He shakes his head. “If it was that easy—”
I throw the ball back to him. “It’s not easy. Because you still have to see the curveball. You have to recognize it in order to lay off.”
“That’s the problem. I don’t see it.”
“I have a theory about that, too.”
“Yeah?” The word is skeptical, but he returns the ball, and I can tell he’s waiting for more.
“You’ve been practicing with a pitching machine, right?”
“So?”
“So that’s the way it’s usually done because it’s hard to find a pitcher who can throw enough good curveballs to make it productive. Most hitters use a pitching machine. But here’s the thing, Garrett. There are some guys who can’t read spin off a pitching machine.” I whip the ball to his glove. “My dad was one of those guys.”
He pauses, his arm in mid-motion. Slowly, he drops his hand, holding the ball in his glove. Even from a distance, I can see a flare of hope in the way his mouth hangs open for a breathless second.
That’s what I’ll remember, I tell myself. When I’m missing him so much that it’s hard to breathe, I’ll remember this expression of hope, and that I gave that to him. The thought sends strength to my shaky arm. “You don’t have to read spin off a machine,” I add. “You’re never going to face a machine in a game. What you need to learn—what you need to practice—is reading a ball the way it comes out of the hand.” I hold up my glove, gesturing for him to throw me the ball. “Stand at the plate, as if you’re going to hit.”
He pulls his bat from his bag.
“You’re not going to swing,” I say. “I want you to watch my hand. You’re studying hand movement. A curveball comes out with a hitch. Some people call it a hump.”
I drag the bucket of balls to the mound. I can remember, so clearly, my dad running this drill with other players. Remember, so clearly, him telling them how he had the same problem. “These first ten balls are going to be fastballs. Ready?”
I’m out of practice and my arm is out of shape. A few bounce well in front of the plate and a few sail high. One nearly hits Garrett before he jumps out of the way. It doesn’t matter. He’s just watching my hand.
“All right,” I say. “Here come ten curves.”
He watches my hand as I release each ball, the thud of the balls hitting the back fence the only sound other than the occasional car driving by the school.
“You see it?” I ask.
He taps his bat on home plate. “I’m not sure I see spin. But I see speed.”
“That’s okay, too. My dad was like that. He swore he saw heat off the ball. Everyone’s brain works differently. You need to watch live pitching. Start to recognize what’s coming: a fastball or a breaking ball. I’ve got a list of drills that will help.”
He drops his bat and jogs to me, a smile on his face that breaks my heart in half. “A list of drills? I can’t believe you remembered so much.”
“I didn’t.” I reach behind me to pick up a few loose balls, dropping them back in the bucket. Sadness wells behind my eyes; heat gathers in my throat. “I went online and found my dad’s training logs. Password was still ‘home run.’”
He stops me with a hand on my arm, slowly pulling me to face him. “Josie.”
I raise my arms between us before he can pull me any closer. I’m still staring at the second button of his shirt. I can barely keep myself together. If he holds me, I’ll crumble. “We’re breaking up, Garrett. This is it.”
“What? We are not.”
I wipe at my cheeks, because damn it all to hell, I’m crying again. “I told you. I can’t follow where you’re going.”
“We don’t know that I’m going anywhere.”
“You will be.”
“That doesn’t change us.”
“Garrett.” My voice breaks in spite of myself, but I finally look in his eyes. “It changes everything.” I shove my glove back in my pack and toss the key at him.
Reflexively, his hand flies up and he catches it.
“We’re not breaking up,” he says, all steely-eyed and certain.
And wrong.
“You have work to do. You’ve got to find someone who can throw a good curveball. You said that Florida coach will be in town next week. That’s not a lot of time.”
A slight frown forms, and I know he’s thinking it all through. Wondering if he can be ready. Wondering if it’s really possible.
Hello, dream. Goodbye, Josie.
He’s standing, frozen, balls spread across the dirt around him. He’s torn. Fighting with himself over whether to leave it all or not. Whether to go after baseball or me.
His hesitation is proof that I’m right. I don’t want a guy who has to think about it. I want a guy who wants me. More than anything.
I stride to the truck, focusing on each step, on holding back the tears.
I still have my pride. Right now, it feels like that’s all I’ve got.
Chapter Forty-Three
When Mom comes home, we’re on the third episode of Pride and Prejudice, and Mai has been asleep for half an hour.
“Hi.” Mom sets a bag of groceries on the counter. She pauses as she takes in the scene. Mai and me. Mr. Darcy on the TV and an empty half-gallon carton of ice cream on the coffee table. Her smile fades. “What happened?”
“I broke up with Garrett.”
I’m expecting relief or even happiness, but instead her face pales as if it’s her heart that’s broken. “Josie, honey. Are you okay?”
There’s too big of a lump in my throat to do more than nod. After everything I’ve put her
