Rounding Third (25 page)

“Can I please talk to your mom?”

“No.”

“Can I talk to you?”

“No.”

All right then. I lean against the doorway to wait for Mrs. Bishop to leave.

Xavier stares at me, picks up a pumpkin, and throws it in the bin.

After a few minutes, he can’t hold it in anymore. “She won’t talk to you.”

“I’ll wait.”

He grunts, and I pull out my phone to see what time it is. Two hours to game time.

“Why won’t you stop hurting her?”

“I want to apologize again.”

“She’s gotten your letters—your forced letters that your parents probably had you write. Meaningless pieces of crap.”

I’d fall down to my knees in a plea, begging for forgiveness, if I thought he wouldn’t knock my teeth out with his size thirteen. Whether Mrs. Bishop forgives me or not doesn’t make the heartache I bear lessen. Kedsey and Noah are forever burned in my memory.

Xavier leaves me alone and escapes back inside, locking the door behind him.

I pull my phone out again. An hour until game time. Fuck.

Main Street is slowly becoming vacant of people. A few passed by and gave me a second look, but no one spoke either a hello or gave me a scowl.

This town isn’t too scary. At least that’s what I’m thinking until Sheriff Greg rolls up in his squad car.

He saunters out of his squad car, repositioning his belt that hangs below his round belly. Without his hat, I spot some gray hairs sprinkled throughout his dark strands. His door shuts, and I stand at attention before he steps up onto the curb.

“Sheriff.”

“Crosby.” No surprise in his tone. He expected me.

“I think you have a game to get to.” Like a classic small-town cop in the movies, he rests his thumbs in his belt and rocks back on his feet.

“I was hoping to talk with Mrs. Bishop.”

His stance doesn’t change, but he shakes his head. “She called and wants me to arrest you for loitering. You’d better get out of here before you miss your game.”

This woman refuses to hear me out. I wrote her twenty letters throughout the years, begging her to forgive me. Pleading my sorrow and pouring out apology after apology. Nothing. She never wrote back once, but my letters were never returned either.

“I only wanted five minutes.”

Sheriff cocks one side of his lips up, as if saying,
Good luck. That’s never going to happen
.

“Crosby, don’t be late.” He holds his arm out to his side, pointing down the street.

I huff.

He drops his arm. “She needs time.”

“I’ve given her two years.”

“I guess that’s not enough.” He digs his thumbs harder into his belt, resulting in it hanging down further.

I say nothing, taking off my baseball cap and placing it back on.

“Listen, she’s always been a stubborn one. I grew up with her, and no one can ever meet her expectations. She will never listen to you, so go and live your life.”

I wait, mere inches away from the first responder on the scene. The one who saw me screaming. The one who saw me crying.

I nod and walk over to my truck.

“Lynch!” he calls out when my hand is on the handle of my truck.

I glance back, and there’s a small crease of a smile on his lips.

“Good luck tonight.”

I turn back to grant him all of my attention. “Thank you, sir.”

M
y foot won’t stop tapping
, and that week’s worth of nail I grew is now on the ground below me. The team bus pulls up, and my throat dries.

There were no police cruisers waiting for Crosby at the edge of town, and there aren’t any picketers in front of the stadium, but the tension is enough to make me uneasy. It’s as though, in a moment’s time, this charity game could switch course, and our small town of Beltline would be national news.

The players exit the bus, each one looking right and left and then forward. A few nods and soft hellos are said to me.

Then, Braxton steps off the bus with a look of fear in his eyes. Before he lines to grab his bag from the storage locker under the bus, he rushes over. “Did he come with you?”

My heart falls to the pit of my stomach. “No.”

“Shit.” Braxton takes off his baseball cap and hits it against his knee.

“I thought he was coming with the team?” My entire body shakes. “Do you think—”

“No. There’s no way.” Braxton’s words sound great, but his eyes don’t match his conveyance of assurance.

“Brentwood, let’s go!” Coach Lipton stands next to Brax’s bag on the curb.

The bus pulls away.

Brax looks back and forth between the two and shrugs. “I’m sure he’ll be here.”

I hope he can convince himself more than he’s convincing me.

“Miss Keaton.” Coach Lipton nods his head to me and escapes through the doors to the locker room.

My eyes scour the street, imagining Crosby sauntering up with his bat bag swung over his shoulder and his hat lowered over his eyes, but only teenagers who are working the game are laughing on their way to the concession stand.

“Come on, Crosby. You can do this,” I whisper to myself.

M
y truck is parked
at the bottom of the hill. The cherry blossom trees bear their beauty that gave the cemetery its name. I toss the baseball in my hand to distract myself while I approach his headstone. Otherwise, I fear I’ll lose my nerve to visit him for the first time.

Unfortunately, his stone is tucked under the largest tree, meaning it’s a longer walk for me to contemplate my decision to face this head-on. A few steps longer, and his name is right in front of me.

Noah Bradley Ford

Son, Friend, Ballplayer

March 22, 1996—June 24, 2014

The date of death buries me with a curtain of grief. My eyes divert, only to top on another hefty layer.

Lt. Keith Joseph Ford

Husband, Father, Friend

February 25, 1969—April 12, 1998

I
never knew the man
, but his legacy never left Beltline. The man saved a family of eight from a house fire and ran back to save the dog when the house collapsed.

When Noah was younger, he’d brag about his dad and the lifesaving firefighter skills he possessed. As the years grew on, I’d see Noah’s longing and hurt from not having a father to play catch with or practice ball. It’s not like my dad was very involved either. Thanks go to Mr. Keaton for taking us both on as foster sons. He’s the one who taught me about playing ball and who set up the back of his land by the run-down barn for Noah and I to practice. I guess that’s why when he agreed that Ella and I should separate for the sake of ourselves, I purposely shredded my heart into pieces. I owed him.

I squat down in front of Noah’s headstone, the baseball bobbling between my hands.

“I’m back, but I guess you already know that.”

My throat chokes up, and I push the tears away.

“God, I miss you. I’m not going to rehash what you already know from looking down at us. I envision you and Kedsey sometimes in the stands, and I’d appreciate if you guys were there with me today because I need the strength of Paul Konerko, A.J. Pierzynski, and Joe Crede.” I name the first baseman, catcher, and third baseman from the 2005 World Series Champs, the Chicago White Sox. Names we’d call one another during that summer.

I place the baseball in the flower plant between the two graves.

“Thanks for being the kind of best friend people wish for.” I take my two fingers, kiss them, and place them on the headstone. “Don’t worry about your mom. I’ll make sure she’s safe.”

My footsteps are heavy, as though I’m wearing cement shoes, on my trek back down the hill.

Will I ever be able to visit this grave and not feel as though I’m abandoning him? Will the knot in my stomach disappear when memories flood my head? Will the happy times ever win out against the nightmares?

As the questions rack my brain, the weight of the charity game sits in my stomach, like a boulder on the edge of a mountain. Me showing up could be the boulder that falls and blocks the road. Doubt rises to the surface with the grief, as I think that everything I’m doing is selfish and undeserving.

When I climb into my truck, I pluck my phone out of the cup holder, finding a text that reminds me of who I am.

“
S
top
.” Ariel’s hand lands on my bouncing leg. “He’ll come.”

Brax has peered up to me no less than ten times since the team rushed out for practice. I have no answers for him. Crosby’s phone went right to voice mail, a full voice mail box. My texts have gone unanswered.

Mayor Beachman walks toward the mound, and Brax’s fear-filled eyes look my way again before he lines up by the dugout.

“He’ll be here,” Spencer says next to me.

I nod, not entirely convinced. Crosby’s cockiness was slipping this week, fading into the spiral I saw years ago. The one where he shut everyone out.

He didn’t let me know he was coming down here by himself. Xavier could murder him as payback for Kedsey. Sheriff Greg could have arrested him for something stupid.

“Your mind is going crazy. Stop,” Jen says next to me.

I look over to her. She knows me.

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. He’ll be here. He just got delayed somewhere.” She smiles.

I take her words more seriously than Spencer’s. Maybe it’s because she’s usually as pessimistic as I am.

“I see your mind swirling.” She taps my head.

I lean my head on her shoulder, and she wraps her arm around me.

“Thank you.”

“For what? Telling you that you’re a loon? Anytime.” She rolls her eyes, but we both know what I’m thanking her for.

I’ve never fully let her in, but that is going to change. I’ll always love Kedsey, but I will use our friendship to transpire more. Jen and I both need someone we can depend on.

The mayor stands at the microphone, and my mom taps my shoulder and leans in.

“Ella?” she questions.

But my dad pulls her back before I answer.

“He’ll be here,” he whispers.

I want to believe all of them, but the longer the time goes by, the more I’m skeptical, which I chastise myself for because Crosby promised me that he’d never leave me.

“Good evening, everyone,” the mayor begins his speech.

I glance at my phone. Crosby has fifteen minutes, tops.

The Weathers come out to the pitching mound, and everyone stands and claps. The speeches are finished, and the young high school student picked to sing the national anthem takes the microphone.

Crosby emerges from the dugout.

My stiff body relaxes, like I’m under a masseuse’s hands.

He jogs out to the mound, takes off his hat, and whispers something to the girl. She steps away from the microphone, and he picks it up.

“Oh my God,” Ariel says next to me.

Spencer grabs her hand. The strength of their hold shows between their white knuckles.

My dad’s hand claps my shoulder, conveying it will be okay. Whatever Crosby’s decided to do in this moment will be for the better and not the worst.

“Hello.” His voice shakes.

I miss that arrogant guy who used to own this town.

The stadium quiets, leaving only the sounds of crickets from the field past the stadium. Everyone is on the edge of their seats to hear what Crosby Lynch has to say.

“Many of you know me, but for those of you who don’t, my name is Crosby Lynch. I grew up in Beltline, playing ball.”

He nods to Coach Weathers, who had his wife push him back out onto the field between home and first base.

“Coach Weathers taught me everything, and I’m honored for more than this opportunity to play for him tonight. He and all of Beltline built me into the man I am. A man I’m proud of. I lost that man briefly when I lost my best friend, Noah Ford.”

When he pauses, I move to stand up, to comfort him through this horrible time, but my dad’s hand stops me, and I slowly ease back down on the bench.

Brax leaves the dugout and stands next to Coach Weathers.

“Again, I deeply apologize for that accident, and you can bet I wish there were a way I could go back in time, but it took me a long time to come to grips with the fact that I can’t.” His eyes search for me until they lock with mine. “Too long.”

A few softened faces turn my way.

“This town lost a lot that night. A great ballplayer, a fun-spirited girl. Together, they were a couple who were what small-town fantasies are about. It also lost the safety and security it’d possessed. I hope tonight is successful in restoring that, and this town is able to move forward with the memory of Noah and Kedsey as more than tragic deaths. Thank you for listening to me.”

He hands the microphone over to the girl but then hastily pulls it back his way. “Oh, and, Ella Keaton?”

All eyes turn to me.

“Thanks for taking over Noah’s job and for convincing me that I’m worth more than I believe I am. I love you.”

I blow him a kiss. The tears cascade down my cheeks, and my mom rests a Kleenex on my shoulder.

He releases the microphone.

While the girl is composing herself, Brax meets Crosby halfway and swings his arm around Crosby’s shoulders, pulling him in to whisper something in his ear.

Mr. and Mrs. Brentwood stand up from their seats and begin to clap. Slowly, a few more pop up, and before Brax and Crosby reach Coach Weathers, the majority of the people in the stands are clapping for Crosby.

The high school student is finally able to sing the national anthem, and the crowd quiets, waiting for the game to start.

“Excuse me? Ella Keaton?” A boy no more than eleven years old leans over Jen from the aisle.

“Yes?”

All eyes move back my way.

He pulls out a box from behind his back. “Your favorite player asked me to deliver this to you.” He practically drops it in my lap and disappears up the steps.

“Thank you!” I yell.

“Speedy,” Jen remarks. She helps me hold the brown box.

I glance around, feeling my mom’s breath hitting the back of my neck. All eyes are on me in this moment. I slowly open it and peek in, hiding the contents from everyone else until I catch sight that it’s not something X-rated.

Flipping the lid completely off, I laugh. I pull the sweatshirt out of the box, and everyone around me aahs.

There’s a white note pinned to the hood’s strings.
Wear me.

I strip off my Ridgemont sweatshirt and replace it with my new Ridgemont Baseball sweatshirt, embroidered with
I Belong to Number Twenty-Two
on the back.

“He’s so sweet,” Ariel says.

My hand clasps over my heart, and I swoon along with her.

My mom’s asking me questions, and Jen’s taking pictures with my phone when someone lets out a loud whistle. Each of us stops and searches out where it came from.

Crosby’s propped up on the railing, and he’s waving me over.

I slide by Jen and run down the steps.

My lips immediately find his.

“I take it, you like?” he asks.

“You take it right.”

“I know you said you’d share, but I think you deserve your own.” He pulls out a sharable size bag of Skittles from his pocket and hands it over to me.

My arms wrap around his head, and my head dips under his hat to kiss him again.

He slows the kiss, and his lips maneuver to my ear. “Tonight, I want to see you in only the sweatshirt.”

“Done,” I whisper back. “I’ll sprinkle myself with Skittles, too.”

“Perfect.”

“Lynch, get your ass down here!” Coach Lipton screams.

We break apart.

“Miss Keaton,” Coach acknowledges me.

“Hi, Coach.” I wave my hand.

“I’d better go. Meet me at the usual spot.” Crosby briefly kisses me and jumps down from the railing.

“Always.”

Minutes later, the Beltline Stadium is quiet except the crackling of the announcer’s microphone.

“Now, first up to bat, is Beltline’s very own, Crosby Lynch,” he says and the crowd claps.

For the rest of the night, I am blessed to watch my favorite ballplayer play on his favorite field with his favorite fans—the town of Beltline.

J
oin Michelle’s
newsletter to be the first to know when Braxton Brentwood’s story, Stealing Home, will be released.