The Thirteenth Chance

by Amy Matayo

  Except the neat freak in me is too on edge about the ungodly mess he’s making.

  “You have more flour on the floor than you do in that bowl.”

  He glances over his shoulder and nods at something behind me. “If it bothers you so much, there’s a mop in that closet over there. Why don’t you grab it and get to work?”

  My mouth falls open. “What do I look like, your maid? You grab it.”

  “I’m not the one complaining.”

  “I’m not complaining. I’m saying that your floor is a mess and—”

  Before I can get my sentence out, he scoops up a handful of sticky flour and flings it at me. It lands on my shoulder, and I just stare at it in shock. No one has ever thrown food at me before, probably because they know I hate messes. Plus . . . germs. But Will. Will just did. And I don’t know what happens, but something comes over me then. I think of Snow White’s stepmother morphing into the evil witch.

  “You know, for a pitcher, your aim could use work.” I fist some oatmeal and toss it at his head. It lands smack against his forehead. I’m not sure which one of us is more surprised, but I can’t stop my smile.

  “My aim is fine.” This time a shower of dry flour hits me in the face. I close my eyes just in time to avoid a whole lot of burning, then open them to glare at him. Mostly what I see is powder falling off my lashes like snow. “See?” he says. “Bull’s-eye.”

  That’s it. No one makes a mess out of me without consequences. I stare at the hunk of cream cheese in a nearby bowl. It’s covered with milk, but I don’t care. Squishing it between my fingers, I take aim and hit him in the neck, then use my hands to rub it in good.

  Before we’re finished, Will has dumped his entire bowl of dough over my head and I’m wishing I’d never brought up the minuscule bit of flour that was on the floor. With the stupid mop I refused to get, that mess would have taken two seconds to clean up. Now Perry isn’t the only one requiring a bath tonight. I’m in worse shape than he was.

  Will

  I can’t remember when I’ve had more fun. And I can’t remember seeing a woman more beautiful. We’re sitting on my kitchen floor, surrounded by mounds of dried white grossness because we’re too dirty to sit anywhere else. Despite the mess, we did manage to make an apple pie, minus the oatmeal, because Olivia threw the entire canister at me, literally, after she showered me with the contents. It’s been nearly two hours since I instigated turning this room into a mass of white, but it’s been the best two hours in recent memory.

  “Black,” she says.

  I’ve just asked her to name her favorite color, and I don’t agree with her answer. What happened to blue? At the very least, Olivia looks like a pink or a purple or, God help me, a siren red, but not this.

  “Black isn’t a color. Black is nothingness.”

  She gives me a look. “Black is absolutely a color. Add it to any other color and it gives everything more depth. Whether it creates shadows or is just used for layering, every color becomes richer when you add a little black.”

  The profoundness of her statement hits me in the chest. It’s almost like adding a little Olivia; bring her into my day and the dark moments somehow get brighter. Just as I start to say something along those lines, a blob of pie crust dough falls from her hair and lands on her shoulder, effectively saving me from saying something stupid.

  “Favorite food?” I laugh when she rolls her eyes and brushes the dough onto the floor.

  “Not pie crust. Not anymore.” My heart does a little flip when she smiles. “Probably guacamole. Tied with pizza.”

  “Favorite movie?”

  “As Good As It Gets.”

  I snicker. A movie about OCD. “Figures.”

  Probably a mistake to laugh. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she says with a scowl.

  “Not a thing. Favorite game?”

  “Scrabble.”

  I pause at this one and give her a look. “Wrong answer. You should have said baseball.”

  She scratches her chin. “Except I thought you wanted truthful answers, and we both know that would be a lie.”

  “Sometimes your words are like knives that cut me right in the heart.” I grab my chest and pretend to look wounded. She doesn’t pretend to care, instead she flicks more bits of dried dough out of her hair and drops them to the floor.

  “How about you start listing some of your favorite things instead of just giving me the third degree?”

  I take a drink and set the cup on the floor in front of me. “Hit me.”

  “Don’t tempt me.” She smirks, then forks a bite of apple. “Favorite pastime?” she says around a mouthful.

  “Sleeping.”

  “I guess I can understand that. Favorite song?”

  “‘Hallelujah.’”

  “As in the chorus?”

  I smile, because it’s a cute guess. Of course Olivia would think this. “As in the one written by Leonard Cohen.”

  She nods, but she has no idea what song I’m talking about. I can almost picture her making a mental note to look it up when she gets home. She takes a sip of water.

  “Favorite game?”

  I slow down my chewing. This is where I should say it, but Olivia just pointed out that we’re supposed to be truthful. And since that’s the object of the game . . .

  “Football.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “Not baseball?”

  I use a napkin to wipe at my mouth. “I love baseball, but it’s my job. If I’m looking for an escape, I’ll always choose football.”

  She thinks on that for a moment. “Makes sense. If someone asked me to read books out loud to a group of kids in my free time, I would turn them down flat.” She rubs her hands together and inspects her fingernails, grimacing when she finds them caked with brittle dough. She drops her hands and looks at me. “What’s your favorite memory about the game?”

  The question surprises me, but not because it requires more than a one-word answer. It surprises me because her eyes are locked on mine and she looks sincere—like it’s something she really wants to know. So I take a breath and launch into the story. It’s a short one.

  “It was eight years ago this month—Fourth of July—and the first time I started in a big-league game. We were playing the Cubs, and I even got my first hit—and that’s saying something coming from a pitcher. I was more nervous than I’d ever been before, worried I wouldn’t be able to perform. But I played well, and we wound up winning the game. When it was over, I cried.”

  Olivia is quiet. When I look up at her she is staring straight ahead, lost in a memory. Hers? Mine? It’s hard to tell. I think about asking her, but she surprises me by standing up and carrying her dishes to the sink.

  “I should probably get going. It’s later than I thought . . .” Her voice trails off. Her change in demeanor is confusing.

  I want to ask her what happened, what about my story bothered her. But a small part of me is worried about what she’ll say. Instead, I help her retrieve a sleeping Perry and walk her to the door. I think about leaning down to kiss her cheek, and then I stop thinking and just do it. Her face is rough with dried flour, but my lips hum from the sweetness.

  “Bye,” she says. “Thank you for taking care of my cat.”

  “I’ll do it again, anytime you need.”

  And there it is again, that faraway, almost troubled look in her eye. I wish I knew what it meant. I wish I was brave enough to ask.

  But I don’t. I just stand there and watch as she lets herself in the apartment next door, leaving me alone in an apartment that suddenly feels too quiet and dark and cold.

  And empty.

  Chapter 24

  Olivia

  Will has been gone three days, and I keep trying to tell myself it doesn’t matter. That I don’t miss him. That I don’t keep looking out the front window in hopes of seeing his car magically sitting in his parking spot, that instead I’m checking the weather, even though I know he still has one game to play in Houston
and four to play in Chicago before he heads home. With travel, that’s six days. Six days that might as well be six months for as long as they’re taking. I keep telling myself that I like the quiet coming from the apartment next door—so much nicer than the rap and occasional grunge music that normally pounds its way through my walls. I hate that music almost as much as I hate his profession.

  Though I seem to be softening even on that.

  I keep trying to tell myself that I hate baseball as much as ever. The sport is the cause of all of my childhood disappointments, and it fills the interior of my very overstuffed adult baggage. But then my mother called yesterday and tugged that theory up by the roots.

  “What do you mean, they released him? I thought he was in for another year. You never told me there was a possibility of him getting out now.”

  “Well he did,” she gasped. “As of today, he’s out on parole and living with me. I want you to come here and see him, Olivia. Promise me you’ll be here by Labor Day.”

  I pinched the space between my eyebrows, overcome with a pounding headache I hadn’t had only seconds before.

  “I can’t promise that, Mom. There’s too much history there. Too much—”

  “Olivia,” she barked. “I don’t know what it is you think your brother did to you, but it’s time you forgave him.”

  A little understanding. Just a little understanding was all I’d ever asked for, but it was never even remotely what I received. And because of that, all the frustration I’d held onto for years came bursting out of me like a cannon heading straight up to nowhere.

  “He stole my family because of that stupid sport!” I yelled. “You dragged me to game after game after game and for what? So that I could be ignored? So that I could be told to shut up and let him shine? So that he could work and work and work while I did nothing but sit in the dirt by myself? I couldn’t even take dance lessons because there was no time to fit it around Bradley’s schedule. And then finally—finally—when he made the big leagues, which was the only thing you and dad ever wanted, he starts taking drugs, selling drugs, getting arrested for selling them, and then winds up in prison for five years!” By then I was on too much of a roll to stop. “And oh, oh! The real kicker is that after everything, my parents get divorced and I haven’t seen or heard from my father in over three years. And you. All you ever call to talk about is Bradley. ‘Olivia, Bradley wants to see you. Olivia, your brother is hurting. Olivia, it’s his birthday.’ His his his. Well, what about me? All I ever hear about is that stupid game. That stupid game that you forced me to live through even though I hated it!”

  Silence. Nothing but silence on the other end of the line. That and the sound of my mother’s labored breathing. It might’ve broken my heart a little if I hadn’t been so angry.

  “Olivia, your brother made a mistake. One he’s paying dearly for. Don’t hold a grudge against him for that; people make mistakes all the time. And as for his involvement in baseball, he never even liked the game. He was forced into it by your father and wound up being good at it. Eventually it was the only thing he was good at because his grades suffered, his social life suffered, his mental health suffered—all because your father pushed him too hard.”

  I heard her take a deep, shuddering breath. I was taking them as well, because everything I had just heard was news to me.

  “I’m convinced he got mixed up with drugs to have a way out, to get even with your dad. The day he signed with the Cardinals, he cried. What should have been the happiest day of his life was one of the worst, because now he was stuck. You have every right to be angry about your childhood; I didn’t do enough to stop it. And as for your father . . . all he wanted to be was the dad of a baseball player. When he wasn’t anymore, he felt he had no reason to be a father at all. Don’t blame Bradley for your father’s poor decisions.”

  I’d been sucker punched, the wind knocked out of me. I slowly backed up toward my bed and lowered myself onto it, breathing in and out, in and out. A panic attack threatened to rise up and overwhelm me, but I kept breathing until it slowly subsided.

  It’s been twenty-four hours since that phone call, and I still don’t know what to think about anything.

  The day he signed with the Cardinals, he cried. My mind keeps replaying that sentence.

  When it was over, I cried. It keeps replaying the words Will spoke to me as well.

  Two very similar reactions to the same game; one born out of hate and the other, love.

  My brother hated the game. Will loves it. And I’ve been punishing one for the sins of the other. Turns out even that sin was secondhand, delivered in the form of pressure from a very overbearing father. A father whose worth was tied up in a game, and who cut ties as soon as two kids who loved him no longer held any value.

  My phone buzzes from the table, and I blink up at my bedroom ceiling. I don’t remember lying down and I’m unsure how long I’ve been here, but Perry is on my stomach and he’s twenty pounds of deadweight. I sit up and move him to the comforter, stopping a moment to right myself when I’m overcome with a wave of black spots. Stress, worry—I’ve dealt with this before, but it’s been a while. I take a series of deep breaths and slowly my vision clears, though the aftermath brings with it a dull headache. My phone buzzes again. A text message, then another. My heart feels heavy and my head full as I shuffle toward the phone. My heart takes off like a million fireflies when I see his name on the screen. My head remains the same.

  Will: Hey stranger.

  Ignoring the pounding, I smile to myself and count to twelve before answering. No need to appear too eager.

  Hey yourself. What’s up?

  There is a long pause. Too long, if you ask me. Either he’s playing it cool or he’s forgotten we’re talking. Both options are unacceptable because I didn’t initiate this conversation. My heart is beating wildly, a mix of anger, anticipation, and fear, when the phone finally buzzes again.

  Will: Getting ready to play. Just wanted to say hi before I head out. Can I text you after the game is over if it’s not too late?

  It won’t be too late. I’ll be awake. You winning?

  I want to kick myself for agreeing so quickly but figure there’s no point in pretending. I’ll be awake. I’ll be awake until sunrise for the chance to talk to him.

  Will: Miraculously, yes. But that doesn’t get you out of next week’s games. How’s the furball?

  I roll my eyes.

  I’ll be there. But Perry hates you and always will. Go play your game, and text me when it’s over.

  I picture him laughing.

  I hear myself laughing.

  It’s strange how one conversation can turn a day around.

  Will

  We’ve spent the past two nights texting, and now it’s become somewhat of a habit. It’s a habit I’m not sure I should keep up, but one I’m not willing to break. At least not yet. Maybe when the season is over. That’s what I keep telling myself.

  I reach for my phone and check for a reply from Olivia. Still nothing. It rings in my hand instead. My nerves flare when I see Jerry’s name light up the screen.

  “Hello?”

  I wander over to the bathroom sink and fill a glass with water, then take a long drink. I feel more bad news coming, and my throat is dry with dread.

  “She’s not going to sue. Her lawyer told me that five minutes ago.”

  Not what I expected. “Then why put me through all that?”

  “I think she was after the attention and wanted to see how far she could take it. Now that the press has died down, I guess she figured it was no longer worth it. Bottom line, you’re off the hook. And since we’re winning now, the pressure should ease up too.” I hear him sniff. “Even Olivia can go away if you want her to. Now would probably be the best time. Don’t want her to get the wrong idea.”

  Despite the red that fills my vision, I look at the wall above the mirror and concentrate on the positive side of his words. He’s right. Now might be the best time to
cut ties with her. As far as my reputation is concerned, having a steady date is no longer necessary. Though there is the issue of my winning streak . . .

  Even that might not be a factor. We’ve won every game on the road so far, and Olivia hasn’t been here to make it happen.

  “True,” I say quickly. Jerry doesn’t know the other reason I keep Olivia around. “Let me think on that and I’ll get back to you. No sense in making a quick decision on that yet.”

  There’s a pause. “Sounds like you might not want to make that decision at all. Good thing I like Olivia. Just don’t let her mess with your game.”

  Unwilling to point out that she’s already messed with it in the best way possible, I assure him I won’t, hang up, and set the phone on the counter, then stare at the blank screen. I could pick up the phone right now and text Olivia. Tell her everything is good now, that it’s all over, that we no longer have to pretend. I could give her an out, give her the chance to finally avoid the game she so fiercely hates. For a minute I toy with my conscience, trying to convince myself to do right by her and let her decide for herself. It’s the nice thing to do. The honorable thing to do.

  Something tells me I know what she’ll decide.

  With a sigh, I pick up the phone. It’s been twenty minutes since she last texted me.

  You doing okay?

  Olivia: Sorry, my phone rang. I’m great. Okay, what were we talking about?

  We spend the next hour texting back and forth about nothing and everything.