I don’t bother pointing out how lame she sounds. She knows—there’s embarrassment in the way she’s suddenly fascinated with her curls and won’t look at me.
I’m better at awkward silence; I’ve had more practice. She doesn’t last thirty seconds before continuing, “I get that you’re doing a whole angry-loner thing, but why didn’t you join the baseball team? Jeff said you were really good.”
I can’t answer this question while standing still. Talking about baseball makes my stomach twist. It makes my palm itch for the feel of dust and leather and stitches. I start across the park to my car. “I could’ve. I could’ve walked on to the team and made the current pitcher look like a water boy.”
“You’re too good for them?”
“I am.” I grab a handful of leaves off a tree and shred them as we continue across the park. Each rip makes me want to destroy more. “But it was more about my damn ankle.”
“It didn’t heal right?”
“It’s fine. But if I hadn’t gotten hurt playing baseball, Mom would never have met Paul and I’d still be living back here. And my teammates—my friends—were already upset I was leaving and ruining what should have been our best season yet. How could I make that worse by playing against them?”
She reaches out like she might touch me. Her hand trembles in the air around my arm, but then she pulls it away and tucks it behind her back.
“Imagine how well the Cross Pointe team reacted when they found out my stats. Or when the coach tried to recruit me and I said no.”
“What’d they do to you?” Brighton’s voice is protective. Of me. My lips twist into a smile at the idea of her facing off with the players.
“It’s fine. They got over it. Their season went well. They didn’t need me. But I miss playing every damn day. I miss everything about my old life.”
“I get that you’re angry, but you never gave us a chance.”
“Did the town give me a chance? From the second I walked into school people were eyeing me like I was a science experiment … or dinner.” We’re out of the park, back on Jeff’s street. I open my hand, and the contents spill and dot the sidewalk with leaf carnage.
“We’re not used to new students! The last one before you was Maggie back in freshman year, and you—” She’s tilting her head, peering up at me from the corner of her eyes. “You’re different.”
“Yeah, I know. Hamilton kid.” I gesture toward the cracked sidewalks, the patched and potholed pavement, the crooked post that’s missing its street sign, a streetlight with a flickering bulb, a beer can and Doritos bag lying against a blocked sewer drain. Things I never would’ve noticed before Cross Pointe.
“Give it up, Jonah. It’s not about where you’re from. Nobody cares where you’re from.” She crosses her arms and picks up the pace, marching past me.
We’re walking by shrapnel that used to be Jeff’s mailbox. I kick a piece out of the way and look at his house. Most of the lights are off. It’s almost one, so some kids probably had to leave to make curfew. Or, more likely, people cleared out when they saw Digg being a tool.
We reach the car while I’m trying to piece together an explanation. I lean against the bumper and try to come up with something that will make Brighton see why I couldn’t link arms and sing “Kumbaya” with her and the rest of CPHS.
Her voice is quiet when she says, “You didn’t even try to fit in. You alienate anyone who talks to you.” She puts a hand on my arm—her fingers are so cold. I want to cup them in mine and warm them up. I want to cling to them.
“My whole life was here.”
And now it’s gone. My family. My dad. My house. Carly. My team. It’s gone. And most of my friends will scatter to colleges soon. There isn’t anything tying me to this town anymore. I lace my fingers behind my neck and drop my chin.
When I look up, she’s still standing next to me. Touching my skin with impossibly soft fingers.
“You don’t have to love Cross Pointe, but can’t you think of anything good about it?”
She’s staring at me with a look so earnest it aches to maintain eye contact. My chest is heaving like I’ve just finished sprinting, and my insides feel like they’ve been scoured with sand. Honesty shouldn’t be this painful. I swallow.
I watch her blink and suck on her bottom lip—I want to suck on her bottom lip. I wish she was closer. Against me. Or farther away. Home in her room. No longer a temptation.
“Never mind,” she mutters, retracting her hand and retracing her steps. Climbing inside my car and yanking the door shut behind her.
It’s not until she’s out of earshot that I have the courage to be truthful. I mouth my answer to the space she’d just occupied: You.
I spend another thirty seconds standing there—rolling my neck in a circle like I used to do before winding up, trying to push the tension out of my muscles and find that calm and centered mental place I lived in on the pitching mound.
We’re both tired. It’s been a long night. The last thing either of us needs is a confession or more talk about emotions. I’ll just—