Inside, the lights are off, my parents long-since asleep in their room. But Ma’s left the dim bulb above the stove burning for me, along with a plate of something that smells too good to pass up.
She knows I’m always starving when I get home late.
Peeling back the foil, I find homemade empanadillas. They’re cold but I shove one in my mouth anyway, far too impatient for the microwave. Still chewing, I put the plate of leftovers in the fridge, flip off the stove light, and walk down the short hallway, passing Jaxon’s darkened room on the way to mine.
I don’t know where he is. And I don’t care.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
Jax is the reason my life is so screwed up right now. I have every right to hate him. But there’s a part of me that can’t turn away from my brother, even after everything he’s done to tear our family apart. To threaten all my parents have worked so hard for. To jeopardize not just his own future, but mine as well.
I beeline straight for the bathroom. I need to shower Sienna off my skin; to wash away my sins with scalding water. Even on the hottest setting, it’s not enough to make me feel any better. I stand beneath the spray until it runs cold, leaning back against the tile wall and trying to forget.
All of it.
The scrape of acrylic nails against my skin. The cloying smell of artificial strawberries. The look in Jo’s eyes. The break in her voice before she climbed out of my truck and slammed the door.
Not every human male on this planet sees me as a platonic little sister!
Christ, if she only knew how I see her… how she makes me feel… the things I’d like to do with her… to her… she’d never use the wordplatonicaround me ever again.
The clock on the desk in my messy bedroom declares 3:36AM in its scornful red glow. I have to be at the field in five hours, ready to pitch. Coach is already going to be in a foul mood, seeing as half the team will be showing up hungover and his star pitcher has a set of swollen knuckles. That meanssprints.
Lots of them.
My muscles tense in anticipation as I collapse face-first onto my bed, not even bothering to yank on boxers or crawl under my covers. Much as I wish I could close my eyes and escape my life for a while, I’m too worked up to sleep. I scroll my phone instead, pulling up a bookmarked playlist of videos.
Not porn. Not the latest episode of whatever dumb sitcom the networks are circulating this spring. Not the viral prank videos my teammates are always forwarding.
The greats.
Crisp white uniforms with blocky red lettering, iconic fixtures against the bright green grass. The same clips I’ve watched over and over, a million times, since I was old enough to access YouTube by myself; since I realized there was a way to foster my Red Sox obsession even without being able to afford season tickets.
I study the players — their technique, their focus, their presence on the field. I watch the plays unfold, smooth as a choreographed dance, each throw made with instinctual precision. The Green Monster looms large, a fixed backdrop against the Boston skyline, dwarfed only by the talent on the diamond below it.
Pedro Martínez.
Nomar Garciaparra.
David Ortiz.
Manny Ramirez.
When I finally drift off, images of my idols still playing across my iPhone screen, I dream of the day I’ll be standing on that pitcher’s mound at Fenway Park, throwing a perfect game. And I dream of the blonde girl with blue eyes, sitting front-row behind home plate, the name on her fan jersey a match for the one on our marriage certificate, cheering me on.
Chapter Seven
JOSEPHINE
The sun is an asshole.
I blink awake to a shaft of light beaming directly into my bleary eyes. Given the pounding in my temples, either an elephant sat on my head while I was sleeping, or I’m experiencing my first-ever hangover.
“Ugh,” I grunt, forcing my body upright. Almost immediately, I realize being vertical is a terrible mistake. I fall back against my pillows as my stomach lurches queasily. I’m not sure if I need to throw up everthing in my body or shovel down the biggest breakfast known to modern man. Make that lunch, seeing as it’s already past noon.
What happened last night?
Beer pong — that’s what. I have only myself to blame for being in this state. I wince as memories flood back to me in fragments.