“Wasn’t feeling well,” I say, tossing another ball in the air and slamming the bat against it with a satisfying smack.
“That won’t help.” Gus nods toward the half-empty bottle propped against home plate.
It’s the only thing helping actually.
I don’t reply, just pick up another ball and send it flying into right field.
“We playing pickup?” Wade asks, approaching. “I missed trying to hit off you, man.”
“Sweet. You broke into the equipment shed?” Ricky’s here now too.
I didn’t break in. They haven’t changed the code since I stopped playing. Which will probably make me a prime suspect, if anyone reports the mystery of a bucket of baseballs going from being neatly stored to scattered across the frozen field, but I really don’t give a shit.
“Why don’t you guys go grab the balls?” Gus suggests.
“Leave ’em,” I say, reaching into the bucket again.
Gus steps closer. “What’s going on, Cap?”
I drop the ball and reach for the bottle instead. Gus watches me take another swig, judgment and concern written all over his face. I don’t know why he doesn’t just give up on me like everyone else. He has plenty of other friends. He has a dad. He’s headed to college in the fall.
I wait, but he doesn’t walk away. I sigh. “Just in a bad mood. Needed some time alone.”
“You were fine before … this have something to do with her?”
I scoff, dropping the bottle. “Dunno who you’re talking about.”
Most people would take the note of warning in my tone seriously.
Gus calls out my evasiveness. “I’m talking about Wren Kensington.”
I glower at Gus, who’s staring steadily at me. We both knew exactly who he was talking about—that was his cue to drop it.
“You guys disappeared for a while at Wade’s party,” Gus continues. “Your truck smelled like fancy perfume for a few weeks after the Fourth. And she sure didn’t come to the yacht club because we had the superior party—Cammie said the Kensington place was crazy.”
“What the fuck was Cammie doing there?”
Gus shrugs. “I dunno. She came to the marina when we couldn’t find you and mentioned she’d been there.”
I grab another baseball, tossing and catching it as I watch Ricky and Wade collect the many I’ve already hit. It’s annoying—Iwanted to leave a mess behind.
“So … Wren Kensington?”
“Drop it, Gus. And get over your stupid crush on her. She won’t be back.”
Gus doesn’t even flinch. “Fuck. You really like her.”
“I liked fucking her, is all.” I slam another ball.
“Home run!” Wade yells from the outfield.
Gus shakes his head. “Yeah, right. You’re out here, drunk and playing baseball by yourself because you ‘liked fucking’ a girl you hadn’t seen in months? I mean, I haven’t seen you this low since …”
I laugh. Once. Humorlessly. “It’s not the fucking same.”
For many reasons, including that I’m at fault for this fuckup.
I drop the bat I’m holding, picking up the bottle with both hands instead.
