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23

BOYS ARE DUMB

Amanda

Two. Weeks.

That’s how long it’s been since I talked to Jamie.

I hate it.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. A lot of focusing on myself. A lot of extra therapy.

Every few days, Jamie sends me a voice note. Never apologies, just telling me he’s thinking of me, he loves me, and gives me a little snippet of what’s going on in his life, what games he’s won—even though I know because I’ve watched them all.

He’s pitching better than ever, which sent me spiraling for a minute, wondering if he’s better off without me. Until he sent me a voice note saying he wouldn’t have turned his game around if it wasn’t for me.

It seems like what happened two weeks ago was a wake-up call. Not that I was trying to force his hand, but walking out the way I did might’ve done that. He seems like he’s doing better, and in some ways, I am too, but in others, I feel like a pile of trash.

I miss him. I want to be with him. He’s pitching on Sunday, and I was debating going down to his game, but we haven’t talked yet. And I don’t want our first point of connection to be across the field.

Plus, Jace will be here soon to spend the weekend with me, which I’m excited about. We didn’t see each other enough over the summer.

Rae is standing by her closet when I walk into the bedroom she and Aaron share.

She turns to me with a warm smile and soft eyes. “Hey. How are you doing?”

“I’m stressy, depressy?—”

“And a little messy?”

I flop backward onto her bed. “More than a little.”

She lies down next to me and takes my hand. “Been there. I know how much it sucks. But I also know what it’s like on the other side, and I promise you it will get better. Even if it feels like you’re living in the song Down Bad at the moment.”

“Ugh, The Tortured Poets Department is so good.” And fully my vibes right now.

She laughs at that. “At least Jace is coming to visit, right?”

I nod.

“Have you talked to him?”

“No. I think… I want to. But I’m not sure what to say. I made such a dramatic exit with all my talk about needing to decide whether I want the life that comes with dating a professional baseball player, but I don’t care. I want him and that life comes along as a package deal.”

“Maybe you should tell him that.”

“It makes me feel stupid. Like I was overreacting.”

Rae turns her head and stares at me until I turn and look at her.

“You were not overreacting. Everyone in this house will agree on that. He screwed up. You’re allowed to have feelings about that and let them out—to hold him accountable. And if you’ve discovered that you don’t care about the difficulties of life dating a professional baseball player, then you did what you said you were going to do and figured it out. Now you need to figure out what’s really holding you back.”

She kisses my cheek, then hops off the bed, getting back to organizing her closet.

She’s right. Slowly, I push myself up. I need to organize too—not my closet, though. My life.

Jace has made it her mission to make sure I’ve been having fun and have been distracted since she got here Friday night, but as we sit on the dock looking out at the lake as the fog lifts off it on Sunday morning, Jace nudges her knee against mine and gives me a gentle smile.

“What are you thinking about?”

“What comes next. What to say to Jamie.”

“Maybe you should figure out how you’re feeling first.”

I sniff over a laugh. “That’s the tricky part, isn’t it?”

“Can I tell you what I see?”

“We both know you’re going to anyway.” And I’d do the same for her.

“You’re rightfully angry at how Jamie treated you and figuring out how to live the life of a professional baseball player’s significant other is challenging for you. But those aren’t the things that are holding you back from reaching out to him and working through this.”

“I hate you,” I mumble, pulling my knees up to my chest.

“Talk to me.”

I rest my chin on my knees and stare out at the lake. “I’m scared. I’m scared that this disconnection and the moments he wasn’t there for me mean he’s not really in this. Or baseball will need to be his focus and he’ll let me go.” Tears trickle down my cheeks. “My therapist said she thinks I struggle with rejection sensitivity, and I agree with that. I have some coping skills to use, and I’m trying to, but it’s really overwhelming, and the person I need reassurance from is who I pushed away. I don’t know how to ask for that reassurance now.”

“In a perfect world, what do you want to happen?” Jace asks.

“I want to be with him. I love him. That hasn’t changed, but I need to know he loves me too. I don’t want to have to question it, and that’s all I’ve done lately. Then I get scared that pushing him away has driven a wedge between us, and maybe I shouldn’t have done that.”

“It’s okay to take time and space to figure out what you want and need. You can love him and want to be with him, but still hold him accountable.”

She’s right. Those are all the same things the practical part of my brain has been saying, but my heart is afraid of being broken, and my rejection sensitivity is telling me to run.

Staring out at the lake, I take a few deep breaths and focus on one of the coping skills my therapist recommended, which is to challenge negative thoughts.

Jamie is still fighting for me. He wouldn’t do that if he didn’t care.

But even if he was going to reject me, I can’t change that. I have to face it, and trust that I can navigate through it.

More importantly, though, I need to trust what we’ve built and not let my fears or my mental health get in the way. I told him to be responsible for his mental health, and I have to be responsible for mine.

I don’t want this to be the end of us, so it’s time to face my fears, stand up, and start fighting again.

Jamie

Weirdly, one good thing came out of my night getting drunk with some of my teammates—I’m more at ease with them now. They didn’t give me shit afterward; they were supportive and only teased me a little.

I’ve been working with the sports psychologist regularly, and that has helped me too. His most recent recommendation was to consider creating a pregame ritual for myself. He said it could help me get out of my head and focus on the game. Like walking into a new space and shutting the door behind me.

“Anyone have any ideas for a mantra or pregame ritual?” I ask as we get ready in the clubhouse.

“Have you never done any kind of pregame ritual?” Corey asks.

I shrug. “Most of the time, I was acting like an idiot with my friends. That was my pregame ritual.”

Marc, who overheard me ask that and stopped to listen, says, “Well you’re surrounded by idiots to do that with here.”

“You want something to get you focused on the game, you should think about why you’re here. The best moment of your life,” Beau says.

The best moment of my life. There’s a flash of Amanda in that gorgeous sundress on our first official date. Then there’s a memory of dancing with her at Rae and Aaron’s wedding—and how we laid in bed that night talking about what we’d want our wedding to look like. Another flash of Amanda, but this time it’s her lying naked beneath me during a marathon sex session. Then a glimpse of her decked out in Knights gear for my first game with them.

“Whoa, where’d you go? That long of a memory?” Beau asks.

I laugh. “I—why would my best moment or moments help ground me in baseball?”

Beau’s brow furrows. “Being drafted…”

My eyes go wide. Oh .

“Wait. Is that not your best memory?” Beau asks.

“I’m going to guess not,” Ryan says, trying not to laugh.

“Life is more than the game,” Marc says, smacking Beau on the shoulder as he walks away .

Conversation continues, but I turn back to my cubby. As I get ready, the best and most important moments with Amanda play through my mind like a greatest hits album.

Over the last two weeks, I’ve tried to find ways to show her I know I messed up and I want to move things in the right direction. Other than leaving her those voice notes, I haven’t come up with much, but suddenly an entire plan unfolds in my mind. I’ve gotta be out of my head and focused on pitching soon, but until then, I grab my phone and start typing up ideas.

My fourth win in a row feels good, even if I wish Amanda was here to see it. But I’m going to take care of that. I have a plan. Or the beginning of one. I’m going to need a lot of help, and maybe a miracle, but I’m determined to make this happen.

“Mom!” I call, waving as I get to where the group of friends and family are waiting for the players.

She grabs Penny’s hand and comes over to hug me.

“Great game, honey.”

“Thanks.” I bend down and give Penny a hug, but when I let go, I’m on the receiving end of her sassiest glare.

“How come Amanda isn’t here?”

As I stand up, I exchange a look with Mom, who knows the whole story.

“Wait,” Penny says, eyes filling with tears. “Did you break up?”

“No. No, buddy. We didn’t. We’re just having a hard time right now.”

“Why?”

“Because I did some things that hurt her feelings.”

Penny’s tear-stained eyes lift to me. “Did you kiss another girl? ”

“No. I would never do that. But I wasn’t showing Amanda that I cared about her the way I needed to.”

She huffs and rolls her eyes. “Of course you weren’t. Boys are dumb.”

Mom stifles a laugh as I sigh.

“You’re right. We are. I’m working on a plan to fix it. Want to help me?”

Her little face lights up. “Yes, please.”

“Good. Because I’m going to need all the help I can get, and probably some advice too,” I say as we walk out of the stadium together.

“You have to grovel,” Penny says, like she did two years ago.

Fuck, I am done screwing up with Amanda. She deserves to have everything. All my love. All the happiness. Peace and comfort.

I’m going to give her all that and more. Penny’s right, I need to grovel, and my way of doing that is showing Amanda how deeply I love her.

My mom and Penny are asleep in the spare room. She pulled Penny out of school so they could visit for a couple of days. Cal was jealous, but the kid can barely sit through an inning of baseball, let alone a whole game.

Now I’m staring at the notebook in front of me. Part of my plan is ambitious, but I’m hoping if I put it out into the universe, I’ll get what I need. What we need.

When my phone goes off, I’m hoping it’s one of the people I contacted following up, but I almost fall off the bed when I see it’s a voice note from Amanda.

I’m slightly afraid, but also hopeful.

Turning the volume up, I press play, letting her beautiful voice fill the room .

“Hey.” She pauses, and I can tell from her breathing that she’s trying not to cry. “I, um… I miss you. I guess I just wanted you to know I’m thinking of you. And you’re really hot when you’re all confident on the mound.” She sniffs, and I’m torn between heartbreak and relief. “Um, I think we should talk soon. Even if it’s just over the phone or text. Anyway, uh, I think that’s all. I just wanted to… I don’t know. Okay. Bye.”

I listen to it again and then one more time, reveling in the sound of her voice.

She reached out. She misses me. I still have a chance, and I’m not going to waste it.

I listen one more time, then send a text back.

Me: I miss you too. Thanks for the message. I’ve been wanting to talk too. Maybe we could start with texting throughout the week? And then… would you come to my game on Thursday? I’ll send a car so you don’t have to drive.

The little dots as she types are agonizing and last for what feels like hours before a text comes through.

My girl: Texting sounds good. As for the game… I don’t know. I might have plans.

My heart sinks and frustration builds inside me. We need to fix this and she might have other plans?

But then I read the text again, and I remember what she said the first time I ever invited her to a game.

Too bad I have plans .

She teased me afterward that I didn’t ask who those plans were with.

I pick my phone up again .

Me: Any chance those plans are with a certain Metros pitcher?

My girl: Maybe.

Me: Think you can score me an invite?

My girl: I’ll do my best.

Me: Good. Well, have a good night, okay? Sleep well.

My girl: Thanks. You too.

I set my phone aside and lay back, my mind racing almost as fast as my heart.

There’s a lot to do before Thursday, but I’ll skip sleeping if I have to, I don’t care. This is my chance to make things right—to start, at least—and I’m not going to blow it.

By Friday morning, Amanda will be in my arms again, and she’ll know with certainty that those arms will always be her safe place.