I consider not telling them anything. I usually don’t. I’m not even sure how they got my address. But with them in front of me, face-to-face for the first time in maybe two or three years, I can’t just not say anything. “I’m moving,” I tell them, smoothing out my shirt. “To Boston. I got a great job there with a nonprofit that works with inner city kids.”
“Ryan, when are you going to do something real with your life?” My father turns and faces me. He’s aged, the lines in his forehead harsher than I remember. Or maybe it’s just that I’m used to looking at the picture taken almost ten years ago. Either way, he almost seems like a stranger to me.
“Something real with my life?” I balk. “Excuse me?”
“Yes, something real,” he huffs. “Kids your age have no idea what it’s like in the real world. You’ve been pampered and coddled your whole damn lives and don’t even take something good when it’s offered to you.”
“And what’s been offered to me that I haven’t taken?”
Instead of answering my question, he shakes his head. “You go from one dead-end job to another, wasting your potential. It’s such a shame that you have no interest in being anything.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. We just stand in the foyer, between the front door and the living room, and look at each other. A group of people tied together by blood, but divided by a poison that infects every strand of our relationship.
His words hurt. Sting. My wounds are already there, gaping from losing Lincoln, and he pours salt in with no consideration.
When I was eight years old, my parents told me they wouldn’t be home for my birthday. I cried. Instead of comforting me, they laughed. They said it was silly to think I wouldn’t get a cake or gifts; they’d arranged that. My tears weren’t for teddy bears and chocolate icing. My cries were because it was apparent that day that I didn’t matter.
I haven’t cried in front of them since then. That is, until today.
If it were any other day, I would’ve held strong. But my heart too broken, the waterworks already started, and I don’t bother to fight them. They trickle down my cheeks, across the smears of donut, and onto the floor. I consider how ridiculous I must look, like the calamity they think I am and I don’t even care.
“Will you stop?” my mother breathes, tugging at her necklace. “I told you this was a bad idea, Bryan.”
“With all the resources you have, why you live like this is beyond me,” my father says. “It’s absurd. You need to clean yourself up and get yourself together, Ryan.”
“It’s Danielle,” I say, but I don’t think he hears me over the knock at the door. Relieved at Pepper’s perfect timing, I tug the door open.
It’s not Pepper.
He looks so handsome standing in my doorway, the afternoon light shining around him. His eyes are wide, filled with the sorrow I feel. He doesn’t move to me, doesn’t try to reach for me, and he doesn’t smile the way he always does when he sees me. This is us. The new us. And I hate it.
“Dani.”
The one word, my nickname, the one I hate but now somehow love hearing from his lips, breaks the seal. The tears trickle down faster.
“I brought your mug,” he says and I want to laugh, but I can’t. It hurts too much. His eyes land over my shoulder and then flip immediately back to mine again. “Are you okay?” The question is a whisper.
“No,” I say back.
All of a sudden, he’s taking me in differently. His pupils narrow, his green eyes darken and he steps to me. He pulls me into him and kisses the top of my head. I turn as he steps inside the house, keeping his arm wrapped tightly around my waist.
“Mr. Kipling,” Lincoln says. I’ve never heard his voice this way. It’s not playful or sexy or even engaging. It’s professional. Hard. Maybe even cold. It takes me aback. “Mrs. Kipling.”
“What is this? Some kind of joke?” My father’s eyes are wide as he takes in his new centerfielder with his arm around me. I imagine he’s worried I’ll interfere in their life now if I’m somehow dating Lincoln and he’s playing for the Sails. The fury in his eyes dampens a piece of my soul.
“What is it you’d like explained?” Lincoln asked.
He clutches me tightly and I’m so thankful he’s here. Glancing at my mother, I see her dipping her chin, looking at me down her perfect, plastic-surgeon-created nose.
“Did she put you up to this?” my father snarls. Looking at me, his repugnance of me is palpable. “This was your doing, wasn’t it? Why, Ryan? Why do you have to act like such a spoiled brat? Is it attention you need? Is that what’s wrong?”
“This has nothing to do with her,” Lincoln fires back.
I look between the two of them, my head spinning. “What are you talking about?”
My father chuckles, his gaze on Lincoln. “You know you won’t get another offer like the one I gave you. We were ready to build around you, Lincoln. There were good things happening, and instead, you listened to a little girl that doesn’t know anything.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask again, drying my face with the sleeve of my shirt, much to my mother’s dismay. “Lincoln?”
He looks at me and smiles. Using the pad of his thumb, he wipes away the icing on my cheek and laughs. “You’re a mess, Dani.”
“It’s your fault,” I sniffle, wrapping my hand around his wrist and holding it so he doesn’t pull it away from my face.
“I’ll make it up to you.” He winks and I drop his hand and he turns back to my parents. “Your offer was generous, Mr. Kipling. You definitely know how to make people see how serious you are about baseball.”
“And if you were serious, we could’ve made something happen.”
“Landry?” I ask, looking up at him. I can’t fight the little blossom in my stomach that maybe something happened. But I don’t want to get my hopes up.
“I am serious, Mr. Kipling. Serious about things that matter.”
My father laughs, an angry vibe in his tone. “Don’t even tell me . . .”
“All I’ve ever wanted to do is play baseball,” Lincoln tells my parents. “I wanted to see my name on the back of shirts and to sign my name to pictures being held by little kids. I wanted to be the guy that hit the game-winning run in the World Series and make my dad proud of me.” He pulls me close. “I did that. All of it.”
“And you can do it all again. A number of times,” my father insists.
“I could. Yeah, you’re right. But I’ve learned there are more important things in life than contracts and batting titles.”
My heart slams in my chest and I feel tears build up in the corners of my eyes. I don’t say a word, just listen, and hope, even if I’m wrong, that he’s going to say what I think he is.
“There are seasons in life,” Lincoln continues. “I spent my entire life up to now focused on baseball. It’s been a great run. Fantastic, actually. I’ve done things and seen things most people can only dream of. But what do I have besides all that?”
“I have no idea where this is going,” my mother answers. “Or why you are here with our daughter. Or why we are even here, to be honest.”
I start to respond, but Lincoln’s squeeze stops me. Instead, he chuckles.