Whatever Life Throws at You (16 page)

Annie Lucas:
If you weren’t just watching that freakin’ amazing baseball game, I’ve officially disowned you. OK, I’ll give you a chance to explain yourself, but there better be an awesome story involving three-headed people or Hollister models.

20 seconds ago

Savannah walks across the office and shuts off the TV when the station goes back to the news desk and ends the post-game interviews. “See what I mean?” she says. “He’s insanely charming and youthful on TV. We need that same feel for his social media outlets online.”

I shake off my Jason Brody love haze and turn to face her. “Wait, you mean like his Facebook page? The one with all the song lyrics and famous baseball quotes?”

“Yes, exactly,” Savannah says like I’m supposed to understand what she means. “I think fans want to know where he’s having dinner or coffee or what clubs he’s hanging out at. What he thinks before a game and what’s he feeling walking into Wrigley Field or Yankee Stadium where players older than his great-grandfather made baseball history. The music references are great, but we need to know what he likes about that band or group. What’s he watching on TV? This is how people get to know celebrities nowadays.” She shakes her head and laughs. “Why am I even explaining this to you, you probably understand current social media better than I do. Everyone knows if you have a question about the internet, ask a teenager, right?”

“Maybe if you just gave him some pointers?” I suggest.

“I have,” Savannah says. “A few times actually, and he tells me it sounds like a great idea and then nothing changes. Maybe he’s just been too busy to keep up with it all. Lots of travel.”

I shove the mail and baseballs aside and plop down on the floor again. I understand what she’s trying to say perfectly, and I might know why he hasn’t made any changes. It’s not really my place to tell Savannah, but I trust her. “I think I know what the problem is…” Her eyebrows rise, waiting for me to continue. “He’s probably copying and pasting quotes and lyrics…”

“Probably.”

“He’s dyslexic,” I say. “He can read and everything, I’ve heard him read before. But the process of putting words from his head into a tweet or Facebook might be more difficult.”

Savannah is already scrunching up her forehead, thinking it through. “But he’ll text you, right? And he read something out loud to you?”

“It was just like two sentences.” I’m quickly growing uncomfortable discussing this without him around. It feels like a betrayal. “And yeah he texts me, but I bet the real issue is the public aspect and representing the team… It seems very official and probably intimidating.”

She nods. “Right. Totally get that. Since he’s already talked about his learning disability with you, why don’t we just keep it between the two of you? Mention my concerns and then suggest a plan. He can grant you access to the page, and he’ll text you things to post and you can handle that for him.”

I lean back against the wall and exhale. “That sounds like a perfect solution.”

She grins at me. “It’s not anything new. The really big players all have interns and publicists handling their online communication, and no one ever knows it’s not really them.”

“But it will be Brody, right? I’m just the messenger?”

“Correct.” She turns the ringer back on the phone, and it goes off right away. “I better take care of these calls, but thanks, Annie. You’ve mastered my philosophy for publicity and that is that you do a much better job when you take the time to get to know your clients.”

Right. That’s exactly why I got to know Jason Brody so well. I’ll run with that lie.

A few hours after the game, while Lenny and I are painting the living room at our Habitat building site, Brody sends me the first text either of us have sent to each other in weeks.

BRODY: What r u doing in 4 hrs?

ME: Why?

BRODY: Ur pop and I might need a ride hme from airprt

ME: your car is there right?

BRODY: hve good news. 2 things. Finished lessons and took my practice test. got 87%

ME: That’s awesome! What’s the other thing?

BRODY: I can drik mre scotch than your dad. Didn’t think they were gonna let him on the plane

ME: You guys are drunk? That’s why you need a ride?

BRODY: Yep. Did u see the game?

ME: Yes. Watched with Savannah. It was amazing. Glad you got to celebrate.

BRODY: wish you were here…

My heart takes off in a sprint. He just played the game of his life, got drunk with my dad in celebration, and instead of finding some bimbos to bang he’s thinking about me? That he’d be happier if I were there, too?

God, what is wrong with me? I have to stop doing this. I have to stop taking these tiny windows that he leaves open and jumping through them into fantasy land.

“I was really hoping for six hours with the nail gun.” Lenny bends down and dips her roller into the tray of light gray paint. “You didn’t even bring chocolate today.”

I’m still staring at the last text, my own roller hanging loose at my side, getting paint all over my jean shorts. “I told you I was in Savannah’s office all day working and watching the game.”

Lenny lifts her head and stops when she sees me engrossed in my phone. “What’s going on?”

I stuff it back into my pocket and press the roller to my wall again. “Nothing really…it’s just…well…”

“What?”

“Brody’s last text,” I say. “He said ‘
wish you were here
.’ I’m trying not to read too much into that but—”

“Wish you were here,” she repeats and then says it again using a slower more drawn-out tone. “Hmm… It could be completely innocent. But then again, he knows how you feel, and I think he’d be very hesitant to type something that could be misinterpreted as romantic with you.”

“He and my dad are both drunk, so maybe he’s not thinking clearly.” But this tiny part of my brain is thinking about his teammates freezing him out, walking off whenever Brody approached them. And the fact that he has no contact with his family, and he’s already with Dad. Who would he text tonight besides me? Who am I kidding? He’s got an army of Jason Brody fangirls probably programmed in his phone already.

“In my experience, people are more honest while intoxicated,” Lenny says, leaving me to ponder that and become five times more confused.

When I pull up to the airport, it’s nearly eleven and Grams has been forced to stay up way past her bedtime. She’s in the passenger seat beside me, drinking a chocolate milk shake.

“I asked for nuts, Ginny! Where’s the nuts?”

“It’s a shake, Grams.” I scan the people standing at the curb with luggage, looking for signs of Brody or Dad. I’m driving Dad’s SUV instead of my old clunker. “Want me to get you a sundae on the way home?”

“This looks like Vegas,” she says.

Brody and Dad finally emerge, Brody’s rolling both suitcases behind him and Dad’s stumbling and looking pretty nauseous. They get loaded up into the backseat. Dad pulls his hat over his eyes and slumps down in his seat.

Grams looks over her shoulder at Brody. “Well, put your seat belt on, goddammit.”

Brody seems way more sober than Dad. He laughs and buckles his seat belt. “How are you, Grams? How’s the milk shake?”

“Terrible. They forgot the damn nuts again.” She holds it out to him across the front seat. “You want it?”

My eyes meet his in the rearview mirror. “Um…sure,” he says, taking the cup.

“Doing okay back there, Dad?”

He grunts but no actual words are spoken. Not any that I can comprehend.

Since my house is on the way, I decide it’s best to drop Dad and Grams off first before he spews all over his new car.

Brody moves into the front seat and makes small talk all the way to his apartment—my job with Savannah, the Habitat project, my workouts over the last five days. By the time we get to his apartment, I realize we haven’t talked about him at all. And today was a really big day for him.

I put the car in park and hop out to grab his luggage, even though I know he can do it himself. Once he sets the suitcase on the ground in front of the building, I lean forward and hug him around the waist.

I only meant for it to be a quick hug, but long enough for me to take notice of the fact that my head fits perfectly under his chin. “You were so good today. Not that you’re not good every game, but today was extra amazing.” I start to pull away, but his arms encircle me, pressing my cheek against his chest. I close my eyes and inhale, savoring every second.

And yeah, I can smell the alcohol on him. Not as much as Dad. He’s still got that freshly showered scent lingering in the background, so I try to pretend he’s completely sober.

“Thanks.” He dips his head, and his nose touches the top of my hair.

My heart is sprinting all over again because this hug has gone about five seconds past the acceptable friend length. And just before he releases me, I feel his lips in my hair, kissing the top of my head.

Is that friendly? Do friends do that? I’ve never had a friend kiss my head before, but Dad has, so maybe if it’s fatherly it’s also brotherly. Ick.

He’s probably going to head inside to his swanky, silver-applianced, black-leather-furnished bachelor pad and call one—or maybe even two—of the models or sorority girls programmed into his phone. If he wanted me, he’d invite me in.

“Good night, Annie.” The sticky summer air sweeps in between us. Brody grips the handle of his suitcase and rolls it toward the door. “Thanks for the ride.”

I climb back in the car and touch my hand to my head where he kissed it and the other hand feels my cheek where it pressed against his T-shirt. I lift my own shirt to my nose to see if it smells like him.

Oh my God, this is getting creepy and extremely unhealthy.

My hands quickly grip the steering wheel and I drive off, breathing through my mouth, not letting myself smell anything.
Weirdo, Annie. You’re a weirdo
.

No, I’m a Jason Brody groupie. That’s even worse than mentally unstable.

Chapter 17

Annie Lucas:
Old people shouldn’t be allowed to have hangovers.

9 hours ago

Dad was such a mess this morning after his drunken celebration, I made sure to stop at the grocery store and pick up some Gatorade on the way home from eight hours of Saturday home building/community service. Johnson didn’t stay completely true to his word about having cameras follow me and Lenny during all our community service hours. We’ve had three camera-free sessions. Today, unfortunately, wasn’t one of those.

My senses should have been alert the second I spotted the beat-up blue truck parked just past our mailbox, but honestly, I hadn’t thought about her for weeks. There just didn’t seem to be any reason for Dad to try and get her to come here.

But sure enough, when I walk through the front door, Mom is sitting on the couch between Dad and Grams, looking all cozy.

My stomach drops and dread fills my insides. The sack full of thirty-two ounce Gatorade bottles falls from my hand onto the tile floor in the foyer. I take slow, careful steps into the living room.

Mom and her perfect body and straight shiny blond hair bounces to her feet, a grin on her face as she rushes over to me.

“Oh, my baby!” she gushes, throwing her arms around me. “Look at you!”

I just stand there frozen, my arms hanging at my sides while she squeezes the life out of me. From over her shoulder, Dad’s eyes meet mine—guilty and hopeful.

No, this isn’t happening. It can’t happen
. He can’t get sucked into her Mom spell and screw everything up. She’ll leave, and he’ll turn into zombie Dad again for an entire month. A month that the Royals will have to play fifteen or twenty games.

Mom pulls back and cups my face in her hands. “Where’s that handsome boyfriend of yours? Back in Arizona crying over his broken heart?”

No, that would be Dad when you leave in a few days
.

I’m too upset to filter. “What are you doing here?”

Her face tightens, and she pats my cheek before sitting down closer to Dad again. “I had a little audition today. Got a part in a show here in Kansas City. It runs for three months. Isn’t that great news, honey? I’ll be sticking around.”

Yeah, I’m sure it’s the show that brought you here, not Dad’s major league job.

I’m already backing up toward the door. I need to get out of here. I need to be somewhere where I can scream at the top of my lungs and then maybe after I’ll be able to think clearly. I can figure out what to do.

“Annie…” Dad says.

“I’m…I have to go,” I say. “With Lenny. Community service.”

“Let’s talk first, okay?” He knows I just got back from community service. He knows I’m lying.

I shake my head, anger seeping out without permission. “You promised, Dad. You promised this wouldn’t happen.”

He tries to reply, but I don’t give him or Mom a chance. I bolt out the front door and jump into my car. I drive past Lenny’s house and debate knocking on the door, but I’m pretty sure she’s getting ready for a date tonight and I don’t want to deal with First Base or his Botox-addicted wife. Not to mention the fact that I’ve never told Lenny about my mom. I’ve only told one person in Kansas City. One person period.

And then I’m breaking my own rules, sending Brody a text. Making the first move.

ME: Are you home?

The second I knock on the door, I’m already regretting this move. It’s too much. Too personal. And my regret thickens when Lenny’s words come back to me, “His personal life, his personal space, is beyond anything you could ever grasp or even want to be involved with.”

My body is half turned around, ready to bolt, when the door opens. I slowly turn back around, and Brody’s standing in front of me—shirtless and messy haired, wearing only a pair of gym shorts. He’s positioned himself in the doorway, concealing any space and any glimpse inside I may have gotten otherwise.

His forehead wrinkles with concern. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m not sure.” I let out a heavy breath. Okay, I am sure. Mom is what’s wrong. “I just need somewhere to hide from my life for a little while.”

“You wanna go out somewhere?” he says and then seems to grasp the meaning of his words ’cause he shakes his head.
It’s night and the weekend. Downtown is hopping with clubs and parties
…“Right. Bad idea. Sorry.”

“Maybe I could…?” I don’t finish the sentence, but instead nod toward the unexposed crack in the doorway.

Nerves flicker across Brody’s features. “Uh, yeah…I mean, I haven’t really…I don’t usually like…have people over.” Without any further explanation, he opens the door all the way, allowing me to walk inside. The living room is dark, the blinds and curtains shut tight like maybe he’d been napping.

“Were you sleeping? ’Cause I can totally go somewhere else. I just thought—”

“It’s fine.”

But it doesn’t sound fine. Have I interrupted something?
Jesus, I should have never come here. What the hell was I thinking?
He finds a light switch on the wall beside the door and turns it on, revealing the depths of what I’d anticipated would be a swanky, womanizing man cave.

All that sits in the living room is a metal futon with a worn-out black cushion, and several red milk crates flipped upside down and pressed together with a piece of plywood on top creating a makeshift coffee table. I turn in a half circle, spotting a card table and two chairs in the dining room. The kitchen looks pretty bare—a cheap white microwave is the only item on the countertops. Nothing is silver and shiny. No stereos with remote controls. No mood lighting. Not even a single floor lamp anywhere.

There’s no way he brings models or actresses back here. Maybe he checks into hotels with his dates and orders expensive room service, like champagne and strawberries.

“Sorry,” Brody says after watching me assess the contents of his home. He scratches the back of his head like he’s embarrassed. “I haven’t entertained guests or, like, had anyone over at all.”

“It’s nice. I like it.”

He smiles, seeing through my bullshit answer, then he’s all concerned again. “What’s going on, Annie?”

I stare at the microwave. “It’s just…I mean—”

My voice is cut off by the tears spilling down my cheeks. I hadn’t even felt them coming on or I would have put a stop to it. I wipe my face quickly with both hands.

“What’s going on?” Brody repeats.

“My mom’s here,” I say before he starts getting ideas about this being a heartbroken love crisis. “And she’s staying for a while. Too long. My dad promised he wouldn’t tell her where we are now. I don’t know what to do—”

Suddenly, I’m pulled into Brody’s arms, my cheek resting against his bare skin. One of his hands moves over my hair and the other arm wraps tight around me.

After a minute or two, I’ve gotten the tears completely shut off, and I extricate myself from his arms. He sits on the edge of the homemade coffee table, waiting patiently for me to vent or whatever.

My face is hot with embarrassment. This isn’t like last night where he initiated the ride home and even though I hugged him first, he’s the one that made it longer than friend-code allows. Today, I brought myself here for no other reason than the fact that I needed him and there’s no way to conceal that.

On top of that, I’ve clearly made him uncomfortable by entering his empty apartment. “I’m sorry. I should leave.”

I turn around and head for the door, but Brody steps in front of me, resting his hands on my shoulders. “Not so fast…” He leans down, his eyes meeting mine, searching for sanity or something. “What’s going through that head of yours?”

My cheeks and neck flame up even hotter. “I just didn’t think before I drove over here.”

He turns me around by my shoulders and nudges me toward the couch/futon. “Come sit down. You’re not leaving yet. I’ve made the decision for you.”

I let him guide me over to the couch and take a seat at the very end, turning myself to face him and leaning my back against the metal armrest. “This is annoying, isn’t it? Your only day off in, like, two weeks, and you’ve just had the game of your life, and as a consolation prize you get a whiny high school girl showing up to interrupt your nap.”

“You’re not annoying,” he says right away. “And it was time for me to wake up anyway.”

I examine my nails. “So what’s the word? Johnson’s not actually going to send you back to Triple-A after playing so well in Minnesota, right?”

He tries to hide his excitement, but I can clearly see it dancing in his eyes. “I’m getting a new contract next week. My agent’s negotiating right now.”

I smile at him, finally abandoning my nail inspection. “That’s great. You deserve to be here.”

He studies me carefully. “Why do you still look afraid that I might be hiding dead bodies in my closet or something?”

“Maybe it’s your talent for getting four different girls alone in your hotel room during a three game series.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.

Brody leans back. “It’s not as exciting as it sounds in the articles.”

“Why?” I ask, honestly curious. “Do all the girls have fake boobs and C-section scars?”

He laughs really hard. “I have no idea.”

“What? Like you’re too into hooking up that you don’t pay attention?” I can’t get rid of the annoyance in my voice. He hasn’t betrayed me, Dad has. Brody owes me nothing. And he’s trying to be nice right now. It’s not his fault that I have feelings for him.

“You heard what Savannah said awhile back, about expectations for single players under twenty-five?” His forehead wrinkles like he’s debating something. “All of that stuff is just for publicity… I guess I thought maybe you knew that already or at least knew it to some extent. Nobody plays as many games as baseball players do and then has time to go on all those dates for real. I’d be dead on my feet. Almost all of my so-called dates are literally five minutes long with a photographer tipped off in advance. Like that night at the club…and the premiere of that movie I never watched.”

So that’s why Savannah had said she already knew why Brody and the photographers were there.

“So the articles are fake, too? You haven’t really had four girls in your hotel room in three days?”

He scratches his head again. “Well, technically that part is true, but not like
that
. You know?”

My whole illusion of Brody’s social life is shattering, and I have no idea what to think. “Then what do you do with them while they’re in your room?”

He shrugs. “Sign autographs, offer them a drink. Then I make an excuse about needing to get ready to go somewhere, and they leave.”

I stare at him in disbelief. “That’s it?”

“Pretty much.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “I find that hard to believe. You have so many opportunities to hook up, unlike me, who knows about two guys around here even remotely close to my age. Anyone in your situation would need a big reason to say no to every single girl.”

“A big reason? Like STDs? Being drugged and having naked photos of me taken and posted everywhere,” he recites. “And then there’s undercover reporters who write detailed accounts of your…um, skills.”

I crack a smile despite my mood. “No way! Who does that?”

He smiles. “I’m not kidding. Savannah gave me this list with detailed accounts of these things happening to other players and the protocol for each one, how the media will handle it and ways to cover it up. Scared the shit out of me. I don’t get close in that way to anyone anymore. It’s just not worth it.”

“But Lenny told me her dad sleeps with—”

“He does,” Brody says. “But it’s not groupies or random girls in bars. He limits himself to other people’s wives, doctors who have worked on him, maybe a dental hygienist or two.”

“Gross.” I shake my head in disgust. “Why can’t Dad be like that every once in a while? Hook up with some other woman so he can forget about my mom?”

“I don’t think it works like that,” he says. “If you love someone, even the best one-night stand isn’t going to erase that.”

“Guess I’m too much of a kid to understand something so complex.”

Brody shakes his head and scoots closer to me. “You are not a kid, Annie. I don’t think of you that way. I’ve told you that before.”

Yeah, he told me that in the car after laughing at my tight dress and red lipstick.

Tears spring to my eyes again, but this time I keep them from falling. “Yeah, that’s a great memory.”

He lets out a frustrated groan and leans his head back against the couch. His hands lift to cover his face. “This is impossible.”

Okay, this was a terrible idea.

“I’m sorry. I should go,” I repeat again and stand up and brush past him. One hand drops from his face and hooks around my waist, pulling me back down on the couch, so I’m practically seated on his lap. My heart takes off and my voice hitches in my throat.

He holds me tightly in place and leans in closer. “Just so you know, if I had the crisis you’re having today, you’re the first person I’d want to see. You’re the only person I’d want to talk to.”

Our eyes meet and my heart beats like a wild animal locked in a tiny cage. My lips part, but no words fall out. Brody’s fingers move through my hair and my skin heats up, my thoughts jumbling and losing their grasp on reality.

“I’m sorry for not doing this sooner, and I’m sorry for doing it all,” he says.

My eyes widen as he closes the gap between us, his lips hovering a millimeter from mine. His bare chest presses against me, and I feel the
thud, thud, thud
of his heart when his mouth touches mine.