Through to You (15 page)

“Okay, fine, let's talk.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

We're still standing close, and I can feel his body heat through the thin T-shirt I'm wearing. I take a step back.

“Go ahead, talk,” he says.

“Tell me about Jackson.”

“That asshole? There's nothing to—”

“Penn.”

He sighs. “Fine. Then can we at least go somewhere else?”

“Like where?”

He shrugs. “I don't know. You pick.”

“My house.” I didn't know I wanted him to come over until I'm saying the words. But it makes sense. I want him on my
turf. Everything about our relationship has been on his terms up until this point, and now I want some of the power.

“Your house?”

“Why not?”

“I don't know, because . . .”

“My house,” I say. “Take it or leave it.”

He hesitates, and for one horrible moment I think he's going to say no. Then finally his face softens. “Take it.”

* * *

By the time we get to my house, I have five text messages from Anna, all of them asking me about what happened at the Sailing Burrito. Which is crazy, because Anna wasn't even
at
the Sailing Burrito.

Which means she must have found out about the Penn-Jackson incident from someone texting her or Facebooking about it. I try telling her that we'll talk about it later, but she's insistent. She keeps texting, and when I don't reply, she starts calling. I send all her calls to voicemail—I can't deal with her right now. I know she wants gossip, and she's also probably worried about me, but for now she's going to have to settle for just knowing that I'm okay. She's not going to die if she has to wait an hour to talk to me.

When we pull up in front of my house, the light is on in my mom's room. On the way here I called and asked if Penn could come over. My mom said he could but that I'm not allowed to have him in my room. Still, my mom is upstairs, apparently willing to give us our space.

“Is your mom going to give me the third degree again?”
Penn asks as we walk up the sidewalk and I open the front door.

I shake my head. “No,” I say. “But I probably will.”

He follows me into the kitchen, and I have to admit, it's a little bit strange. I thought that having Penn here, where I'm comfortable, would make me feel . . . I don't know, more secure or something. But instead it just feels awkward.

Plus I just realized that if Penn wants to leave, he can simply walk out. At least if we were out somewhere, he'd have to take me home first. I know I shouldn't care about that. If he's the kind of guy who's going to have mood swings so severe that he would walk out of my house never to be heard from again, then I should just write him off.

But I can't. I hate the fact that even though he's here, standing in my kitchen with me, everything seems so fragile. I'm always afraid I'm never going to see him again, or I'm going to say something that's going to scare him away.

“Do you want something to drink?” I ask. The house is quiet. The fact that my mom didn't come downstairs to say hello as soon as we got here makes me certain she's not going to.

He shrugs. “I guess.”

I open the refrigerator. “Um, we have soda, water, orange juice . . .”

He moves behind me, then stoops down and looks over my shoulder. “You got any chocolate milk?”

“Chocolate milk?”

“Yeah. You know, milk mixed with chocolate?”

“What are you, ten?”

He looks at me and sighs. “Chocolate milk is an excellent drink. It's good for muscle recovery, and it also tastes delicious.”

“Well, I don't have any. You'll have to settle for something else.”

He nods, accepting it. “Orange juice.”

I pull the carton out and pour two glasses, then hand him one. He takes a sip, and so do I. Then we just sort of stand there, looking at each other. This is probably the part where I'm supposed to ask him if he wants to watch a movie or something, but I'm afraid if we get wrapped up in doing something else, we're not going to get to talk. And that was the whole point of coming here.

“So, what do you want to do?” he asks. The heaviness that was surrounding him earlier is gone, and now he's grinning at me. “Wanna watch a movie or something?”

“No.” I shake my head firmly. “We were going to talk, remember?”

“We can talk while we watch a movie.” He takes another step toward me, but I take a step back. If he kisses me again, I'm not sure I'm going to have the strength to stop him. And who knows what's going to happen then? It's not like he could just ravish my body or anything—we can't go into my room, and besides, my mom is right upstairs. But still. There's a perfectly good couch in the living room. A flash of us on that couch making out enters my mind, and I push it out and take another step away from him.

“Come on,” I say. “Let's go outside.”

I take him out back to our deck, then sit down across from him near the fire pit.

“Can we have a fire?” he asks.

I nod, then reach under and turn on the propane. I pick up the lighter that's sitting on the side of the pit and light the fire. The flames burn and dance, turning different shades of red, yellow, orange, and blue. I curl my legs up under me and sip my juice. “So,” I say. “Let's talk.”

“Okay.” He shrugs, like talking isn't a big deal, like he hasn't been completely shut down since I met him.

“Okay.” I take a deep breath. “So why'd you get so mad at Jackson tonight?”

“Because Jackson's an asshole.”

“A little more, please?”

He sighs and then leans over and looks into the fire. “Jackson is . . . he's from a part of my life that I don't really want to revisit.”

“What part?”

“You know, the part from before.”

“Before you hurt your shoulder?”

I see the pain flash through his eyes for a moment, bright and searing, and then it's gone, pushed back to wherever he keeps it hidden. “Yeah.”

“But why?”

“Why is he from that part of my life?”

“No, why does there have to be a before and after?”

“I don't know.” He shrugs. “There just does. And Jackson's from before. So now I need to start making new memories.” He gives me that sexy little grin of his and then scoots his chair over so it's right up against mine. He pulls my legs up and drapes them over his lap.

I lean back and look at him. “You're really frustrating, you know that?”

“How so?”

“You won't tell me anything!”

“I just told you what you wanted to know.” He slides one of my flip-flops off, and it clatters onto the deck. Then he starts rubbing my ankle. His touch sends sparks all up and down my body.

“No, you didn't. You talked around it.”

He sighs and doesn't say anything for a second. He looks back at the fire, and the colors of the flame swirl in his dark eyes. His hand is still rubbing my skin. “It's complicated,” he says. “Baseball is . . . Baseball
was
my life. It defined me. So when I couldn't play anymore, all of that stuff had to go away.”

“Including Jackson.”

“Including Jackson.”

“Why?”

“Because being around him was too hard, I guess.” He shakes his head, seemingly confused. “Wow, I've never said that out loud before.”

“Not even to him?” I'm shocked. I can't imagine just getting rid of Anna and not at least giving her some kind of
explanation. I always thought Jackson was just being a dick, but if my best friend blew me off with no explanation, I'd probably be pretty pissed too.

“Nope.”

“Wow.” I shake my head. “No wonder you guys almost got into a fight tonight.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you just stopped talking to him. He's obviously angry. And holding it in must be extremely frustrating for you. All those feelings are just sitting inside you, building up with nowhere to go.”

“I don't have anything building up inside me,” he says.

He doesn't sound defensive, though. Instead he sounds kind of sad. I sit up in my chair and move closer to him so that our knees are touching. He reaches out and takes my hand, his thumb moving in little circles against my palm.

“Penn,” I say. “I'm . . .” I want to say that I'm really sorry, but I don't think that's going to go over so well. I don't think he wants anyone to feel sorry for him. And the thing is, I
don't
really feel sorry for him. I just feel sad that he feels he needs to keep everything inside.

“You don't have to say you're sorry,” he says. “It's a shitty situation, but it's not your fault.”

“What happened?” I ask softly. “You know, to your shoulder?”

This time, he turns and looks at me when he talks. “I tore it,” he says. “It's . . . it's kind of shredded.”

“And there's nothing you can do? No surgery or anything? No other doctor you can try?”

He opens his mouth to say something, but then changes his mind. He shakes his head. The pain in his eyes is so overwhelming that in that moment all I want to do is take it away. So I move toward him, my finger reaching out and tracing the hard line of his jaw. There's a little bit of stubble on his cheeks, but other than that his skin is smooth and soft. His lips are so tempting that it's only a second before I can't take it anymore. I lean over and kiss him softly.

He shifts himself over, so that we're both on the same chair, and we fall back onto the chaise, our legs tangling as our kiss deepens. His hands move down my sides, and I feel dizzy and light-headed, almost like I'm about to lose control of my own body. He tastes like peppermint and orange juice, and it's a heady combination, one that's making me realize what people are talking about when they say they're losing themselves in someone.

I'm losing myself in Penn.

We kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss, and this time I don't try to resist it.

I didn't tell her.

About Dr. Marzetti.

Harper asked me, point-blank, if there was any chance my shoulder could be fixed, if there was any chance I could get a surgery, or a new doctor, or
something
. The sad thing is, she's the only one who's ever asked me that.

Even my dad, the day the doctor at Mass General looked at my X-rays and said there was no way I was going to ever play again, never asked if we should get a second opinion. Instead he disappeared for eight days. When he came back, we didn't bring it up, unless it was him taking little jabs at me about how I had lost my chance at a scholarship, or to let me know that he thought it was ridiculous for me to be spending time at the batting cages.

But I didn't tell Harper about Dr. Marzetti. I was going to, I was about to, I was saying things out loud that I'd never said out loud to anyone, things I hadn't even really admitted to myself, but I couldn't tell her about Dr. Marzetti.

First, it's such a long shot that it's not really worth talking about. I don't even have an appointment with her, and it doesn't look like I'm ever going to be able to get one. Second, if I did tell Harper, she would definitely start asking me about it. And I'm not sure I can take that. I don't want to have to worry about her bothering me about what's going on, or if I've heard anything, or what the chances are that I'm going to get an appointment. Most of the time I just want to forget about baseball. And if I give Harper an invitation to ask me about my shoulder, she can bring it up anytime she wants, forcing me to have to deal with it.

And that's something I definitely do not want.

For a second I was afraid she was going to push it, but she didn't.

Instead she kissed me.

And I kissed her back, and it was the best kiss I ever had in my life. It was weird—the kiss was great, but it's what was behind it that made it amazing. There was emotion. We kissed for what seemed like forever. With any other girl I'd have pushed for more. I would have wanted more. But with Harper, just kissing was enough.

I had to leave at midnight when her mom called out the window and told us it was probably time for me to go, since it
was a school night. Luckily she didn't come downstairs, since we were pretty disheveled at that point.

When I left Harper's house, it was hard to tear myself away. I wanted to stay with her, wanted to hold her close and never let her out of my sight. She walked me to the door, and I kissed her goodbye. Her lips were swollen and bee-stung from everything we'd done, and her hair was all tangled in this sexy way that was driving me crazy.

When I got into my car and started driving home, I immediately missed her.

With Harper everything was different.

So different.

Everything just felt completely
right.

Being at her house.

Her mom calling downstairs and telling us it was midnight and that I had to go home. All of it was so normal, it just felt . . . I don't know, natural.

When I get back to my house, no one else is awake. I climb into bed, and for a while I can't fall asleep. All I can think about is her—the way she tastes, the way she feels, the emotions she stirs up inside me. But when I finally do fall asleep, my sleep is sound and restful.

When I wake up the next morning, the house is quiet. I'm not sure where everyone is, and I don't care. All I can think about is getting to school and seeing Harper. I think about sending her a text and seeing if she needs a ride, but then I have this moment of uncertainty. What if Harper isn't as into
what happened last night as I am? What if she thinks I'm crazy for what I did at the Sailing Burrito, and so she decided that, make-out session or not, it's best to stay away from me?

The thought is kind of shocking. I've never had to worry about a girl not being into me. It just doesn't happen. And if it did, I wouldn't even ever know about it, because by the time they'd start to have doubts, I'd be on to the next girl.