by Ginger Scott
“Okay, well, hope you can make it.” Her legs are almost in my lap when she stands to walk away, and I notice Rowe’s eyes grow wide just looking at them. Sadie is extremely attractive, and she’s confident. Hell, she used to intimidate me. But she’s nothing compared to Rowe. I just have to make Rowe understand that.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t think she’d come talk to you while I was gone.” My voice sounds pathetic and meek—it’s not enough.
“She’s nice,” she says, her eyes so goddamned sad. Rowe won’t even look at me, and when I offer her a Red Vine, she just sighs and holds up a hand.
They introduce the OSU team during halftime, and the announcer does a brief interview with Sadie and a few of the other players. She looks my direction a few times, and I can tell she wants to make sure I’m watching, but this time I keep my hands in my lap and my attention anywhere but her.
“I think I wanna go home early. Is…is that okay?” They’re the first words Rowe has said to me directly in almost an hour, and I react instantly.
“Whatever you want,” I say, pulling my sweatshirt back over my head and putting my hand along her back to guide her out through the aisle. When we get to the stairs, she shirks my touch, and it stings.
The first half of the car ride is filled with more silence. I smile at her quietly, and she gives me a fake smile in return, but I know the truth behind her eyes. I hurt her, and being there in front of Sadie made her uncomfortable, and I didn’t handle it well. I just didn’t know how to make it better.
“Look, Rowe. I’m really sorry we ran into Sadie. I…I don’t really know what to say. It was just really awkward.” She laughs once, rolling her eyes and looking out her window. “I know, I should have just ignored her or cut the conversation off quickly, but I’m not good at being an asshole.”
“I don’t know, Nate. I think you’ve got asshole down pat,” she says, her eyes on me for the first time all night. She’s pissed, but she’s talking to me, so I’ll take it.
“Yeah, you’re probably right,” I say, taking in another deep breath. “I’m really sorry.”
“You called me your friend, Nate.” She’s actually yelling now. We’re pulling into the lot at school, and all I want to do is stay here in this car and figure things out, but the moment I put it in park, she opens her door and slams it in my face.
“I know. I just panicked. I didn’t want to hurt Sadie’s feelings, flaunting my relationship in her face,” I start, but Rowe spins around to face me, her hand flat on my chest to keep an arm’s distance between us.
“You didn’t want to hurt her feelings?” she says, letting out a breathy laugh that’s laced with tears. “You didn’t want to hurt your ex-girlfriend’s feelings—the girl who cheated on you with your best friend. The one you told me you fell out of love with and never looked back. That’s…wow. That’s truly amazing and kind of you, Nate…to think of her feelings like that.”
“There’s a history there…and I just froze. I haven’t talked to her in months, and I just didn’t want to make her uncomfortable.” Shit! I’m making this worse.
Rowe starts walking away, laughing loudly now with her arms in the air. I’m a good ten paces behind her—my feet glued to the sidewalk with guilt—when she turns around one last time at the door.
“Well, good for you, Nate. I’m glad you were able to spare her feelings. But man…you sure fucked-over mine.” She’s through the door in an instant, and I just let her go, because I need time to figure out how to say the meaningful words Rowe needs to hear—the things I desperately need to say but can’t seem to articulate. Clearly, my brain needs recalibrating because it has done nothing but make the wrong move for the last two hours.
Me: Home early. Wanna grab a beer at Sally’s?
Ty: Be right down. Saw Rowe in the hall. I’m guessing you’ll fill me in.
Me: Yeah, it’s gonna take a few beers to fix this.
Ty: You’re buying.
Me: Naturally.
Chapter 22
Rowe
“Well, last night could not have gone any worse,” I say while Cass finishes getting ready for her Friday morning class. She’s half the girly girl Paige is, but she still takes a while getting ready every morning.
“Okay, walk me through this again. So you two ran into his ex, and he said you were his friend,” Cass peeks her head around the corner while she holds her hair up on her head, poking a pin in the side.
“Yep, that’s pretty much it.”
“Well, I do date his brother, and they can both be pretty stupid. Honestly, I wouldn’t worry about it,” she says, leaning back in to look over her hair in the mirror.
“Right, okay. I won’t worry about it. Poof! Look at that, I’m not worrying. Suddenly, I have no troubles. Good advice,” I’m being a little bitchy, but Cass isn’t really feeling the seriousness of what I’m saying.
“Well, now you’re just being mean. I’m going to class. Try to fix your attitude before I get back so we can go to his game tonight. Your parents still coming for the tournament tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” I sulk.
“Hey, why don’t you go to the gym or something? Get your mind off of things since you don’t have a class this afternoon,” she says, pulling her backpack from her chair.
“Maybe,” I say, still not willing to be cheery.
“Whatever, I’m done helping you. See you at four.” I love Cass’s brand of tough love, and in most ways, she’s the perfect friend for me. But right now, I just want someone to want to help me spread rumors about Nate on the Internet.
After Cass leaves, I try just kicking my feet up at my desk and watching TV. I used to watch soap operas with my mom. I was really into Days of our Lives. What’s amazing is how I haven’t watched it once since I’ve been at McConnell, yet here I am, able to tune in and know exactly what’s happening in the storyline. Jack is dead…or is he? Jennifer is dating some doctor. And Hope is looking for someone on an island. Yep, all caught up.
Maybe Cass is right. Maybe I should check out the rec center. They had some great tennis courts, and it looked like they had pick-up games going on a lot. Maybe I could get back into it…just a little.
It takes me a while to pull my racket out from the bottom of my trunk. It’s still buried under the thick winter coat I have yet to use. I haven’t swung it seriously in two years, but I could still beat my dad. So maybe there’s still something there.
I change into a pair of cotton shorts and a thin T-shirt, then grab my iPod and lock up. If no one is there, I’ll just put my racket in a locker and try out a few of the machines. Nate’s been gone since early this morning. I know, because I waited outside our door for his to crack open, and then I hurried inside before he could notice. He lingered in the hallway for a while, which made me feel…nice. But it didn’t last long; that unsettled feeling moved right back in again.
“Oh good. I guessed right. I was about to give up,” Tucker says from the bench outside our dorm building. He looks like he’s been running, and the fact that he’s waiting here—for me—suddenly has my stomach churning.
“Wha….were you waiting for me?” I’m a little freaked out, and I can feel my left eye starting to twitch.
“Uh…I…yeah. I was. I’m sorry. That’s creepy isn’t it? I was out running and then I sort of found myself here, and then I started to think, ‘huh, I bet she lives here,’ and then next thing I know I’m sort of sitting here for a while playing with my iPod. Sorry, I…hmmmm. Yeah, just sort of did this. I don’t know.” He looks nervous and embarrassed, which actually sets me a little at ease.
“It’s okay. I was just surprised by it. I’m heading out…actually?” I scrunch my shoulders, trying to feign disappointment. I don’t want to hurt Tucker’s feelings, but I also don’t want him hanging around my building. And I really don’t want Nate seeing him hang around my building.
“Oh, yeah. I mean, I was just running by. Where you headed? I’ll head back with you.”
Great. “I’m just going for a quick workout. Try and get a few swings in,” I say, holding up the racket.
“Need a partner?”
He’s persistent. But I don’t think he’s really threatening, and I do need someone to volley with. I was dreading the idea of working in with a group of strangers. I’m not sure how much Tucker knows about tennis, but I’m willing to give him a try. And it will get us moving out of here, away from my dorm and farther away from the ball fields I know Nate is at for most of today.
“So, what made you pick art history?” He’s making small talk during our walk to the courts, and I’m grateful he’s carrying the conversation, because I can’t think of a single thing to say.
“Well, I’m one of those big undecideds. Duh duh duh,” I sing dramatically. “Anyway, I took a variety of electives this semester to try to figure out exactly what I want to do. I really like art, but not necessarily the creation of it. I’m more into the appreciation—and I think I can tell a story from a work of art. You know, sort of help interpret what the artist meant for the masses? God, that sounds arrogant, huh?” I have been leaning toward a degree in art history though, and I even went so far as to look into internships with the Oklahoma City Museum of Art.
“Actually, I think that sounds amazing. Your answer the other day? That was awesome. I’m a second-year art history major, and I’ve been helping out in Gooding’s class, trying to earn brownie points. I think you’d fit right in,” he says. I watch as he rolls up the cord on his iPod, tucking it in his shorts, and then I realize I’m staring at his very toned arms for way too long. Our eyes make contact for a brief second, and I recognize that flash of flirtation in his gaze again. Oh god. No, this is NOT flirting!
“So what are you hoping to do when you’re done? Run a gallery or something?” I ask, doing my best to steer the conversation back to those moments before his forearms and my gawking.
“Me? Galleries? No, that’s not really my thing. It’s going to sound awful, but…I like the money behind art,” he says, wincing a little at his confession.
“Yeah, that does sound bad. Like, a thief? Or, what…you want to run auctions or a pawn shop?”
“No,” he chuckles. “More like appraisals and high-end art dealing. I like that fact that art is a commodity. And I think it would be a fun business to be a part of—that’s all.”
I take in everything he says, and when he puts it that way, it does make sense. The only reason art is something I could major in is because of the value it brings to the economy. It’s all well and good to think that we appreciate the arts for their intrinsic value, and I truly do. But I wouldn’t be able to if someone somewhere didn’t pay for it.
“Okay, I’m down with your career plan. As long as it funds mine,” I smile big and hold out my fist. Tucker just laughs and then gives me knuckles.
“Deal,” he says, holding the gate open for the tennis courts. “All right, so take it easy on me, okay? I’m more of the lift-heavy-things kind of athlete. I might not be too much competition right away, but I’m a quick study.”
“Sure. I’ll take it easy,” I say, winking at him as I pull my racket from its zipper bag. And damn…I’m flirting again.
Tucker wasn’t as bad as he said he was. I did win every set, but he took a few games to deuce, and they weren’t easy wins. An hour of playing had me exhausted, but my head was finally starting to clear up, and now all I could think about was getting back home so I could get ready to go to Nate’s game tonight. I needed to see him, and I needed to talk to him after his game—tell him how much he meant to me, whether or not he said it back.
“Right, so you kicked my ass,” Tucker says, pulling his shirt up to wipe the sweat from his brow. Instead of looking, I focus on my racket and my barely untied shoelace—anything but his bare stomach and abs.
“Nah, you held your own. You have nothing to be ashamed of with that performance out there,” I say, feeling my cheeks burn at how my words came out. I sound like I’m gushing.
“So, what’s on tap for the rest of Rowe’s day?” he asks.
“Oh, not much. Just heading over to the baseball game tonight with a few of my friends,” I say, instantly regretting it.
“Yeah? They play this early? I didn’t think the season started until spring.” All I want is for some great fix to land in my lap, but there isn’t one. And I’ve already established that I’m crap at lying.
“It’s a tournament. They have a few in the fall, just to keep the athletes prepped,” I say, trying to stand and signal that I’m ready to leave through my body language. I’m stuck somewhere between wanting to be polite and rude; I think this whole thing would be easier if Tucker weren’t so damned good looking, and if Nate were really my boyfriend—like the kind that says he loves me, and introduces me to his ex-girlfriend as his current girlfriend.
“Cool. Well, maybe I’ll see ya there later then,” he says, unrolling the cord on his iPod while he backs away. All I can do is nod, smile, and wave goodbye.
Cass thinks it’s hilarious when I tell her I may have accidentally invited "hottie-ab-man,” as she calls him, to Nate’s baseball game.
“Rowe, Nate’s literally going to shit himself. Like, I mean, he’s going to walk out there on that field, turn around and see you talking to Ab-man, and then shit his pants. And then he’s probably going to climb up into the stands and pummel this guy,” she says, and I know she’s sort of right. But I can’t really do anything now. I don’t even have Tucker’s number, and I don’t know his last name to look him up.
“What’s all the fussy fuss,” Ty says as he enters our room. That’s Ty’s new favorite term for my issues with Nate—fussy fuss. I’d feel offended if it weren’t an absolutely spot-on description of it all. Fussy fuss. I am sick of fussy fuss.
“Rowe invited that dude, that makes Nate crazy, to his baseball game,” Cass blurts out before I can stop her.
“Oh, damn. Rowe? Not cool. I mean you’re fucking with baseball again. Not cool,” Ty says, turning his back to me, and shaking his head with his arms out. I look at Cass, hoping for backup on this one, but she’s quick to take Ty’s side, too.
“Yeah, Rowe. I’m with him on this one. Not cool,” she says, sticking out her tongue at me and laughing. She’s finding this whole thing terribly entertaining, but meanwhile, I want to dig a hole, a really deep hole, and push my head inside and cover it in dirt. I’d be content to hide there, eating dirt, for the next two hours.
“Well, let’s go get this over with. It should be interesting,” Ty says, waiting for me at the door.
“What if I don’t go? I’ll just hang out here. If I don’t go, Tucker won’t see me in the stands, and then he’ll just go home,” I say, starting to really like this idea.
“That’s a terrible idea. First of all…wait, did you say this guy’s name is Tucker?” Ty asks.
“Yeah, why? You know him?” I say, hoping like mad that this situation doesn’t get any worse.
“Nah, Tucker’s just a pussy name. That’s all,” he says, and Cass smacks the side of his arm with her bag. “Ow! Anyway…it’s a terrible idea because Nate’s going to be looking for you. And if he looks for you, and you’re not there, he’s going to play like shit. And he can’t play like shit.”
“But what happens if he sees me sitting next to Tucker?” I ask, not really sure how that’s any better.
“Yeah, you got me there. If he sees that he’ll play like shit. Huh…well, let’s get a move on then. I don’t wanna miss my brother’s crappiest game since little league when he was twelve,” Ty says, flinging the door open in his wake and waiting for me in the hall.
I stare at the door for a solid five seconds, weighing my options—weighing everything Ty said. And in the end, I know I’m going to his game. Not because I want to be there for him to see, but because I want to see him. Because I need to see him. Because I need to tell him I love him and end the fussy fuss.
Nate
My head is not completely in
the game. It’s a crappy Ivy League team, so I know the competition won’t be too tough. If ever there was a game not to be fully invested in, this was it. I just needed to show up enough to make a good impression on coach, not make him regret bringing me in and playing me over his senior catcher.
I keep looking in the stands, waiting for Rowe to be there. But there’s still thirty minutes before game time, so I try to distract myself with a few rounds in the cages.
“Hitting with a little extra heat today, huh Preeter?” Coach Morris has been trying to get me to unleash my swing during the last few exposition games. He’s right—I’ve been swinging timid. And Rowe was right, too—I’ve been dipping my shoulder. I started working on that last week, and I’ve been striking the ball better ever since. I was excited to show off in front of her today, but now all I’m excited about is seeing her here period—knowing she doesn’t hate me.
“I’ve been working on it, yeah,” I say between grunts and swings.
“Good, well…whatever it is you’re doing, do more of that,” he says, going back to the charts on his clipboard before laughing and adding under his breath, “That’s what they pay me for. Coaching wisdom. Do more of that.”
Coach Morris is half the reason I’m here. He’s one of the best hitting coaches in college, despite what he says. And if I can come out of here with a halfway decent swing, I might really have a shot at catching in the majors.
I take a few more rounds, then my pitcher calls me out for warm-ups. Even though I tell myself I’m not going to look, the row of seats right behind the dugout is the first place my eyes go to when I jog out on the field. Ty’s always the first thing I see—probably because my eyes are trained to look for him after so many years of having him come to my games. But then they fall immediately on Rowe. She can’t see my eyes clearly through my mask, so I take this opportunity to really stare—long and hard.