The Thirteenth Chance

by Amy Matayo

  From me, I mean. Definitely from me. No way some other guy is coming anywhere near her now. So long, fake boyfriend. Adios, sucker.

  Linking her fingers through mine, I lead us to the door. As soon as we reach it, I turn around and pull her to me. Her head rests on my chest; my chin settles on her forehead.

  “How’s your head?” I ask, genuinely concerned. “You might want to take something for it before you go back to sleep.”

  She nods into me. “I will.” Her voice is small, sad.

  “Hey.” I tilt her chin to look at me. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? Call me when you wake up.”

  That earns a smile, one unlike any I’ve seen before. Olivia’s smile can light up a room, but this one lights up her eyes from the inside out. As soon as it disappears, I kiss her again. Her mouth is as soft as I remember from a few seconds ago, and it takes everything in me to pull away.

  But I do.

  And she closes the door behind me.

  And I let myself in my own apartment.

  And slide against the closed entryway door, all the way to the floor.

  Like I said earlier . . .

  I’m in trouble.

  Chapter 28

  Olivia

  “You heading out?”

  The voice behind me makes me jumpier than I’ve been all morning, and that’s saying quite a bit. I haven’t slept in two days, and I haven’t seen Will in the same amount of time. Call me tomorrow, he said. Well, I did, and the only thing he said was, Don’t come to the game. He wouldn’t let me go to it or the one last night because of my slight black eye and large goose egg of a forehead, and, to make matters worse, they won both of them. Those facts have jumbled together in my mind over the last two days, playing all sorts of games with my imagination.

  I’m tired, and my mind can’t settle down.

  They’re winning, and I’m no longer necessary.

  Will kissed me, and I haven’t seen him since.

  Which can only mean one thing. I’m a terrible kisser. Twenty-nine years old, and I can’t even do that right. I close the trunk of my car and walk around to the driver’s side, stopping just before I open the door.

  “Yes, I have to go visit my mother,” I say with as much enthusiasm as I can muster. Which is zero, because making an effort to see my mother—and consequently my brother—has taken the joy out of this day and all the days I have in front of me. Dramatic maybe, but that’s just the way it is. I cross my arms and stare at Will, fresh from an early morning jog, as damp as he might be if he’d just hopped out of the shower, and looking as hot as ever. My skin hums with anticipation just looking at him.

  Even though there’s clearly nothing to anticipate.

  “Your mother? Where does she live?”

  He leans against a neighboring car and crosses his arms and—my gosh, those muscles. I look away so my eyes won’t give away just how much the last two days have hurt me.

  “Oklahoma City.”

  He frowns. “How long is the drive?”

  “Three hours.”

  My side of the conversation is short, clipped. But I can’t help it. You don’t just kiss a girl and then not see her, demanding career or not. This is a very basic concept, one that most men can’t seem to grasp. At least that’s what I assume, based on my very limited experience. And seeing isn’t even necessary. There’s texting. Texting is quick and simple and can do wonders to mask all evidence of a shaky voice or lying mouth.

  Men and their lying mouths.

  “Are you staying the night?” he asks.

  A bird lands on the roof of the car three rows down. I stare at it.

  “No, but I’ll be back late.”

  Will shifts in place. I try really hard not to notice.

  “Olivia, are you mad at me?”

  “No.” I say it too quickly. I’m pretty sure my fist just clenched and my jaw just flexed.

  So maybe I’m the liar.

  “Then do you mind if I come with you?”

  That gets my attention, and my gaze snaps toward him.

  “Why would you want to come with me? That would require you hanging out with me all day, and that’s obviously not something you want to do.” Wow, I sound bitter. I hate bitter and all the emotions that come with it, but I’m mad. Mad and hurt and trying not to cry and he smells bad. “Plus, you need a shower because you stink.”

  He takes a step toward me, and I try to pull back but I can’t. This car is in my way and I already have that fairy-flying feeling in my stomach. Unfortunate, since butterflies are safer and much easier to slap away.

  “You think I stink?” he says.

  He’s such a jerk. Moving this close to me makes him even more of one, and I scowl at him. “Worse than that dumpster over there.”

  “How about now?” His hands are on my shoulders and I’m looking at everything but him.

  “Worse than all the dumpsters combined.” Dang it, I think my mouth just twitched.

  “And now?” His arms come around my back and I’m settling into his chest and since he can’t see my face in this position, I allow a small smile. But only a small one.

  “Why haven’t you even tried to see me since the other night?”

  His chin comes to rest on my head.

  “Because I’ve been working.”

  “You’re always working.” My voice is muffled, soft.

  “Yes, but not as much as I have the last two days.”

  “Why the last two days?” I hate how fragile I sound. Like at any moment I’m expecting my heart to break. This is why I don’t do relationships. This and because, when it comes to men, I’ve never been all that confident.

  “Well, it’s not because I kissed you, if that’s what you’re thinking.” I hate that he can read my mind. I love that he can read my mind. “Because two days ago I went home and slept until it was time to be at the field, and when that game was over I figured you were already asleep and it was too late to call. And last night’s game went fourteen innings.”

  “Fourteen innings?” Suddenly I’m glad I wasn’t required to be there.

  His arms pull me closer. “Yep. Game didn’t end until one in the morning.”

  “But you won.” Again with the monotone voice.

  “We won. But that doesn’t get you out of tomorrow night’s game. It hasn’t been the same without you there, so show up, headache or not.”

  I nod into his chest. “My head’s fine,” I say, finally pulling back to look at him. He said everything I needed to hear in order to feel better, which makes me feel worse, because when did I turn into a needy teenage girl?

  I look up at him and he gives me a slow smile, his gaze settling on my mouth. “Good to hear.” And then he leans in and all is right in my world, because my world just became reduced to the size of Will’s lips.

  What great lips they are.

  What a beautiful world we live in.

  He pulls back to look at me. “Now, can I go with you or not?”

  “Don’t you have practice or something?”

  He shakes his head and runs both hands up and down my arms. “It’s Monday.”

  Monday, an off day. I want to say no because I haven’t seen my mother in a year and my brother in even longer, but I won’t tell him no and he knows it. There’s not a lot of time to spend with Will outside of his job, so I’ll take what I can get when he’s willing to offer it.

  “Sure, you can come. But Will?”

  “What?”

  “Please hurry up and shower. You really do stink.”

  He pushes away from me and jogs to his front door. “I’ll be ready to go in five,” he calls.

  I can hear his laughter until the door closes behind him.

  Will

  It all makes sense.

  Olivia is fiercely independent and somewhat neurotic.

  Olivia doesn’t like to speak about her family.

  Olivia hates baseball.

  At one time I thought Olivia might have hated me.
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  And then there’s that conversation we never finished up in the locker room, the one that Olivia didn’t seem too eager to continue. Why did your brother quit, Olivia? She went mute. Changed the subject. Looked visibly relieved when we were interrupted by the two coaches who came stomping in, mad at me and my bad temper.

  And now I know why.

  But that isn’t even the worst of it.

  And now that I know the worst of it, I can’t say that I blame her for any of it.

  “So you played for the Cardinals?” I casually ask her brother, though it’s hardly a casual question. It’s a question disguised as small talk and nothing more because I already know the answer—I’ve known the answer since we walked inside this house. But I’m busy staring at a picture sitting on the oak mantel above the fireplace and the evidence is inside it, and I’m having trouble dealing with the idea that reality does indeed bite.

  It bites hard.

  “Yeah, I played with them for a season,” he says, flipping through channels with the remote. He’s wearing sweatpants and an old white tee and an entitled attitude—probably not the greatest combination for a guy who just got out of jail. Then again, you can always spot a guy who was raised to believe he’s the center of someone’s very small universe. They never outgrow it, even as the world continues to spin and enlarge around them.

  “Not for a whole season,” his mother chimes in, completely unnecessarily, if you ask me. The woman has inserted her take on things all afternoon, and practically every word comes out steeped in bitterness. Other than in looks, Olivia is nothing like her mother. She is soft where her mother is hard, timid where her mother is bold, gracious where her mother is blunt. But they look exactly alike. If the woman’s hair weren’t cut to her shoulders, and if there weren’t a few vaguely noticeable lines around her eyes and mouth, I might think they were twins.

  Except Olivia smiles more. Thank God Olivia smiles more.

  She’s in the bathroom right now, trying to get over a particularly harsh assessment her mother made about her absence this past year, namely that she was selfish and unthoughtful, but then again you’ve only ever thought of yourself. I might have gotten a couple of words wrong in the retelling, but that hardly matters. From the bits and pieces I’ve managed to gather since our arrival a few hours ago, Olivia is the one most overlooked in this house.

  Of the nearly thirty pictures scattered all over the fireplace mantel, Olivia is in only three. The rest are framed photos of her brother—mostly in uniform. Based on appearances, Olivia is not much of a second or third or fourth thought.

  “Why only a season?”

  I ask the question to be polite; I’m pretty sure I already know the answer. I’ve seen it happen before. Guy makes the big leagues and can’t handle the pressure. Guy declines an initial offer of “help,” but then when fear becomes overwhelming, he begins to compromise himself. Just once, he thinks, because the brain is very convincing when it’s trying to calm itself down. But once turns into twice and twice turns into a habit they can’t kick. Some men live with it and keep playing the game. They become dependent, drugs turn into a crutch, their game actually becomes better, their bodies become stronger. It’s an easy lie to believe when the cheering swells louder and the bank account grows bigger and the ego increases to a monumental size.

  But occasionally you’ll find a guy who can’t handle it.

  Or one who gets so wrapped up in himself that he becomes careless and self-destructive, starts believing he’s superhuman and can do no wrong. In Bradley’s case, the no-wrong lie turned into selling drugs. And for what? For the rush of adrenaline that came with every transaction. Because, for some people, the rush of twenty thousand people calling their name just isn’t enough. Especially when they’ve been plagued with self-doubt their whole lives. Sometimes insecurity is a harder habit to kick than drugs. And always . . . always . . . an oversize ego is wrapped in an even bigger amount of insecurity.

  “I got arrested,” he finally answers from his spot on the sofa. “For dealing.”

  I nod, admiring his honesty. It’s surprising, considering the circumstances. He looks every bit the athlete-in-training, and if you didn’t know better you might think he just came off the field after losing a game; there is a look of defeat about him. But I do know better. The dark circles under his eyes are from lack of sleep. The lack of sleep is from the time it’s taking to get acclimated to the outside world. The time spent in jail is from a few years of bad decisions. But I’ve also learned that bad decisions don’t make a bad man. Everyone has a past full of mistakes they would like to undo, and everyone has a future full of errors ready and waiting for them.

  “You’re not the first person, man,” I say. “Not the best decision, though. Especially in light of the opportunity that was handed to you.”

  “Tell me about it. Cost me everything.”

  “Cost all of us everything, you mean,” Olivia’s mother mutters as she rearranges magazines with one hand and sips coffee with the other. “You had a two-million-dollar contract and flushed it away. It’s been nothing but hard times since.” She sets the mug down and turns to take in the room, a hand perched on her hip.

  Bradley sighs the sigh of a man used to being beaten down. I bristle and bite back the desire to say something to shut her up.

  Instead, I knead the back of my neck and look for an escape.

  “Olivia’s taking a while. I think I’ll go check on her.”

  “Yeah, tell her to come back out here. I could use help with dinner.”

  My eyes. I don’t think they’ve rolled this much all year and it’s actually starting to hurt.

  I find Olivia inside the last bedroom on the right. The room is purple and orange—purple on the walls, orange on the bed—with white beads hanging from the windows and a yellow-flowered ceiling fan that rotates just enough to circulate the smallest amount of air. A thin layer of dust has settled against the top of the ivory-colored dresser. Pictures of high-school dances and old family pets line the mirror. I see two golden retrievers and a kitten. A white kitten. And what do you know? Perry hasn’t always been a fat sphere of fur.

  I pluck that picture off the mirror and bring it to my face.

  “Is this Perry?”

  Olivia looks up at me from her spot on the floor and nods. “That was taken the day I found him. He was under a bush in the front yard, and he was starving. I begged my parents to let me keep him. For two days they said no, but they finally relented as long as I promised to be the one who took care of him.” She shrugs. “So I did.”

  “Where did you come up with his name?”

  She shrugs. “I was a big Journey fan.”

  I smile. Steve Perry. I should have known. I return the picture to the mirror and focus on her.

  I see the two trails of smeared mascara underneath her eyes, but I pretend not to notice. She’s sitting in front of an open drawer filled with old photos. Color photos, faded photos, all taken with a Polaroid camera. There are hundreds of them, maybe more, and something tells me she took them all. I sit down across from her in the middle of what still looks like a teenage girl’s room, but all I can feel is very palpable adult-sized rejection. I attempt what might be a pathetic way to change the mood.

  “And from all appearances, you did a good job. You might have fed him a little too much, let him be entirely too lazy, but other than that . . .”

  She laughs the kind of watery laugh that has me giving myself an internal high five. Maybe it didn’t change much, but at least I got her to laugh. Laughter is something. Everyone needs more of it.

  “He’s not fat,” she says, slowly flipping through photos. Now she’s not looking at me.

  “You’re right. He’s obese.”

  I’m rewarded with a shove on the arm. Reaching inside the drawer, I pull out a stack of pictures and flip through them.

  “Did you take all these?”

  She nods. A new tear spills down her cheek and lands on her lap. I wish
I could catch them for her, but Olivia is dealing with things I know nothing about. The best thing I can do is sit here and let her. I wait in silence, the only sound in the room the whooshing slide of paper against paper.

  Minutes go by.

  More and more minutes.

  And then I speak up. There’s a fine balance between caring about someone’s life and inserting yourself into a situation where you don’t belong. I tread carefully, not wanting to land on the wrong side.

  “So your brother was a pitcher. And now I know his number was thirteen.”

  Everything stops, noticeably Olivia’s breathing. “He told you?”

  I shake my head and return the photos to the drawer. “No. I saw the pictures above the fireplace.”

  Her bottom lip quivers. “Of course you did. They’re everywhere.” Her voice cracks on the last word. And then I crack. My heart, my emotions, my reserve. I reach for the photos in her hand and return them to the drawer, then quietly shut it for what I hope is the last time.

  “Those photos aren’t you, you know. You’re not still the little girl being dragged to her brother’s games, forced to sit in the shadows. You’re not the little girl whose parents overlooked you while you watched from the sidelines. You’re not the little girl told to be quiet, listen up, let your brother shine, stop being a nuisance.”

  She looks straight at me, her lips moving like she doesn’t know what to say.

  “How do you know—”

  “I have a family too. I know how it works. Except in my case I’m your brother and my older brother was you. Everyone sacrifices something in this game, but it has to suck to be the one expected to do most of it.”

  She drops her head, trying not to let me see her cry.

  “As for my number, there’s not much I can do about it, but now I understand why you’ve hated the game so much. There seem to be a lot of parallels between your brother and me, and I—”

  “You’re nothing like him.” She shakes her head, and something about that statement makes my heart swell a few sizes. “And it’s not just your number. True, I’m not a fan. But there are other reasons too.”