We had plans to meet up with June, Lucas, Hayden, and Tory at Eight Lanes tonight, but I’ll let that be her call. I know how hard it is to hide how you really feel. It’s exhausting, and I’ve never had to do it for reasons that are meaningful and real, as I suspect she is right now.
“Take you home?” I lean my head toward the door and give her a moment to take in how ridiculous I look. As her lips curve, I know she’s let her guard down just a little, so to keep the bad thoughts from breaking in, I decide to dance. In the time my hands make it from the back of my head to my hips, she’s laughing hard.
“What is that?” She points at my legs in a circling motion, the sleeves of her double shirt tucked over her fingers.
“It’s the Macarena,” I pronounce, rolling my hips like an expensive stripper. In my head, I’m totally Magic Mike. I’m guessing by the way she covers her mouth and holds her stomach, though, the actual visual is a lot less sexy.
“No . . . it’s not,” she busts out mid-laugh.
“Oh, I beg your pardon,” I say, feeling challenged to sell it. I make my body perform every awkward stripper move I know, knowing full well this is a mess, but it makes her laugh. It keeps her warm. It makes her smile for real instead of the pretend one that was stamped on her face.
Now, I need to keep it that way until I can even the score for her. I know exactly where to start, too, but for right now, I’ll drive her home.
18
Hollis
Every girl just needs a good cry sometimes. I spend a lot of time holding mine in. Even when it’s earned and I have every right to be weak and ugly, I suck it up and fake that everything is fine. I say I do it for others, to protect them from guilt, from feeling responsible or spending all their empathy on me. Honestly, though, I do it because I’m embarrassed. That thought in and of itself is shameful. It’s also true. I’m embarrassed that I let something break me, even a little. I’m embarrassed by the attention. I hate when people ask if I’m okay. So, rather than cry, I shove that feeling and all that sparked it deep into the pit of my soul.
I should have known that one day, something would finally be too much.
Cannon is waiting outside in his truck, the engine running. We’re going out with friends. It’s like an actual real date, in front of people, and I want to feel the same on the inside that I’ve been pretending to be on the outside.
I didn’t feel the tears coming. I ran upstairs for a quick shower and to change, because Cannon needs his pants back. And I want to look nice, to smell nice, to have goddamn beach waves in my hair!
Instead, I have been full-on wailing into my bath towel for five minutes straight, praying that the spray of the shower masks any sounds I let slip out.
It’s a good cry.
An ugly cry.
A necessary cry.
It’s all mine, and I’m taking it. I’ve sold myself short so many times, but no more. I’m tired. So fucking tired.
The hardest part is stopping myself from giving in to the same excuse I always use—at least it wasn’t worse. Truth be told, I’ve been through worse. I’ve had guys throw fastballs at my face on purpose when I’m in the batter’s box. I’ve had things stolen, had my name disparaged, been called insults that no guy on any of my teams would ever be called. They don’t spray paint those same insults on school walls about the guys, either. In the grand scheme of things, a little hazing by three guys who have fragile egos and feel threatened should not be the thing that breaks me.
But it is.
It is. It does. And it continues to while I stand with one leg in the shower and one out.
I hate that I saw it coming. I hate that I still gave them the benefit of the doubt when Roland and Jay took opposite sides of me in the dugout while we packed up. I knew they were going to grab me. I even braced myself for it, prepared all the things I would say, practiced the face I’d make to pretend I was having as much of a good time as they were. It happened like clockwork—the two of them taking me by the arms, lifting me high enough that my feet couldn’t reach the ground. It had to be them. They’re the only two tall enough.
I laughed while they dragged me through the dugout, my thigh catching on the loose chain link while I kicked.
I didn’t kick enough.
I kicked just enough.
Zack was only pretending to roll up the hose after watering the field. The water was still on. I heard the pump; the hose was taut from the pressure; the spray nozzle was leaking.
The first blast of water stung. I didn’t shiver until at least twenty seconds passed. I was still laughing, still playing along and taking this rite of passage that I know no other guy on this team had to go through.
“You wanna be one of us, don’t you?” Zack shouted.
Yes. yes, I do!
The words were internal, only for me. Outside, I laughed and played along.
“Don’t! It’s cold!”
Of course it was. They knew it was. I struggled to break free, but they held me down and Zack moved closer, the spray harder, the water colder. My skin was numb, already ripped apart as much as it could be from the blast of cold water. It hit my face next, and I coughed from the drowning sensation.
I stopped
