Jo’s dad drives a brand new Tesla. Just brought it home last month.
Inside, the lights are off, my parents long-since asleep in their room. But Ma’s left the dim bulb above the stove burning for me, along with a plate of something that smells too good to pass up.
She knows I’m always starving when I get home late.
Peeling back the foil, I find homemade empanadillas. They’re cold but I shove one in my mouth anyway, far too impatient for the microwave. Still chewing, I put the plate of leftovers in the fridge, flip off the stove light, and walk down the short hallway, passing Jaxon’s darkened room on the way to mine.
I don’t know where he is. And I don’t care.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
Jax is the reason my life is so screwed up right now. I have every right to hate him. But there’s a part of me that can’t turn away from my brother, even after everything he’s done to tear our family apart. To threaten all my parents have worked so hard for. To jeopardize not just his own future, but mine as well.
I beeline straight for the bathroom. I need to shower Sienna off my skin; to wash away my sins with scalding water. Even on the hottest setting, it’s not enough to make me feel any better. I stand beneath the spray until it runs cold, leaning back against the tile wall and trying to forget.
All of it.
The scrape of acrylic nails against my skin. The cloying smell of artificial strawberries. The look in Jo’s eyes. The break in her voice before she climbed out of my truck and slammed the door.
Not every human male on this planet sees me as a platonic little sister!
Christ, if she only knew how I see her… how she makes me feel… the things I’d like to do with her… to her… she’d never use the word platonic around me ever again.
The clock on the desk in my messy bedroom declares 3:36AM in its scornful red glow. I have to be at the field in five hours, ready to pitch. Coach is already going to be in a foul mood, seeing as half the team will be showing up hungover and his star pitcher has a set of swollen knuckles. That means sprints.
Lots of them.
My muscles tense in anticipation as I collapse face-first onto my bed, not even bothering to yank on boxers or crawl under my covers. Much as I wish I could close my eyes and escape my life for a while, I’m too worked up to sleep. I scroll my phone instead, pulling up a bookmarked playlist of videos.
Not porn. Not the latest episode of whatever dumb sitcom the networks are circulating this spring. Not the viral prank videos my teammates are always forwarding.
The greats.
Crisp white uniforms with blocky red lettering, iconic fixtures against the bright green grass. The same clips I’ve watched over and over, a million times, since I was old enough to access YouTube by myself; since I realized there was a way to foster my Red Sox obsession even without being able to afford season tickets.
I study the players — their technique, their focus, their presence on the field. I watch the plays unfold, smooth as a choreographed dance, each throw made with instinctual precision. The Green Monster looms large, a fixed backdrop against the Boston skyline, dwarfed only by the talent on the diamond below it.
Pedro Martínez.
Nomar Garciaparra.
David Ortiz.
Manny Ramirez.
When I finally drift off, images of my idols still playing across my iPhone screen, I dream of the day I’ll be standing on that pitcher’s mound at Fenway Park, throwing a perfect game. And I dream of the blonde girl with blue eyes, sitting front-row behind home plate, the name on her fan jersey a match for the one on our marriage certificate, cheering me on.
Chapter Seven
JOSEPHINE
The sun is an asshole.
I blink awake to a shaft of light beaming directly into my bleary eyes. Given the pounding in my temples, either an elephant sat on my head while I was sleeping, or I’m experiencing my first-ever hangover.
“Ugh,” I grunt, forcing my body upright. Almost immediately, I realize being vertical is a terrible mistake. I fall back against my pillows as my stomach lurches queasily. I’m not sure if I need to throw up everthing in my body or shovel down the biggest breakfast known to modern man. Make that lunch, seeing as it’s already past noon.
What happened last night?
Beer pong — that’s what. I have only myself to blame for being in this state. I wince as memories flood back to me in fragments.
Lifting a red cup to my lips.
Stumbling in a monochrome kitchen.
Sienna Sullivan’s pouty pink lips.
Ryan Snyder’s face, alarmingly close to my own.
Archer’s fist, slamming into that same face.
My eyes snap wide open.
Archer.
I’d nearly forgotten our fight — not to mention the reason I decided to get so wasted in the first place. It’s not typical of me to reach for alcohol to numb my pain. Then again, nothing that happened last night was typical. Certainly not overhearing my best friend being deflowered by the head cheerleader.
Mortification swiftly overtakes me as I realize what Archer must be thinking. I reacted to his hookup like a jealous girlfriend, not a platonic friend. I’m actually quite grateful I can’t recall the full details of our fight on the drive home. The memory of me slamming his truck door with enough dramatic flair to land me a spot at Julliard will haunt me until the end of my days.
Granted, I’m still angry at him for being such an asshole… but my anger has temporarily been subdued beneath the weight of utter embarrassment. I’m not sure I’ll ever be brave enough to show my face in front of him again — or Ryan, for that matter.
Poor guy tries to kiss me and gets his lights punched out instead.
When I’m certain I’m not going to throw up, I drag my carcass from my bedroom to the kitchen. I have to break twice on the stairs, grabbing the thick mahogany bannister like an invalid, leaning over to catch my breath. My fuzzy bunny slippers mock me, a remnant of simpler times, before boy-crushes and beer-fueled outbursts.
I’m never drinking again.
In the kitchen, I’m greeted by the sound of cheerful humming drifting through the open windows. Flora, Archer’s mom, is outside wiping down the glass with a bottle of vinegar, as she does at least twice a week. The constant spray off the ocean coats Cormorant House in a thin layer of salt; by the day after tomorrow, every one of its many windows will be in need of cleaning again. It’s a task that would drive Sisyphus himself mad.
But Flora has the patience of a saint. She’s one of the kindest people I’ve ever met. Since I was small, she’s been as much as mother to me as she is to her sons — always making sure I’m well fed and in bed at reasonable hour, never letting me out of her sight without a kind word or a pat on the cheek.
I flinch whenever my parents refer to her as our housekeeper or her husband, Miguel, as our handyman. To me, they’re family. Far more than the distant cousins who live clear across the country and only show up for occasional, obligatory holiday visits.
Sometimes, I feel closer to Flora and Miguel than I do my own parents. Not that I’d ever say that out loud. Mom and Dad are good people. They do love me; that’s never been in question. But they love their careers, too. I respect them for how hard they work — even more so when I consider the fact that they could’ve lived more than comfortably on the mere interest earned by my father’s inheritance.
Most trust fund kids want to party their way across the world; very few use their money for something as noble as a nonprofit that aims to save it. But that’s Vincent and Blair Valentine for you — solving global hunger one day, one dollar, at a time.
I don’t mean to sound flippant. I’m quite aware that the work they do is important. How many kinds can say their parents spend their days ending food insecurity in at-risk populations across the globe?
The company they co-run, VALENT, is more than a profession; it’s a calling. It’s their second child. (Perhaps th
eir favorite child.) Still, when they’re home, I never want for affection or attention. They’re invested in my life. They want to know how I’m keeping busy, to see my recent report cards, to take the boat out for a spin around the Misery Islands. It’s just…
They’re not actually home all that often.
Between speaking engagements and business trips and funding meetings and site visits to each of their many aid distribution centers… they’re never here more than a handful of days out of every month. Rarely on the same schedule twice.
There is only one day out of the entire year I can count on their presence with any sort of certainty. One day I know they are guaranteed to be here when my eyes open in the morning.
June 5.
My birthday.
The Valentine family doesn’t ascribe to many traditions or even celebrate every holiday together — “Starvation doesn’t take a vacation, Josephine,” Mom told me over a grainy video-chat last Thanksgiving, her satellite connection spotty in the Sudanese desert — but we do have June 5.
At eight on the dot on the anniversary of my birth, the opening strains of the song “Josephine” begin blasting through the house. Every speaker. Top volume. I race out of bed, fly down the stairs, and find my parents waiting predictably in the kitchen with a stack of blueberry pancakes almost as high as the stack of presents on the table.
I don’t even care that most of the gifts were picked out by executive assistants I’ve never met. I live for that day. I spend all year waiting for it. Mom and Dad. Home. Together. In the same, actual room. At the same, actual time.
I don’t doubt, if they could, they’d be with me more frequently. They’d want to see every new design in my sketchbook. They’d cook me dinner twice a week and we’d eat together, at a table, like a real family. They’d ask typical parental questions — about my homework, about my crushes, about my favorite teachers at school. They’d wonder why I prefer the vintage sewing machine Archer bought me from a consignment shop over the shiny new one they had delivered via courier last Christmas.
But… those things… they seem so insignificant compared to their work at VALENT. And even if I miss my parents, even if I’m lonely sometimes… I’m not alone.
Not really.
Though it certainly isn’t in their job description, the Reyeses took me firmly under their wing. They’ve never made me feel like an obligation. Or even like what I am — a ward they’re paid to watch over. I’ve been their surrogate daughter since the very start.
It was Miguel who held my handlebars and taught me how to ride a bike — Archer pedaling like a Tour de France racer by my side, his own training wheels removed weeks prior; Jaxon already halfway to the front gates, determined to leave the “babies” in his dust.
It was Flora who stayed late on windy nights when I was scared of the dark, watching cheesy movies with me on the Hallmark Channel even after she’d worked a full day, putting her feet up on a coffee table she’d polished only hours before.
I don’t think I would’ve survived my childhood without them. I can’t count the number of times I ran through the maple thicket to Gull Cottage in need of assistance with something, be it algebra homework or a disastrous experiment with pink hair dye or a terrifying hissing sound in the basement that turned out to be an outdated water heater, not a monster at all. Warm hands and kind words were only a five minute walk; three if you cut around the pool and dodge across the tennis courts.
When my parents first hired the Reyeses, they were a young, childless couple seeking steady employment in a new country. I’m certain they never expected to still be working here two decades — two children — later. I’m equally certain they never anticipated their youngest son would befriend the daughter of their employers. But Archer and I… we were inevitable. Born one day apart, inseparable every day since.
For a long, long time, sheltered behind the gates of Cormorant House, running wild along the beaches with the wind in our hair, carefree in a way only children can be, we didn’t realize there was anything strange about our friendship. We didn’t see the differences between our families. Our socioeconomic situations. Our inherent opportunities.
We were just…
Best friends.
The truth is, I have far more in common with Archer than I ever have the pretentious kids who fill the halls of our private academy. Always have. Of course, none of them know Archer doesn’t come from money. They definitely don’t know my parents pay his tuition — a concession they made after I declared, with surprising conviction for a twelve year old, that I would not step a single foot into Exeter Academy of Excellence without him by my side. I was simply not willing to spend grades six through twelve in his absense, while he made a new best friend at the public school across town.
Selfish of me?
Surely.
Yet, for some reason, Archer agreed to attend and, in the end, despite enduring six long years surrounded by the spoiled offspring of privilege, Exeter actually gave him a boon in the form of our varsity baseball team.
It was there, last spring, under the stadium lights on a meticulously-groomed pitcher’s mound, that he threw his first perfect game against the rival academy. Propped on the cold metal bleachers, a cup of weak hot chocolate clutched in my hands, I watched his star begin to rise that night.
Every game after, it ascended a little higher. It wasn’t long before the scouts caught wind of him. They came from universities and colleges all across the country, touching down at Boston Logan Airport and trekking forty minutes north just to see Archer Reyes pitch in person.
Now, midway through a stellar senior season, he has his pick of any program he wants. Full financial ride, plus perks — like the truck from Vanderbilt, the hand-stitched glove from UCLA, the sleek set of bats from Florida State. No matter where he signs his official Letter of Intent, if he plays well enough over the next few years, there’s no question of him going pro in the MLB someday.
Would he have ended up here — world at his feet, more verbal offers than he knows what to do with — if I hadn’t dragged him to Exeter along with me? Or would his talent have gone unnoticed on a crappy public high school team without the resources to foster his skills?
It doesn’t really matter, I guess.
He’s here now.
He’s made it.
In my humble opinion, he was always destined for greatness, one way or another. It drives me crazy that the kids from school would look down on him if they knew his real background; if they realized he wasn’t actually my neighbor — one who magnanimously gives me a ride every day in his very shiny, very expensive truck — but the son of our staff.
“So, she lives,” Flora says, breezing into the kitchen, interrupting my reverie. “I thought you were going to sleep the whole day away.”
I lift my head from the tabletop, where I’ve been slumped for the past twenty minutes, summoning the energy to raid the fridge. “If only.”
“Mmm, I heard Archer come in late. What were you two up to last night? Not any mischief, I hope?”
“Just a stupid party.”
She peers closer at my face, tipping my chin back with her fingertips so she can examine me thoroughly. My bloodshot eyes and wan complexion are a dead hangover giveaway.
“Well.” She tsks. “If you feel as bad as you look, I guess that’s punishment enough.”
I laugh.
Flora technically has the authority to ground me in my parents’ absence, but we both know she rarely finds occasion to wield it. In my defense, it’s hard to get into trouble when your typical Friday night involves a kindle, a Netflix account, and a new sewing pattern. If I’m feeling particularly extroverted, I might drag Archer out for a night sail or sit up in the boathouse rafters, counting shooting stars.
I know, I know — I’m a wild child.
This social dearth not entirely my fault. These days, Archer is so busy, it’s hard to catch him in a free moment. The closest we’ve come to quality time lately was him
inviting me to the party last night — which, given how it all played out, is not exactly my idea of bonding.
Flora rummages around the cabinets for a bowl, then ladles in a large helping from the pot simmering on the stove. It’s steaming hot when she sets it in front of me. She presses a spoon into my limp hand.
“Eat. You’ll feel better.”
“What is it?” I ask, already dipping my spoon into the thick broth, lifting it toward my mouth.
“Asopao de pollo. Chicken stew. My grandmother’s recipe, from back in San Juan. It will help you.”
Flora is an amazing cook. If she told me her soup cured cancer, I’d believe it. I finish my serving in an embarrassingly short span of time. She silently refills my bowl, then settles into the seat across from mine to watch me eat.
“You can talk to me, you know.”
The spoon halts halfway to my mouth. “I know that, Flora.”
“I mean…” She hesitates for a moment. “Even if it’s about Archer. He is my son and I love him, but I know he isn’t perfect. If you two had a fight—”
“What makes you think we had a fight?” I wince at the defensiveness in my own voice.
“I can’t help noticing you two aren’t spending as much time together, lately. I wondered if something happened.” She looks at me so kindly, I want to cry. “It’s normal for friends to fight, mija.”
“We don’t fight. Not really. He’s just so busy, lately.” I shrug to cover my own sadness. “I don’t think he has time for me anymore. Or maybe he likes hanging out with the guys on his team better than me.”
“That can’t be. You two are thick as thieves.”
“Everything’s changing, though.” I set down my spoon and sit back in my chair. Like magic, my hangover is already ebbing away. “Maybe it’s better this happens now. In a few months, we’ll be at different colleges anyway. We were bound to grow apart eventually, right?”
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