She not-so-subtly clears her throat.
I look over at her. Even with me sitting on the stool, she’s eye level with me. Her gaze darts from me to my book, and back to me. “You know, it’s okay to let people help you,” she says. “There’s a future Chemistry major standing right in front of you, offering free tutoring for the second time. And you’ve had my number for how long?”
“I know, I know. You’re the genius offspring of a genius doctor, and I’m sure you come from a long line of genius geniuses.”
My eyes widen right along with hers. And the award for shittiest timing in history goes to Austin Braxton, King of the Douches.
“Okay,” she says. “You’re feeling down, so I’ll let that slide. Don’t push it.” She kicks off the counter and walks into the back room.
Dang it. I jump up and follow her, finding her at the arrangement table with roses spread out in front of her. She doesn’t even bother looking up at me.
“I can’t ask you to tutor me,” I tell her, leaning against the doorframe. “It’d be weird, wouldn’t it? We work together, for one thing, and—” My shoulders slump as she looks up at me, waiting for me to continue. I’m an idiot, and don’t want you to see that. My mouth closes.
Her face falls, almost like she heard me tack on that last line. “I don’t think you have much of a choice anymore,” she says carefully. “You shouldn’t be worried about weird when you’re close to failing. I thought baseball was everything to you. Why do you care what I think of you when you have a chance of not making it to the field?”
She’s got a point. What she thinks of me should be at the bottom of my list—the key word here being “should.” But I do care. A lot. What guy wants someone to see, firsthand, that he can’t even read a page without its words going over his head?
I blow out a breath and walk over to the table so I can help her. “Are you going to be my miracle?” I ask, picking up the scissors.
She eyes the scissors, her forehead creasing a little. “Sure.” She hands me a rose. “By the time I’m done with you, you’ll be identifying chemical structures in your sleep.”
I snort. This girl has no clue what she’s getting into. “Then you’ve got one hell of a job to do. I’m not even sure where to start.”
“Start by coming to my house this weekend?” she asks. “After you get off work tomorrow night?”
I glance up and catch her staring. She blushes. Waits. And I think my knees just turned to jelly.
“Sounds good,” I manage to say. Clearing my throat, I start snipping thorns off my rose. “Why aren’t you working tomorrow?”
Her smile falters as she hands me another flower. “Doctor’s appointment. I bet you won’t even notice I’m gone.”
That’s where she’s completely, totally, out-of-the-park wrong. “Well, if you find some way to push that stuff through my head, I’ll make sure you have a front-row seat to every game of the season.”
“Won’t I be working during your games?”
“We close up early on game days, along with half the other places in town.”
She hands me the last rose, her hand brushing against mine when I take it. Her cheeks flush again. There’s no way I can hold back my grin. That seems to happen every time I’m around this girl.
“For the record,” I say, “it’s going to be awful lonely without you here tomorrow.” And I don’t think I’ve ever been more serious.
Marisa and her parents live way out on the other side of the county, close to the line between Lewis Creek and Summerville. Once I leave the shop on Friday night, a twenty-mile drive brings me to the middle of nowhere, in the middle of nowhere. As I pull into the Marlowes’ driveway, my jaw drops. I’m sure Marisa’s dad makes plenty of money, but good Lord. Their place is bigger than any farmhouse around.
After parking behind Marisa’s car, I grab my book and notebook and hop out onto the cobblestone driveway. On their wide front porch, the rocking chairs sway in the breeze. Marisa said that it was perfect out here, and now I definitely believe it. My house isn’t some run-down shack, but we go against every Southern rule by not having a huge porch.
I press the doorbell and wait. And wait. And wait some more. The wind chimes jingle behind me, echoing in the night. Right as I hit the bell again, the door finally swings open, and I’m looking up at a dad who’s got to be nearly a foot taller than me.
Well, hell.
“Evenin’, Dr. Marlowe,” I say, making sure my voice doesn’t squeak like a field mouse. I hold up my book. “I’m here to, uh, study. With Marisa.”
He stares me down until I feel about as small as a field mouse. Finally, he nods once and steps to the side, allowing me in. The smell of tomato sauce and fresh bread hits me full-force, and my stomach growls, reminding me I never ate dinner tonight. I came straight here after closing up the shop. A staircase a mile high stretches before me, and sounds from a TV drift from the living room on the left. The best part, though, is the dozens of pictures that line the wall next to the stairs. Most of them are of Marisa, from baby pictures all the way up to this past Christmas, when they moved here.
Her dad clears his throat, and I spin on my heel, facing him. The dude had to have been a basketball player at some point, or the scariest tight end in history. I thought doctors were supposed to be, like, friendly or something. But he’s also a dad to a hot eighteen-year-old girl, so there’s that.
“So, you’re Austin,” he says, holding out his hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
I shake his hand, hoping he doesn’t notice mine’s as sweaty as a game sock. “Good to meet you, sir.” I glance around us. “About Marisa—?”
He crosses his arms, that stare of his still trained on me. “Do you like guns, Austin?”
You’ve got to be kidding me. “Yes, sir. Shot my first duck when I was eight.”
He nods appreciatively and jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “Nice, nice. You know, I was born and raised down here. I took down plenty of bucks over in Dillon County. I’ve got one hell of a gun collection upstairs if you want—”
“Steven, stop trying to scare him!” a woman shouts from the kitchen right as shoes squeak against the kitchen floor. Thank God. I’d know those annoying Converses anywhere.
“Austin!” Marisa rushes into the entryway, her eyes bright and her hair pulled into a messy knot. Her yellow kitchen apron is splattered with tomato sauce. I kind of want to ask her for food. “Head on upstairs,” she says. “My room’s the second on the left. Make yourself at home.”
Dr. Marlowe clears his throat. “It’s time for dinner, Marisa.” His voice is a heck of a lot softer than it was a minute ago.
“I can wait,” I say. I glance between the two of them, but they’re in this stare-down of the century that makes me wish I was a field mouse. At least then I could run away because, holy crap, this is awkward.
“You need to eat,” her dad says. “You know your meds—”
“I’ll eat later,” Marisa cuts in. She smiles at her dad, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Or I can carry something upstairs for us. When’s the last time I missed dinner?” She places her hand on my back, pushing me gently. “Go on up. I’ll be there in five.”
She disappears into the kitchen, leaving me alone with him. I was never this much of a pansy around Jamie’s dad, but I had about six inches on that guy. Plus, he was this super-quiet man who let her mom talk over him all the time. Dr. Marlowe scares the bejesus out of me just by standing there.
And we won’t even talk about the gun collection.
I back toward the stairs, nearly falling flat on my ass when I hit the bottom step. “I think I’ll just head upstairs?”
He cocks an eyebrow. “Good talking to you. See you later.”
And that’s my cue to get the heck out of dodge. I hightail it up the stairs and turn into that blessed second room.
Now, I don’t have a ton of experience with girls’ rooms. The ones I have been in were either splattered with
pink or covered with monogramed everything. (Do the girls forget their own initials? Not really sure on that one.) But none of them have been like this.
Basically, Marisa’s room wins by a long shot. The girl even has her own bathroom inside her bedroom. The walls are covered with posters—everything from Chipper Jones to book cover art. Her bookshelves are stacked with books on top of books, with a bunch also piled on her nightstand, along with spiral notebooks. My Braves hat, the one I gave her that night outside the shop, sits on top of the notebooks. Nice. I could get used to being here.
Wearing my work boots on her white carpet feels like an outright sin, but she had shoes on downstairs, so I shove my momma’s nagging voice aside and make my way to the chair at her desk. With the navy-blue comforter and dozens of pillows on her bed, it’s like she took my bed and planted it in here.
Footsteps pound up the stairs. I plop into her leather chair right as she appears in the doorway with a bowl and two cans of soda. She pushes the door closed with her foot.
“Hope you’re hungry,” she says, walking over. She sits in front of me, on the edge of her bed, and passes me the neon green bowl full of popcorn. “Sorry. No spaghetti allowed in the room.”
I shrug. “Popcorn’s better. Spaghetti’s the worst food to eat in front of people.”
She tilts her head to the side. “Why?”
“Really? Slurp in front of someone and tell me it’s not awkward as hell.”
She hands me a soda and takes a handful of popcorn. I look down at the bowl. My stomach growls again. “You didn’t have to make me anything,” I add. “Really. I could’ve waited for y’all to eat.”
She shrugs and scoots back on the bed. “I’m not going to let you starve.” She pats the spot beside her. “But if you could sit up here and bring the popcorn with you, my stomach would be eternally grateful. I am missing the dinner I helped cook.”
Grinning, I get up and sit on the edge of her bed, setting the bowl in front of us. She stares at me for a moment before saying, “Book?”
Oh. The real reason I’m here. I lean over and grab my book from her desk.
“Now,” she continues, wiping her hands on her jeans, “this is killing me, so I have to ask. Why’d you wait so long to take this class? Don’t most people take Chem way before senior year?”
“See, what happened was—” Wincing, I scratch my head. This made so much more sense the night it happened, when I was drunk off my ass with the rest of the team. “I was going to take it in the fall, but I didn’t want to have this one teacher who hated me. Of course, I ended up with him anyway because karma is a heartless joker.”
Her eyebrows scrunch together with confusion. “And why does he hate you?”
“Because he caught me swimming in his pond.”
She waits. Keeps waiting.
I roll my eyes. “Naked. I was naked, okay?”
Her mouth opens, but closes as she blinks quickly. “Oh. I— Oh. W-why were you naked, exactly?”
“In my defense, it was a dare. A lot of beer was involved. And maybe some moonshine.”
“Moonshine is an actual thing?”
Brett and Eric come from a long, long line of mountain folks. Every year that they visit their grandparents up in North Carolina, they come back with a stash of moonshine. No idea how their dad hasn’t busted them yet, but you don’t question miracles.
“It’s a very real and very fantastic thing,” I tell her.
She nods slowly. If I didn’t lose her with the skinny-dipping, then I totally lost her with the moonshine. I’ve never felt more backwoods than I do now.
“’Kay,” she says, tapping my book. “Let’s get down to business. What’re we dealing with tonight?”
I grin. “Changing the subject that quick, huh?”
“It’s either that or me imagining you naked all night.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
She holds my gaze, her lips pressed together in a thin line until she bursts out laughing. She slaps a hand over her mouth, her shoulders shaking as her cheeks flush bright red, and all I can do is laugh with her. Even though I am kind of getting a complex over here.
I flip through the pages in my book and find the chapter we started this week. “Here. My test on Monday is about all this. I’ve read this chapter, like, five times, and it’s all blurring together.”
Still laughing lightly, she leans over. “Really? This is just mass and stuff. Super-easy.”
“Now I feel like even more of a dumbass.” The words are out before I can stop them. As soon as her face falls, I wish I could take them back, even if I did mean them.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “Really, really sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.” She squeezes my shoulder and smiles. “In all seriousness, you’ll be fine, Austin. I don’t know why you’re convinced you’re some sort of idiot because you’re not. Isn’t baseball the sport for smart people? You’ve got statistics, percentages, averages—all kinds of stuff.”
I snort.
She nudges me. “I don’t want to hear you calling yourself names anymore. No more ‘dumbass’ or ‘idiot’ or ‘stupid.’ If I hear it, I’ll make you—” she waves her hand around. “—I don’t know, copy the elements from the periodic table fifty times. Got it?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She nods once and passes me the popcorn bowl. “All right. Now. Let’s make you smarter.”
I take the bowl, unable to look away from her face. She holds my gaze, smiling this sweet smile that makes everything else in the room disappear. Maybe letting her tutor me wasn’t the brightest decision after all. Or maybe it was the best damn decision I’ve ever made.
chapter seven
After church on Sunday, I drop Momma off at home and head across town to The Strike Zone. Practice starts tomorrow, but extra time at the batting cages never hurt anybody.
When I pull into the parking lot, Jay, Brett, and Eric are all crowded around Eric’s Chevy, still dressed in their church clothes. As soon as I park, Eric hops off his tailgate and starts toward the building. He acted like a loner at church all morning, too. Instead of sitting in his usual spot between Brett and their little sister on the front pew, he planted himself in the back of the sanctuary.
I step down from my truck and lift my chin to Jay and Brett. “Who pissed in Eric’s cereal?”
Brett tugs on a Braves cap and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his khakis. “He found out his girl was cheatin’ on him,” he says as we cross the lot. “With Right Field Randy, of all people.”
“No kiddin’?” That’s low. Lower than low. Randy’s the kind of greasy, tobacco-chewing guy that gives other rednecks a bad name.
Brett nods. “Sucks, too, ’cause he’s been doin’ good these past couple of weeks. Finally staying out of trouble.”
Damn. Eric needs someone to keep his rear out of trouble, especially if he plans to be a starter next year. Coach won’t put up with that mess.
I look at Jay, who’s been walking between us without saying a word. That’s a first. I slap his shoulder. “What’s with the silent treatment, Torres? Someone piss in your breakfast, too?”
He claps his hands together. “I hate to break it to ya, but Coach emailed out a roster change. I’ve got to tell you that you are not, in fact, on the varsity team this year. You’re getting sent down to JV.”
“And I’ve got to tell you that you are, in fact, full of shit.” I stop short at the door. “You are full of shit, right?”
He laughs, but it’s the fakest smile I’ve ever seen. Something’s up. Brett holds the door open as we walk inside the building, which is empty except for the worker and Eric. This place is usually crawling with kids on Sunday afternoon. Major score for beating the post-church rush.
Eric’s waiting for us at the front, leaning against the sign-in counter. Brett tugs on the brim of his cap some more, shielding his face as we approach the register. Jay scoffs, even though he tries to hide it with a cough. Whenever the
y walk into a room together, Brett acts like he’s on some covert-ops mission, even though he’s one of the most recognizable guys in town. It’d be nice to shake the guy and yell that no one gives a crap, but around here, people do care. They care a lot.
We grab our bats and helmets and split up, with Brett and Eric going to the cages lining the opposite side of the room. What’s their deal? We always share a cage. Narrowing my eyes, I start to ask Jay, but he’s already tugging his helmet on and stepping into Cage 1. The door slams behind him as he slides his token into the machine. The pitching machine kicks on, and Jay swings, smacking the first ball. It’s a miracle it’s got any threading left.
I lean on the cage, lacing my fingers through the wire. “You all right, bro?”
“I’m ready to come out,” he says.
I take a step back. “Come on out, then. I’ll go first.”
He hits the next ball and glances over his shoulder. “You that dumb? Out-out, Braxton.” He points his bat across the room, where Brett’s stepping into his cage.
My eyes widen as Jay squares up for the next pitch. I look around, making sure the room’s still empty. If the wrong person heard that, all hell would break loose. I’m pretty sure that me and Jay’s older brother are the only people who know. I don’t even think Eric knows, and he’s Brett’s shadow.
“Dude,” I whisper sharply. “Do you know what the hell you just said?”
He swings again. “You sound like Brett.”
“Um, yeah. And we sound like we’ve got some sense.”
He whirls around, his chest heaving, his face flushed and streaked with sweat. His bat drops to the floor. “And I thought you were on my side.”
“I am, man. I just—” If I really have his back, there shouldn’t be a “but” or “just.” But Brett’s got his reasons, too: he’s a Baptist pastor’s kid in the backwoods of South Carolina, for Christ’s sake. He doesn’t have much choice here. That said, I’m not even going to pretend to understand what they’re going through.
The last ball pops from the machine and slams against the cage, snapping me back to the moment. “Yeah,” I finally say, opening the door for him. “I’m on your side, man.”
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