Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 72138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 361(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 361(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
“Mase,” Girard said when I pulled into the lot of the bowling alley. “You wanna come up so we can—”
“No.” I shook my head almost violently. “I…I can’t. I need time to figure shit out in my head.”
“You don’t have to be alone.” His voice was soft and sad, and I had trouble meeting his eyes because I didn’t know what I’d find there. Disappointment, pity?
“It’s the only way I know.”
His shoulders slumped. Then he pushed open the door. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
I cleared my scratchy throat. “No, I am. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“What I mean is, I’m sorry he stole your joy from you tonight. Your bravery too. Though you stood your ground pretty well. He’s the one losing out.”
I watched him walk inside to his family—his warm and loving family—and I felt the cold punch of loneliness all the way back to campus.
24
Girard
I was fixing the pinspotter on lane eight again. Same old, same old. Some things never changed, but despite my frustration, I actually liked it that way.
So I got why Maclain was struggling, why he was trying so hard to hold on to his past when he felt it was about to crumble away.
It’d been a week since our date. I laughed bitterly to myself. Some date. As soon as Maclain was comfortable enough to chance holding my hand across a table and kiss me inside his car, his safety net had been ruthlessly taken away. By his so-called dad.
Maybe that wasn’t being fair. The man had provided for him into adulthood, after all. Maclain could’ve ended up in foster care or worse. But damn, witnessing that interaction between them had been uncomfortable. His dad had always made too many promises he didn’t keep, but still, the way he’d brushed Maclain aside had killed me. I knew without a doubt that my family would never treat me that way, and I supposed that was the difference, and why Maclain always trod delicately where his stepdad was concerned.
Since that night, Maclain seemed a bit worse for wear at games and practice. Not a worse grouch. No, it was more devastating than that. He was plain sad, almost like he was grieving, and, in a way, he was. I was giving him space, but he’d created a bubble around him that seemed impenetrable.
Thing was, he didn’t even see it—how others enjoyed having him around when he was just being himself, his real self. He was funny and sensitive, even if he didn’t like it to be acknowledged publicly, and he was dedicated to people as well as the game. Most of us had played baseball our whole lives. But it meant something more to Maclain, something that had to do with his past, stuff he was trying so hard to hold on to, and it was difficult to watch it slipping through his fingers.
“What’s going on with him?” Donovan had asked me during our last practice.
“Not my business to tell.” Though I was feeling completely unsettled myself about the whole thing. “Just be there for him? If he needs you.”
“I think I have an inkling,” Kellan said, and afterward in the locker room, I’d spotted the pack of Bit-O-Honey he’d placed for him near his locker.
When Maclain saw it, his gaze immediately found mine. I’d lifted my hands in surrender. “Not me this time.”
He’d grumbled as he snatched it off the bench, but I noticed the small smile before he quickly tucked it away.
Thankfully, Maclain hadn’t blown any games. Instead, he seemed to throw his concentration into every pitch, even tentative signals I’d tossed at him. As if he didn’t want to disappoint any more people. Or maybe he figured that by placing all his focus on finishing strong, he could ignore everything else. Including me, which stung. But we hadn’t made any promises to each other, so likely he was saving me from a world of hurt later.
Except it fucking hurt like hell now.
So I kept myself busy as well, at the bowling alley and studying for finals when I wasn’t at school or games. I was grateful that tonight was a bowling league night, meaning there was plenty to do. I split my time between helping Mom behind the snack counter and Gemma with shoe rentals. Dad stayed close to the lanes in case anyone needed help with a minor bug in the automated tally system, and then he went on bathroom-cleaning duty. He was as obsessive about keeping this place clean as he was about balancing the books. If I’d ever needed a great example of work ethic, my parents were it, hands down.
As the groups of bowlers began trickling out the door for the night, I started on our closing routine. I gathered all the condiments in the snack area and wiped them down along with the countertop. Dad had made his way into the office an hour earlier, and when he let out a curse, Mom sighed.