Page 74 of Hard to Lose

She nods and sniffs away the emotion. “I needed to tell you but was afraid as well. I don’t even know what to say.”

“Tell me he makes you happy. That’s all I need to hear. That he treats you well and that you’re happy.”

“I am. I truly am when I never thought I could feel this way again, so thank you for everything, but you really need to stop sending me checks. I know it helps you cope, helps you deal with the survivor’s guilt, but you don’t owe anyone anything. You were the one holding their hands, trying to save them, and for all of us, that’s all we need to know. That their best friend was there with them since we couldn’t be.”

“Yes. Okay.” It’s the best I can do with words, as the emotions overwhelm and battle their way through the goddamn steel walls I hide them behind. “Thanks. I need to uh”—I motion to the backroom—“get some stuff done.” And with a quick hug and her lips on my cheek, I charge for its privacy. For its peace. For a place where I can let the fucking emotions overwhelm me.

One life dies.

Another life moves on.

It’s the cycle, but it’s so fucking hard to accept. To know that she has to move on, to be happy—hell, he’d want her to be happy—but that doesn’t make it any easier to accept that three years later she’s found someone. Someone who isn’t Dickman.

I toast when the crowd toasts, sipping my water instead of the shots being shoved in front of me.

Because I can’t drown this one out. I can’t bury it under alcohol. It will still be there. It will still hurt.

I know from experience.

“Hey, man? You okay?”

I glance over to Nix and nod. “I think for my own sanity, I need to cut out early tonight.”

“Not in the mood for celebrating?” he asks, his eyes searching mine.

“Nah. But you guys go ahead. Aubs is going to take the helm for me. She’ll get better tips that way anyway, and I know she’s saving up for a new car.” I wipe my hands on the towel, ball it up, and toss it in the basket behind the bar.

“It’s okay to say celebrating this, seeing Jenny, fucks you up. It does me too. We don’t want to forget, but it sure as hell hurts to remember.”

“Thanks for getting me, Nix.”

“Aye.” He nods and takes a sip of his beer. “Tell Grainger my apologies to his hand.”

* * *

“Christ, Gunny,” Grainger says as he shakes his gloved hand. “That fucking hurt.”

I don’t speak, just lift my gloved hand out to indicate that another fastball is coming. And then another. And another.

Grainger is wise not to speak. The catcher from the community college a few towns over always welcomes the chance to get more time in behind the plate—and luckily, he doesn’t mind doing it at all hours of the night.

What he doesn’t understand is that what is extra practice for him, is therapy for me.

It’s how I work through the shit in my head. The hurt in my heart. The guilt that still weighs heavy in my soul.

It has been since the day I kissed the sport I loved with all my heart goodbye only to realize it provided me with so much more than I thought.

Pitching, getting lost in the motions and the mechanics, had become my therapy. I hadn’t realized it at the time, but it’s what I turned to when my dad came home beneath a flag-draped coffin. It’s what I lost myself in when Sal was drunk and his fists were itching to fly. Staying at the field a few extra hours was so much easier than going home to deal with him.

When I was on deployment, it’s how I managed the fear and boredom. The guys would take turns catching for me, guessing where I’d pitch it next. We’d make a game of it. Anything for a piece of normalcy in that godforsaken place.

And now, it’s how I cope with the horrors of war, and the guilt over the ones I failed.

Fucking Dickman.

I shake my head and lob an off-speed pitch at Grainger. He falls forward on his knees as he anticipates the fastball, but is caught off guard when it’s twenty miles per hour slower.

“That was wicked,” he laughs out. “Tell me again why you never played in the majors.”