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Twenty-nine
Conner
For the next few days, I hide. Either in my apartment or under a car, but I don’t step a foot outside the garage. Not because I regret what I said or because I’m ashamed or whatever. I hide because I don’t trust myself.
Because I know what I’ll do if I allow myself so much as a millimeter of slack.
I’ll go to her. Tell her I’m sorry. Get down on my fucking knees and crawl if I have to. I’ll beg her to forgive me. Tell her I’m sorry. That I’m a fucking asshole. That I’ll do anything she wants, for as long as she wants me to.
Anything, as long as she lets me stay.
Or even worse, I’ll pretend it never happened. That I never said it out loud. That I didn’t look her dead in the eye and tell her that I’m still in love with her. That I’ve always be in love with her.
That I’ll never stop.
Worse because I know it would hurt her. Even if she doesn’t love me the way I love her, hearing something like that would hurt her. She’s always been fragile on the inside. Never trusted me. The way I feel about her. Even now that I’ve given in, given her what she wants, she can’t believe a word I say. Confirming her suspicions would devastate her.
It’s either hurt her or keep hurting myself and I don’t want to do either one.
Not anymore.
So I hide.
I make sure Tess sees me eat. I make sure she knows that my no-sleep streak is over. I don’t tell her why or how and she doesn’t ask. Tess is smart, I’m sure she figured it out. Not like it’s rocket science.
It’s Saturday and I stick close to home.
I eat the last of the chicken salad Henley made for breakfast. I spend three hours in front of my computer watching her play Mahjong Titans and shelve books on my computer screen. I work on cars, bent over until it feels like my spine is permanently fused into a curve. I read Gatsby, cover to cover, a few times. Make myself some eggs and force myself to eat them. Fuck around on my computer. Work on my Millennium Problem—the Yang-Mills existence and mass gap. I know if I buckled down and really gave a shit, I could’ve solved it years ago but that would mean publishing my findings. Defending my work. Giving lectures. Let the mathematics community trot me around like a goddamned show pony.
No, thanks. I’d rather eat glass.
When Tess texts and asks me to meet her for a drink I don’t ignore her like I want to. I tell her that I’m in the middle of something and I’ll see her on Monday. I don’t tell her that what I’m in the middle of is laying in my bed because it still smells like Henley and while I’m feeling more stable than I have in a while, I know better than to believe it’s going to last.
It’s Sunday and I’m in my car.
When I climbed behind the wheel this morning, I told myself it was because I have cabin fever and needed to get out from behind the same four walls I’ve been staring at for the past four days. It’s been a while since I made one of Cap’n’s games. I’ll go. Watch from my car. No big deal. I won’t even stay for the whole thing.
I back into a spot at the far end of the lot under the trees, in direct sight of the ball field but at enough distance that I’m not noticeable. It’s not because I’m a fucking weirdo stalker. It’s not because I know she’s going to be there. It’s not because I need to see her. He’s been hounding me for years about sponsoring a team. Maybe I will. Maybe I’m tired of doing the same thing, over and over. It’s been years since I got serious about anything except banging chicks, picking fights and killing my liver. Maybe it’s not even Henley that I want. Maybe I want what she represents to me—who I could’ve been if she’d stayed. Normal. Real. Not the fucked-up freak I turned into.
Yeah—and maybe I’m goddamned liar.
Christ, she looks good.
Long auburn hair pulled through the back of her ball cap, tugged low over her face. Jeans and team shirt tied into a knot at her hips. She’s third-base coaching, posture hunched over so she can talk to her runner. The catcher is a big kid. Wide and muscular. The type who won’t give an inch. I know what Henley’s telling her runner to do. I can practically hear her from across the field.
Take the plate.
The batter swings and is rewarded by the crack of the ball. Like’s it’s a starting pistol, Henley’s runner explodes off third, bolting for home while she keeps pace, coaching and cheering her way down the baseline.
I watch the ball, a deep fly that drops perfectly between fielders, rolling across the grass while they scramble for the catch.
Henley’s runner is halfway to home plate when one of the fielders recovers the ball. He’s too far away from the plate for a direct flight so he relays it to the shortstop while the catcher plants his feet, hunching slightly to wait for the ball.
I can hear Henley yelling.
You’ve got this! Keep going! You want it more! You can do it!
Her runner turns on the gas, sprinting down the baseline, chin tucked. Steps away from collision, she lowers her shoulder without missing a step. At the same time, the ball rips through the air, exploding out of the shortstop’s glove like it’s been shot from a gun, a white blur rocketing toward home.