"Worse?" I'm afraid to know. I have to know. I meet his eyes.
Tate's face is apologetic. "They're saying she's…that she's…fuck, man--if I say it, you're gonna hit me. I'll just say,promiscuous."
Fury momentarily blinds me, my heart beating so hard, I hope I'm not about to pass out.
"You okay, man?" Tate asks from far away.
I shake my head, take a breath.
"I'm sorry," he says. "I just…I know you'd want to know. None of us want to see either of you hurt, and this…this has everybody worked, and it just happened last night. I'd maybe say just lay low, but you're everywhere, all the time. They're just gonna keep going until--"
"Thanks," I manage, locking my gaze on the scoreboard, though I couldn't tell you the score.
Tate lets go of the fence and starts to turn, but pauses, saying, "For what it's worth, I think you're good together. But this town…" He shakes his head. "They're not gonna make it easy."
With that, he heads back to the guys with a smile for cover, razzing Carlin for bringing his manga to the dugout to keep any incidental attention off me.
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
My pulse throbs in my neck as the game ends. I turn and head to the bench, crouching to throw things into my bag, hoping I look busy and nobody can see my face beneath the bill of my baseball cap.
Selfishly, I sneak another look at her. What has Molly heard? I can't tell by the look on her face. Around her, people are eyeing her as they gather their things and begin to disperse slowly. There's an older guy sitting just behind her and over a bit who's been staring at her the whole game. He's maybe in his late fifties, worn ball cap shielding his eyes, jeans worn. Working class. Never seen him before. Wonder whathe'sheard that has him so interested?
Is Tate right? Has anyone said anything to her?
The thought sends a furious slash up my middle as I glare into my bag at my hands, blindly shoving things in. I'd like to think that most people wouldn't, not with her being an outsider.They'll talk shit behind her back instead. But I might be giving them too much credit.
"Greyson," a stern, elder female voice says from just on the other side of the fence.
I look up, stand. Tip my baseball hat, saying, "Miss Evelyn, Miss Dottie."
I've known these women my whole life, and they've never looked at me with such contempt. I wish I didn't know why.
"You should be ashamed of yourself," Evelyn says, scowling, her eyes hard. "Dottie and I saw you last night, at the teacher's game."
"Kissing that girl," Dottie adds, voice dripping with judgment. "And in front of the whole town."
"God and everybody." Evelyn shakes her head. "Shameon you."
The dugout is silent. The crowd slows their exit watching, listening. Including Molly.
Dottie continues, "She could be your child, Greyson. Do you realize that? Yourchild."
The stone in my throat doesn't move when I swallow. A string of things I want to say piles up behind my clenched teeth.
"She doesn't know any better," Evelyn says, voice softening when she talks about Molly. "Bless her heart. She's new here, doesn't understand how things look. How things are."
"But you knowexactlywhat you're doing," Dottie finishes.
I find my voice, dig it up from the grave. "All due respect--I think there's some misunderstanding about what I'm doing and what I'm not."
They laugh, bitter, mocking.
"You hear that?" Evelyn says to Dottie. "We don't understand. I suppose he's not doing anything wrong, just ruining her reputation, and his along with it."
"Your truck parked in front of her house at every hour says different," Dottie adds.
