“Why you do what you do. It’s like baseball. Every guy on the team is there for a different reason. Some love to play. Some want the glory and the girls. Some are there because their parents want it. It’s their why. It’s what motivates them.”
“And what’s your why?” I ask. “The spotlight?”
“I look good under the lights, no question.” His cocky flash of smile fades beneath something much more intense. Much more real. “But for me, I love the game. More than anything.”
He’s so much like my father that it hurts to look at him. “Maybe it’s not a why,” I say. “Maybe it’s a why not.”
“Because you hate baseball?” He does that lip-biting thing again. “You can’t hate a sport that is everything good and beautiful on this earth. And how is it that you know so much about a game you supposedly hate?”
“I’m a woman of mystery. Now can I have the books back?”
He hangs on to the box. “Or maybe your dad taught you.”
The word dad triggers a flow of ice through my veins. I yank the box out of his arms and set it on a table. “How do you know that?”
He pulls his cell out of his pocket. “My friend Google and I have been getting to know you. Your dad is Clay Walters.”
Just hearing his name stings, and I struggle to keep the hurt from showing. “I know who my dad is.”
“There’s a picture of the two of you.” He holds up the phone, but I shake my head.
I don’t need to see it. I know the one he means. It’s always the first photo to come up in a Google search. I’m about three. My father is walking out to the field and I’m carrying his glove. It’s almost as big as I am. It was my favorite picture, the one thing I unpacked first in every new house. The picture I kissed good night whenever Dad was on a road trip. When Mom and I left Florida for the last time, I broke a framed copy of that photo over my knee and nearly sliced off a finger when the glass shattered.
“I also know your name isn’t actually Josie. It’s Joe. After Joe DiMaggio.” He rests a hand over his heart as he says the name. “Joltin’ Joe. The Yankee Clipper. Married to Marilyn.” He sighs dramatically. “Did you know he was actually named Giuseppe?”
“I’m aware.” I fold my arms over my chest as a memory tugs at the never-healing scab on my heart. Dad playing catch with me in the backyard, grinning like he’d always be there. My favorite girl, named for my favorite player.
“Think how proud your dad will be when we win this thing,” Garrett is saying. His gaze hooks mine, the blue irises liquid with dreams. “Clay Walters’ little girl, calling the game that he taught her. Josie, you have to say yes.”
It takes me a second to swallow the bitterness of the past. In an even voice I’m proud of, I say, “Here’s the thing, Garrett. My dad is a selfish ass who never gave a shit about anything but baseball, so you know what? I don’t care about making him proud.”
Finally—silence. He slides the phone away as his throat works over a long swallow. “I see Google fell short this time.”
“Just a bit. Now would you please leave me alone?”
He swallows again. “I’m sorry. Really.”
I’m still breathing hard as he walks out. At least now I’m rid of him for good.
Chapter Seven
He’s standing outside my house the next morning.
I’m in a rush as I pull the front door closed. I’ve got my teeth around a half-eaten slice of jelly toast while I struggle to slide my phone into the pocket of my skinny jeans. When I catch sight of him, I freeze.
My backpack doesn’t.
It swings forward and knocks into my other hand that’s holding a can of apple juice, spraying the liquid into the air and all over my fingers.
“Shit,” I sputter around the toast, but at least it’s jarred me out of my shock.
Garrett is wearing a black tee, jeans, and a smile as blinding as the sun. “I thought you’d be a morning person.”
I glare, because my mouth is still full of food. Tucking away my phone, I grab the toast and shake juice off my hand. “I’m late and I hate being late. Whoever invented the snooze button should be shot.”
“I’m guessing they’re already dead. In case that makes you feel better.”
His smile does not make me feel better. Nothing about him does. Last night, the old dream returned. The fear. The panic. I need my suitcase—where’s my suitcase? Waking up to find myself breathing hard, my legs dangling from the bed as sweat chilled on my skin. Always that damn suitcase.
It’s Garrett who’s bringing it all back. Garrett with all his talk about baseball and his naughty-boy smile and wavy neck hairs. Now he shows up here looking all Mister Golden Guy and I’m breathing hard again. I need him to go away.
“What are you doing here, Garrett?” My gaze sweeps past him to the black four-door idling at the curb.
“Let me help.” He takes my half-eaten toast, which throws me off, but I do have a juice disaster to deal with. I finish the can in two big swallows, set it at the corner of the driveway to trash later, and pour water over my hand from the bottle I always carry to school. Finally, I release a sigh and hold out my hand for my toast.
He’s licking strawberry jelly from his thumb.
“You didn’t!”
He bites his lip. “Sorry.”
“You are not.”
“I’m not,” he admits. “That was really good.”
“Garrett!”
“Let me make it up to you. I’ll drive you to school.”
“You’re acting like we’re friends and we’re not. How do you even know where I live?”
“Google, again.”
“That’s creepy stalker behavior,” I say as I brush past him. “You need therapy.”
“And I’m going to get some as
