“Ryan,” she says the moment the door is
closed to any eavesdropping ears. “Ryan, I’m sorry. I had no idea my mom would humiliate you like that. But it’s not my fault. How was I to know that you were keeping Beth a secret?”
“I’m not,” I snap. Gwen looks like a stranger to me in this kitchen. Maybe it’s because I’m still not used to the gray walls or the granite counters or the mahogany cupboards. Or maybe it’s because I never really knew her to begin with.
She crosses her arms over her chest and her red sundress swirls with the motion. “Could HC TITLE-AUTHOR
428
have fooled me. I mean, come on, Ryan,
your parents will hate her—and for good
reason.”
“You don’t know Beth.” The irony of this
conversation is not lost on me. Lacy once said those same words to me.
Gwen loses the perfect glow about her and does a very uncharacteristic thing—she sags against the counter. “I know more than you think. I’d bet I know more than you.” She pauses and nervously fidgets with her hands.
What the hell? Gwen is never nervous.
And that’s when I notice the bare spot on her finger. Mike’s ring is gone.
“I love you. In fact, I’ve always loved you.”
Gwen stares at the gray tiled floor. “And for some stupid reason you care about her. I think you were right in the dugout—I wasn’t clear on what I needed from you. Maybe the reason we aren’t together now is because I didn’t try hard enough.”
My forehead furrows. If she had said those words six months ago…I shake my head. It wouldn’t have mattered. What I feel for Beth is a hundred times stronger than what I ever felt for Gwen. “We would never have worked.”
HC TITLE-AUTHOR
429
Gwen straightens and lifts her chin.
“You’re seeing everything all wrong. Me.
Beth. Everything. I think you’re aware that you and Beth don’t belong together and that’s the reason you never told your parents. But don’t worry, Ryan. I know what I did wrong and I don’t make the same mistakes twice.”
In one graceful movement, Gwen swoops
the cake off the counter and ushers it out the kitchen door. I inhale and let my head fall back. I don’t know what the hell just happened, but every cell in my body screams it’s bad and I’m going to hate the consequences.
MY GRANDMOTHER LEFT MY MOTHER her
pendulum clock. It hangs on the wall behind Mom. With each swing, the clock ticks. It’s nine o’clock at night. The last of the guests left an hour ago. I should be wondering why my parents called me in here, especially since they’re voluntarily in the same room. Instead, I’m wondering what Beth is thinking.
Mom sits across from me at our kitchen
table while Dad leans against the door frame leading to the formal dining room. The temperature, like always, is frigid.
“Mrs. Rowe is under the impression you’re HC TITLE-AUTHOR
430
still participating in the writing
competition,” says Dad.
I glance up at him. “I’m considering it.”
“There’s nothing to consider. You’re playing Eastwick that weekend and that game will decide rankings going into the spring season.”
Eastwick is the only team that beat us during regular season play last spring. “We’re playing Northside that Monday and they’re undefeated this year. Coach may want me to pitch that game.”
“Maybe,” says Dad. “But you’ll still be able to play a couple of innings on Monday. They’ll need you to close the game out.”
Mom takes off her pearl necklace. “I talked to Mrs. Rowe last week. She said that Ryan has a rare talent.”
“He does,” says Dad. “Baseball.”
“No,” bites out Mom. “Writing.”
Dad rubs his eyes. “Explain to your mother you’re not interested in the writing.”
“Ryan, tell your father what Mrs. Rowe told me. Tell him how much you enjoy her class.”
My shoulders curl in with the anger. I hate their constant fighting. I hate that I’ve caused them to fight more. I hate that they’re fighting HC TITLE-AUTHOR
431
over me. But what I hate more is the feeling that everyone else is controlling my choices. “I love baseball.”
Dad releases a sigh of relief.
“And I love writing. I want to go to the
competition.”
Dad swears under his breath and heads for the fridge. I turn in my chair to face him.
“You’ve never let me walk away from a
competition before and I don’t like the feeling of giving up. I’ll miss one game. And this is recreational league play. It would be different if this was spring season.”
Dad pops open a bottle of beer and takes a swig. “What happens if you win the writing competition? Are you going to give up pitching against the best team in the state for a piece of paper that says congratulations?”
“I want to know if I’m any good.”
“Jesus, Ryan. Why? What difference would
it make?”