“Stop telling me what to do or what’s best for me. You want to talk about sacrifice?” I point to my own chest. “Iwas Mom’s nurse so thatyoucould work your way up in the restaurant. I cleaned up her puke and held her while she cried and kept track of her medications and you got to come home drunk or sometimes not at all and save for your future and do all the thingsyouwanted to do so you could open this restaurant. And I never questioned you once. I never told you that what you were doing was a bad idea or a risk. I let you live your life, so why can’t you just let me do the same?”
She takes a slow shuddering breath. She doesn’t say another word. She just leaves, closing the door quietly behind her.
I pee, then strip and start the shower, numb to the words echoing off the old beige tiles. The afterglow of Corrine has been doused with a wet blanket. As the shower warms up, I splash some cold water on my face and let the mirror fog over my reflection.
I used to hate looking at myself. I didn’t like the person I saw. A kid who didn’t know what he wanted, who was scared to make a decision without his sister or his mother. I didn’t know what I wanted to be other than whatever my father wasn’t.
I couldn’t see the man I wanted to be. Whoever that man was, he was on hold, in a macabre game of limbo waiting for my mother to die, because she was never going to get better.
But I see him clearly now, the man I’m supposed to be. Corrine might see him, too. A man with goals and intentions, who tries his best, even if he might fail. This man doesn’t have to wait for anyone. I get to make my own decisions for the first time in a long time. I get to decide where I go, what I do, who I do it with. I chose this career, wherever it might take me. And Corrine. I choose her. When I’m with her and she’s touching me, I see the man I can be. I want her to see me, too. All of her. Everything.
So what happened tonight? That can’t be a risk.
Chapter 30: Corrine
There is no crying in baseball. Or so I’ve heard. But I’ve felt like crying all day and now I’m about to play baseball—technically, softball—but I think the same rules apply. My irritability hasn’t improved since the Hill City team arrived at the diamond for only our second, and last, practice before our first game.
The group huddles in and around the dugout, shivering and studying the sky. The cloud ceiling looks close enough to touch and full enough that if I did, it would spill water all over Boston. An unseasonably cold wind throws dust at us, getting past my sunglasses and stinging my eyes. At least if I start to cry I’ll have an excuse.
Despite the sunless sky, every time I try to take off my sunglasses I have to squint against a glare that only seems to affect me. But the glasses also serve as a second barrier for Richard, who showed up five minutes ago, pulling Wesley aside and further delaying the start of practice.
They make it easy to stare, to sit here and let the fear fester, watching Wesley’s face get paler and paler as Richard talks at him, the back of one hand smacking the palm of the other every so often.
“He asked me this morning how my evening was.” Emily’s voice makes me jump high enough my butt leaves the seat.
“I told him we hung out at your house and got Chinese from that place with the orange chicken.”
My whole body slumps against the cold cement wall behind me. “Thank you, Emily.”
Richard smiles at Wesley, says one last thing to make Wesley’s head wobble like a bobblehead, and starts to head our way. I stand so fast I get dizzy, swaying toward Emily like I’ve been pushed over by the wind.
“Whoa,” Emily says, grabbing my forearm. Her eyes are wide and I feel like she can read too much of my face even with my sunglasses on.
“Practice is starting,” I say, breathless.
By the time Richard takes a seat just where I was sitting, I’m jogging around the diamond, trying to get my limbs moving. Every step rattles my brain.
Wesley wants to start practice fielding grounders and pop-ups, which elicits a number of blank stares from most of the team and smirks from Mark and his crony, a short white guy with a buzz cut. But first he takes the group through a set of stretches that everyone complains about, mostly because they involve lying down on the dirt and opening our hips, leaving everyone in awkward positions in front of coworkers.
I skipped interval training for this.
Richard watches me the whole time. His stare is like the diamond dirt, coating my backside in a thick layer I can’t brush off no matter how hard I try.
We break off into pairs to warm up, throwing balls back and forth. Emily stands about fifty feet away and we lob the ball at each other. With each pass my mood tanks so that by the time Wesley approaches, it takes everything I have not to throw the ball at him and demand he tell me what he and Richard were talking about.
“Don’t rush your throw, Ms. Blunt,” Wesley says too loudly. I wince. His voice echoes through my head.
“Why are you yelling?” I ask quietly as Emily retrieves the ball. My throw went wide.
“I’m trying to make it seem like I’m giving you advice,” he says through the side of his mouth. “Did you know that Richard bet his parking spot over this tournament?”
I turn to him, anxious relief tingling in my hands and feet. “Is that what he was talking to you about?”
“Heads up.” He nods toward Emily and I turn just in time to get my glove up.
“Nice catch.”
I want to smack myself for the silly little thrill I get at impressing him. I am both a grown woman andhisboss. Yet I add a little extra oomph into my next throw.
