At least, the less nefarious ones that circulate.
That I’m not all that smart or serious outside of baseball. That I’ve spent my fair share of time cosplaying as yet another professional athlete who won’t commit and rotates through an endless list of women on his arm at games and events.
I’m not that smart or serious off the field. Stats and analytics and baseball strategy? Genius.
Math and science and words and a big vocabulary? Never really clicked for me and I never really cared.
Girls? Women? I’ve dated a lot, I guess. But I’ve never really met anyone who’s made me feel very good about who I am outside of bases that make up a diamond.
Those things were all Matt. The perennial golden boy. Athlete. Honour student. Serial monogamist.
And I didn’t kill him.
I don’t say any of those things, certainly not the last one, but it hangs heavy and unsaid, and judging by the way her mouth dips into a frown, I think it’s a rumour she’s heard about, too.
Ren smiles, soft and quiet and sad. “The dinosaurs and I have something in common, you know.”
“Oh yeah? What’s that?”
“We both suffered a mass extinction event.” Her brows give a half-hearted lift. “One morning I looked at myself in the mirror, and I didn’t recognize the girl staring back at me.” Her cheeks puff with an exhale. “He whittled me away, you know?” she admits softly, thumbnail picking at the already-shredded champagne label. Ren lifts her head, shame lowering her brows. “Quietly, at first, and then the years went on and on, and I didn’t realize the hands I thought loved me were holding a carving knife. And then one day, I looked down”—she holds a palm towards her bare feet, pressed into the fake grass of the exhibit —“and there they were. All the shavings of Ren Jacobs, littered across the ground by my feet.” She chews on the inside of her lip before blinking hopeful eyes at me. “Do you know what I mean?”
“Not really,” I start, pushing down to crack my knuckles when I catch sight of the tattoo and realize that maybe, in my own way, I do. “Kind of, I guess?” I flash her the back of my palm. “Matt wouldn’t have—he was the best person on the planet, probably. He wouldn’t have ever ... put me down. Not the way other people do. The press. People on social media. But him being gone? Yeah, maybe I know what you mean. Each day that passes and he’s not in it? I think that might take pieces from me.”
She angles her head, red hair a spill of the best colours from all the sunrises and sunsets in the world across her bare shoulders. “What kind of pieces?”
“Oh, I’ve got a whole list of things I don’t do anymore.” I give a dry laugh, knocking my head against the fake rock behind me.
Ren digs her elbows into her thighs, chin coming to rest in her palm. “Like what?”
“Uh ...” I glance down at my hands, considering, before I start ticking things off on my fingers. “I don’t really go in publicanymore. Like, even the grocery store. Definitely not like, to a bar or anything. No posting on social media—that one’s dumb, but when opening your phone feels like a minefield, the whole thing just kind of fucking sucks. I don’t just ... play for fun anymore. Matty and me, we used to play catch in his backyard every week. Just us, whatever we felt like barbecuing and a few bottles of beer ... like when we were kids, minus the alcohol, obviously. My aunt and uncle were cool about a lot, but they didn’t let us drink.”
Ren laughs quietly, this soft, tinkering sort of sound that reminds me of one of the wind chimes hanging above the deck at my cottage.
That’s another one. I keep ticking things off the list. “I don’t really ... do a great job at talking to them. Screen their calls more than I should because I can’t really ... face them. I don’t date—” I reach my last finger with a dry snort when I raise that palm, lifting my other hand in a thumbs-up to mark the sixth thing I don’t think I’ll ever do again. “And my cottage. I never want to go there again.”
“Miller’s List of Things He Doesn’t Do Anymore,” Ren says gently. “Six things is far too many for someone your age.”
“Yeah, probably.” I nod, eyes cutting to the empty bottle in her hands. I wish we’d brought up another. Maybe something harder.
“I’ve got a list too.” She tosses out another soft admission. Her hair swings, curling inward and framing her face when she leans forward. “The Remains of Ren and Who She Used to Be.”
“What’s on yours?”
She blows out a breath. “Who knows? Like I said, it’s all sitting on the ground in shavings of a different girl around my feet.” She gestures to her feet, and she wiggles toes painted the same colour as her dress. “I wouldn’t even know how to start picking them up.”
“You ever want to, and you need help,” I start, “I’ve got good hands. Don’t mind getting a few slivers, either.”
Another soft laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“So,” I toss out, palming my jaw. I don’t do great in silence anymore, even though Ren Jacobs seems like she wouldn’t be a bad companion to sit in it with. “What would two adults do now?”
She tips her head in fake consideration before she smiles, eyes sparkling and a wrinkle drawing across her nose. “The adult thing to do would be to go back to the party and steal another bottle of champagne, don’t you think?”
Ren
I try not to laugh—but I feel it, sneaking up the back of my throat, lifted and buoyed by all those champagne bubbles. It comes out as a snort, and I clap my hand over my mouth and nose.
“Sorry, sorry,” I say through another half laugh. It’s funnier than it should be, me dropping my purse, spilling everything everywhere like the mess I’m supposed to be, and this professional athlete I just met picking up all these pieces of me scattered across my front porch. All the champagne dulled the sharp edges of my brain, carved over years, that tell me all the things I do are wrong or embarrassing, that I’m silly, childish, and too much.
