Isla drew in an exasperated breath. “You told me not to get in the middle. Paying Kate’s tuition is doing exactly that.”
“She won’t know it’s us.”
“I have a better idea. How about instead of anonymously giving her two hundred grand, you call her like a normal person? Apologize? Make up?”
“This is all I can give her right now,” Abby said.
Isla’s face drooped. “Fine.”
They hugged at the airport as planes squealed overhead.
“You’re a better sister than I deserve,” Abby said.
“I know.” Isla pecked her cheek when they released. “Be safe.”
She made the national team the next day, jet-legged, but buzzing with the adrenaline of having nowhere and no one in this next venture. The feeling only lasted a few hours. The coach added her to the starting lineup six pitches into batting practice, four of which she knocked over the fence.
Abby spent the summer sharing a flat with a few teammates in San Juan while they trained for the World Cup. She improved her Spanish and lived out of a suitcase. Between practices and games, she pined for Kate, but it was easier without her phone number, without her address, as if the world was too big to find her again. Maybe even too big to find herself.
Despite telling Isla her decision had nothing to do with Audie, and wholeheartedly believing it, Abby couldn’t resist retracing his footsteps. Her teammates warned her not to go to La Perla, but it called to her. She walked through the maze of crumbling sidewalks, passed the homes with peeled paint and tarp roofs, aching each time a child thrust an empty palm at her. She watched the ocean hit the rocks and tasted salt in the breeze, marveling at the views people would pay millions for, yet the neighborhood stood here, destitute, isolated, alone.
In interviews, Audie always claimed he was glad to have left his home behind, but Abby felt him there. His hardship and his anger. When the hair rose on the back of her neck at nightfall, danger lurking in dark cars and corners as she hurried from the slums, she felt it lurk in her too.
It wasn’t all bad. She spotted his posters and memorabilia in sports bars. He was the hometown hero. Kids still wore his jersey while they played ball in the streets. She never told the locals of their connection, but sometimes they looked twice and bought her a drink. Most days, she didn’t know if it brought her closer or further from him.
Despite Abby’s contributions, Puerto Rico lost the Women’s Softball World Cup in the Netherlands. Team USA dominated as expected, but Abby didn’t care, not even as Skip Zamborelli spurnedher for not joining his roster. “You could’ve won a championship,” he said.
Abby shrugged. “I’ve already won a championship.”
The only one that mattered. The one with her friends and Kate for the one place she considered home. While she’d done a decent job distracting herself, the sting found her chest. The next Women’s Softball World Cup was two years away. Puerto Rico wouldn’t start training again for several months and Abby didn’t know what would fill her time until then.
So, she rented a room in Amsterdam, dipping into the plump trust fund she wanted to resist, but she had no self-restraint. Not when the drinks or drugs flowed. Not when she roamed through Berlin and Brussels, Paris and London. She ate and drank and danced and fucked her way through a few months, jumping on the next train when she worried about the future. It almost worked. Until she received a letter with a Berkeley address in the corner.
She tore it open, devoured the lines in tears, and hated herself all over again. She convinced herself she’d saved them both by leaving. Instead, she’d left Kate in a despair she knew well. Another thing she wouldn’t forgive herself for.
Traversing Europe quickly lost its sparkle, no longer enough to distract her from loneliness or lack of direction. She defeatedly returned to the pool house, in a deeper depression than before. Whenever Isla tried to broach the subject of Kate or what came next, Abby stonewalled her. So, she employed other methods.
After a week of sleeping the day away and drinking poolside, Abby woke to a bucket of water. She bolted up in bed, gasping and drenched.
“Morning, sunshine,” Mick said as she chucked the empty bucket aside.
“What the fuck!” Abby wiped soggy hair out of her eyes. “How’d you find me?”
“Your sister,” Jill said.
Abby’s mouth dropped. It’d been five months since nationals.Since she resigned herself to never seeing them again. If anything, Kate deserved their friends after the split, and with Abby’s unceremonious departure, she didn’t expect they’d want anything to do with her. Their arrival threatened tears she couldn’t handle. Rather than let them spill, she deflected to the less pressing but equally unavoidable questions.
“What the fuck, Shupe? Are you pregnant?” Abby asked.
“You’re not supposed to ask people that,” Jill said.
“Yes, she’s pregnant.” Mick folded her arms. “You would know, if you didn’t ditch us.”
Abby couldn’t resist a smirk. “Are you the father?”
“Still waiting on the paternity test.” Mick winked. “Heard you won’t shower; thought we’d help you get a jump start.”
“Mission successful.” Abby peeled the wet sheet back and wrung out her T-shirt. She reluctantly met Mick’s and Jill’s faces, and her throat caught on a whimper. “Why are you here?”
