Page 48 of Convincing the Catcher

I think my mom and Tripp always hoped that Isla and Cash would end up together since they adore Cam and Addison so much. I think, as kids, Cash had a little crush on her, but it fizzled out fast. Now I’m pretty sure my little sister has a crush on Isla’s brother, Saint, though. And to be honest, I’m not entirely sure how I feel about that, other than I don’t love it.

Walking out of the kitchen, I take a few steps to the table where Hendrix and Isla are sitting. I have no right to ask her about her friend, but I’m going to anyway. I saw Haven yesterday, and either she knows nothing about her bestie or she’s just got an extreme poker face. Isla doesn’t have a poker face. At least not to me, she doesn’t.

“What’s up, Hale?” Hendrix says, jerking his chin upward. “Playing with any balls today?”

I swear, no matter how many times he and the other hockey players make jokes about me and my balls, they still grin the same and act like they’re thirteen. Even if it’s annoying, he’s too happy right now for me to shit on.

“Yep, all kinds,” I utter, rolling my eyes. “Hey, Isla. Have, uh … you talked to Harland at all?”

Everyone else calls her Harley, and sometimes, I do too. But her name is too beautiful not to use. Besides, it’s her name, and I like it.

She tucks a blonde curl behind her ear and looks from me to Hendrix before eventually looking down at the paper in front of her.

“No. I’ve texted her, but she hasn’t responded to me.” She sighs, looking up at me and cringing. “I was going to ask you the same thing, but I figured since you’re still here on campus, you two probably aren’t talking much either?”

“Nope.” I give her a quick head shake. “She and her mom mentioned they would have the funeral this weekend though. If they do, I’m flying back out there.”

Her brows knit together. “Will your coach be mad?”

“I don’t really care,” I tell her honestly. “He could threaten to bench me once we started playing games, and I’d still go back to Montana. Because once the dust settles and everything is quiet … once people stop bringing casseroles and sending flowers … Harley is going to need a friend.” I look down. “And a friend who’s been a part of the Dead Parent Club for years? Maybe she’ll need that even more.”

Isla and Hendrix are both silent, and when I turn away and start to walk toward the hall, her voice stops me.

“Hey, Cane?” she calls out.

“Yeah?”

“If you go, will you give her a hug for me?” She pauses. “I … I’ve been so worried. But we have a game this weekend and you know I can’t—” She sighs. “I wish I could fly out there, but I can’t.”

Keeping my gaze forward, I nod before going to my room. I know Isla. She’s thoughtful and selfless. If she could go, she would. But she’s the goalie for her team, and they need her.

My biggest fear isn’t that Harley is sad. I know she’s sad; that’s inevitable and part of the process she’s going through. I’m scared she’s depressed and she’s not going to take care of herself. Her diabetes isn’t something she can ignore. And I’m worried she is.

She might not want me at the funeral, and that’s okay. But I’m going to go anyway. Because even though she may think I was faking it, I wasn’t. And she isn’t just my friend either …

I’m so gone for this girl. But I’m not going to act on it, because she’s grieving her father and she has enough on her plate. I’m going because, in case she needs me, I want to be there. And if she still hates me, well, I guess seeing me will give her a distraction from the pain.

TWENTY-THREE

HARLEY

In my black dress, I sit on the edge of my bed, looking at an envelope I know has a letter addressed to me inside, but I don’t open it. Last night, my mom told me that when my father first found out he was sick, he had written a message. A message for me in case something happened to him. Now something has happened, and yet I can’t get myself to read the letter where he says goodbye to me. I don’t even know why I can’t either. I’ve tried to wrap my mind around why I’m being such a baby about it, but the truth is, I just don’t have an answer. All I know is, I can’t do it.

My mom asked me if I wanted to speak at my father’s funeral today, and even though I know I should, I told her no. With a room full of people staring at me, I know I’ll just fall apart.

There’s a short knock on the door, and my mom’s sister, Nicolette, pokes her head in. She got here late last night, just in time for the funeral today.

“Are you about ready, sweetie?” she asks softly. “Your mom is pretty anxious to get going. She wants to make sure everything is perfect there before guests start arriving.”

“Yeah,” I whisper, sliding the envelope into my crossbody bag and weakly standing up.

When I get to the doorway, she holds her arms out and pulls me to her chest. Her hand runs down my hair, and she squeezes me tightly. “I know today is going to be hard. I’m here, okay? Whatever you need.”

I nod because that’s the polite thing to do. Every person who has stopped in, brought food, or called us has all said the same thing. But how do we know that they really will be there for whatever we need? I mean, heck, some of them we barely know. My aunt means it, but it doesn’t change the fact that in a few days, she’ll be headed back to California. So, how much is she going to help?

Silently, I follow her down the hallway and into the kitchen, where my mom is waiting.

My mom holds her hand out for me to take, and together, we head out to the car. All just to ride to a church that we barely attended to say goodbye to my dad—again.