’re back to that. Olivia is terrible at lying.

  I clear my throat. “I guess I did. And he’s been okay with you attending all these games on my behalf? Going out to dinner with me? Hanging out in my apartment?”

  She sniffs and looks down, her ha
ir becoming a veil. “I haven’t exactly mentioned your apartment, but he was fine with the rest. I just explained that I’m doing it as a favor for my neighbor.”

  For a moment, that comment stings. Here I am, developing somewhat of an obsession with the lady with the gorgeous blonde hair, and she sees me as only the guy who lives next door. What does this guy she’s dating have that I don’t have?

  But then I remember there is no guy.

  And then my devious side kicks in like the trusty sidekick it’s always been.

  “Think he would be interested in coming over for dinner this weekend? Just you and him, and then of course I could invite a date.”

  There’s this thing I’m learning about Olivia. When she’s caught, she pales to a nice shade similar to vanilla ice cream. And when she pales, she starts making up more crap.

  “We can’t. We’re going away for the weekend.” She plucks another book off the carpet and practically slams it into the bookcase. It falls on its side. She rights it with a jerk, but I see the way her hand shakes.

  I sit back and watch her, enjoying the performance. “Sounds like fun. Where are you going?”

  “Chicago.” She says it a bit too quickly. “To see a play. And go to dinner.”

  It takes a lot of self-control not to make an obnoxious noise. I lock both hands behind my neck and lean back in my chair. “You’re flying all the way to Chicago to see a play? Wow. Big spender.”

  Something on the carpet is suddenly very interesting to her. “Yes, his family is wealthy. It’s a private plane. With a minibar.”

  With a minibar. Her emphasis on that is comical. “Who’s keeping Perry?”

  “What?” She says it too quickly, like a gasp.

  “Who’s keeping Perry? I wouldn’t think he could stay home alone all weekend. Especially since you couldn’t even bear to leave him while you went to a ball game.” I’m a devil with little horned demons whispering into both ears. I don’t give her time to answer. “I have an idea. Bring him to me and I’ll take care of him. That way you can have a nice, long, worry-free weekend together. Stay an extra day if you want. What do you think?”