Chapter 1
Liam
I always thought rock bottom would feel more dramatic. Turns out, it just smells like warm beer and regret.
“You don’t have to go home, kid,” Frankie says without looking up from where he’s wiping down the bar. “But you can’t stay here.”
I didn’t have a home to go home to. That’s why I’d been at this dimly lit bar every night since Cal took off for Cambodia a week and a half ago. Or maybe it was Cancun, somewhere with palm trees and no cell service.
Most nights end the same: Frankie kicking me out, me stumbling back to Cal’s apartment, collapsing face-first into his bed, and sleeping until either the woman across the hall screams into her phone on her way to work, or I have to piss badly enough to crawl out from under the covers.
Technically, I did have a home. I grew up twenty minutes from here. My mom still lives in the same house, still has my trophies on a shelf. But I hadn’t told her I was back in town yet. I hadn’t told anyone, aside from Cal, that the Iron Cats let me go and that my big league dreams had quietly died somewhere on a half-lit field in Reno. I sure as hell hadn’t told my mom I was crashing at my best friend’s apartment and drinking myself numb every night trying not to think about how badly I’d screwed it all up.
I toss two twenties on the bar, but Frankie comes over and slides the bills back toward me.
“I’ll put your drinks on Cal’s tab,” he says, turning to re-shelve bottles before I can object. I put the bills back in my pocket because, let’s be honest, I’m in no place to argue.
Minor league baseball players barely make minimum wage, so I’d made ends meet by doing the other players’ taxes—I have a weird brain for numbers. I used to tell myself I’d pay off my mom’s mortgage once I hit the big leagues, finally repay her for everything she gave up for me. But that dream was as flat as the last sip of beer in this bottle.
I let out a long sigh and figure I should head back to Cal’s. I'm not really sure what to do with myself these days. My entire life, since I was fourteen, has revolved around baseball—grueling training, a perfect diet, and studying the game like my life depended on it. Because let’s face it, every day you’re trying to get called up feels like the most important test you’ll ever take. I have zero hobbies, hardly any friends, and I barely even date. Scratch that—I don’t date. I don’t have time.
I push off the stool and head for the door when a brunette in a strappy tank top and denim skirt gives me that look—the one I know well. The one I’ve seen in countless bars and hotel lobbies across the US. I’ve been an athlete my whole life, and I have a face that apparently works in my favor. I might not have time for actual relationships, but I know that without much effort, I could take her home or find a dark corner here. I know my reputation, and honestly, most women seem to want exactly what I have time for—one night, no complications, usually that works for everyone involved.
But even that doesn’t sound appealing right now.
Besides, once she finds out I’m just a washed-up ex minor leaguer with a pretty face and not her ticket to the WAG lifestyle, she probably won’t want to waste her time anyway. Hell, I’m technically homeless right now. As soon as I wascut, I broke my lease on the apartment I could never really afford anyway. I packed the stuff I cared about into two duffel bags—both of which are still unpacked on Cal’s living room floor—and left El Paso to come back to San Francisco.
I give her a tight nod and push through the bar doors to the chilly night. Now, here I was, on the sidewalk in front of Bar None, mooching off my childhood best friend’s generosity and wallowing in self-pity. I need to figure out a job, a place to live, and what the fuck I’m doing with my life besides being a has-been ball player with a bruised ego and a mountain of debt.
But that’s a problem for tomorrow.
By the time I reach Cal’s front door, my vision is so blurry I can barely make out the keypad. But somehow, I manage to stumble into the darkened apartment, strip off my jeans and hoodie, toss them onto the bed, and then collapse face-first into it.
Pretty sure I pass out before my head even hits the pillow.
Chapter 2
Sophie
Cal:Sophie, if you ever need a place to crash, you can always come to my place.
I reread the three-month-old text from my brother and hope his offer still stands. Not that I could call to confirm, since he was off somewhere saving the world while my life was falling apart. Typical. I quickly wiped the tears forming in the corners of my eyes.
I shift the duffle bag full of everything I own higher on my shoulder and adjust my grip on the roll of canvases. My grandmother’s old art supply box weighs down my other arm—my prized possession, even if it’s been gathering dust for months. I start up the stairs, trying to be quiet so as not to disturb Cal’s neighbors.
It has to be close to 3 a.m., but I couldn’t sleep in my cramped house anymore. Not while myboyfriend—or, as he insisted on being called, myemotional co-creator—was fucking one of our roommates in the next room, possibly two of them. To be fair, hehadinvited me to join, but I’d told him a thousand times I wasn’t into that. But according to him, “monogamy is a tool of capitalism,” and my refusal was “a trauma response rooted in ownership culture.” Also, I was apparently failing to honor his “universaldesire to have his body worshiped by multiple lifeforms.” I had my bags packed by the time he reached his “spiritual climax affirmation.”
It’s called a fucking orgasm, dude—not that he’d ever given me one.
So I drove the ninety minutes from Santa Cruz to San Francisco, circled for twenty minutes to find street parking, and lugged my entire life inside. By the time I hit the landing in front of Cal’s apartment, my arms were burning, my heart was broken, and I had exactly zero regrets.
I punched in the door code—our mom’s birthdate—and went inside.
It was pitch black, and my heart sank a little as I confirmed I was alone. But what had I expected? Cal was in Cambodia for twelve weeks, and I hadn’t seen him in six months. Not since we met for dinner and he tried to talk me out of my current living and romantic situation, saying he was worried about me. What was new? Everyone had been telling me what to do since I was ten years old, and people figured out I could draw a little better than the average fifth grader.
I told Cal that he didn’t need to worry, that I could make my own decisions. I was in love with Marshall and enjoyed communal living with a rotating door of roommates in a two-bedroom shithole cabin in the Santa Cruz mountains, and I wasn’t attached to material things like he was. He just nodded and told me that if I ever changed my mind, his place was always available.
As I stand in his darkened apartment, I must admit that Iamlooking forward to enjoying some of his material things: consistent hot water, a dishwasher, and most of all, his king-sized bed with its ridiculously high thread count sheets.
