Chapter 17

Iposition the screen of my laptop toward my mom. “What do you think of this one?”

She ignores me, washing the floor on her hands and knees. She’s been cleaning all day. It started with the dining room, vacuuming and dusting, and now in the kitchen, like a middle-aged Cinderella.

“Mom?”

She glances over her shoulder. “Hm?”

“The T-shirt design. You like this one?”

“Sure.”

She doesn’t really look. I don’t know why I thought she’d have an opinion on this when she hasn’t given her two cents on anything else. She hasn’t been interested in helping like I thought she would be, so I’m stuck organizing this tournament myself. Because apparently one baseball game wouldn’t actually raise any money, it’s transitioned into a tournament and ballooned into something much bigger than I had originally planned. I called in a favor from my old friend and college roommate, Alma, who came up with a super-simple logo, and I am chugging along, even if I haven’t heard back from Mr. Alvarado on sponsorship ideas.

Google and my Fundraising for Dummies book say I need to work on securing a location and permits, but I need a bit of money for that. And for money, I need a sponsor or two. I used my long-dormant writing skills to complete a draft of a sponsorship letter but have no idea where or to whom to send it. Making a T-shirt, though, I can handle. I settle on a navy cotton T with white writing and a Springsteen lyric on the back, leaving room for the names of the sponsors. My goal is to have team sign-ups by Memorial Day for the tournament, but the end of May is quickly approaching and the slice of this pie I agreed to is a bit too big for me to eat.

Leaving my mother to her bucket and rag, I shut my computer and stalk out to the living room as I call Aunt Joanie. She picks up after a few rings.

“Hey, Cassie Cat.”

“Hi.”

“What’s up at one thirty in the afternoon on a Wednesday?”

“I’ve been working all day on this baseball tournament,” I say. I’d told her I’d agreed to do this after my first meeting with Mr. Alvarado, but it’s only now occurred to me she’s a pretty good contact. “You know anyone who might be interested in sponsoring it?”

She hums in thought for a bit. “I could pass the information along to a few people. The hospital won’t sponsor, but individual doctors or practices might. Have you tried the school?”

“Yeah, I haven’t heard back from the principal yet. I’ve emailed him twice.”

“Call. Always call. It’s better to hear a voice than read words.”

“Fine,” I grumble. The list of people I will actually call on the phone is very short. Currently, two. One, I’m talking to now, and the other is the man who I know will always pick up.

“Have you thought about prizes or food?” Auntie Joanie asks.

“Prizes?” I choke out. “Food?”

She laughs at me. “Cassie, you’re putting a sports tournament together. There’ll be winners and losers. The teams are going to pay money to sign up, so if they win, they should receive something in return…maybe the top three teams? And you’ll need to provide food for the players and anyone who buys tickets to watch. You always need peanuts, right?”

“I guess.”

“Food’ll be easy. People are always willing to donate juice boxes or soda or whatever. That’ll be a—” She cuts off, her voice fading in the background as she speaks to someone else. “Cass, I have to run. Once you have all your information together, send me a digital copy of it all. And make sure you’re making physical copies of everything too. Put it in new folders. It’s more professional-looking that way.”

I make another mental note.

“And don’t wear jeans with holes in them when you go to talk to anyone.”

“Now you sound like my mother,” I say.

Her voice changes, and I can almost picture how her smile drops on the other end. “Love you, Cassie.”

“You too.”

While it’s on my mind, I find Mr. Alvarado’s number and dial. He doesn’t answer, I’m sure because it’s the middle of a school day, and I leave a message asking him to call me back as soon as he can. Then I dig out the to-do list I’ve started in a notebook and add all the tips Aunt Joanie gave me, plus some names of people and places I can possibly ask for donations.

The lined paper is filled with my chicken scratch, and I’m overwhelmed by all the things I haven’t accomplished yet…which is basically everything.

Groaning from exhaustion, I put everything away and get ready for work, taking time to style my newly colored hair with purple highlights. Part of me hoped my mother would pick a fight about the color. She used to dislike that I’d dye my hair so dark, almost black, but now she didn’t even bat an eye at the purple. My father noticed, though. He rolled his eyes and reminded me, “You’re an adult, Cassandra, not a girl playing dress-up.”

I tossed him the middle finger behind his back. Ever since I hit my teenage years, Dad had, for the most part, left me alone. It wasn’t great, but at least it wasn’t this. All of us have changed from Before to After Ray, but Dad has, by far, become the worst. He’s just plain mean now.

At work, I constantly check my phone, hoping to hear from Mr. Alvarado, but by close, there’s still nothing. I’m sure he’s busy with the end of the school year coming up, yet I need some help. I haven’t been this frazzled since—since the funeral.

I call Vince from the back of the kitchen. When he answers, I say, “I’m freaking out.”

“What?”

“I’m freaking out.”

“Why?”

“I have so much to do for the tournament. A tournament… Who said that was a good idea?”

It sounds like he shuffles something, and his voice is hoarse when he says, “You want to grab a drink?”

“On a school night? How wild.”

“I could use a stiff drink.”

“Yeah?”

He murmurs an agreement and, after a few moments, says, “We buried a little girl today. She was eight years old. Cancer.”

I have no words. It’s awful. And a stiff drink seems like the right answer, but I don’t want to go to a bar after finishing my shift of serving drinks. “How about I bring drinks and some food over to your place?”

“You’ve never been here before,” he says in a voice higher than usual.

“Don’t sound so nervous.” When he doesn’t respond, I grin. “I promise not to take advantage of you.”

He huffs out a laugh. “I’ll text you the address.”

A minute later, his address comes through, and in twenty minutes, I’m on my way to his house. It’s small, not too far from the Mancini Funeral Home, but it always strikes me when someone my age lives on their own. They seem so much older, more mature than me…perpetually a child living in my parents’ basement.

The porch light is on, shining down on the space in front of the door, and I hold open the screen door to knock. Vince answers wearing dark athletic shorts and a T-shirt that shows off the contours of his chest. He smiles and holds his arm up for me to walk under. The living room to my left is sparse, with a coffee table, TV, and big couch, while a well-worn wooden staircase in front of me leads upstairs. I lean down to kiss Gracie’s head.

Vince accepts the greasy paper bag and box of wine from my hands before leading me to the back of the house. Gracie races ahead of us to the kitchen. It’s straight 1960 with teal cabinets, white countertops, and patterned laminate flooring. It’s kind of quaint in its older style and totally Vince. When he sets the food and drink down on the kitchen table, I explain, “I got Potter’s. It’s the only thing open this late.”

“I’m not complaining.” He sticks a couple of fries into his mouth before retrieving two glasses from a cabinet above the sink. He hands one to me, and I waste no time opening the spout on the box. “Like a pro,” he teases.

I fill up my glass, hold it aloft to him in a silent toast then down about half of it. When I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, all ladylike, he gives me a goofy smile, filling up his own glass. He sits down with the burger, fries, and wine, sighing like it’s the best meal he’s ever had.

“Sorry about your day,” I offer.

He nods, mouth full. I eat a few fries then give some to Gracie, who’s at my feet.

“You’re going to spoil her,” he tells me.

“That’s why she loves me more.”

“Probably.” He stares at me for a thoughtful moment then lifts his cup. “Sorry you’re having a tough time with the tournament.” After a gulp of wine, he cringes. “This is terrible.”

“Yeah.” I shrug and fill up my glass again.

I ignore him watching me with his curious eyes until he asks, “You okay?”

He’s so goddamn perceptive. I hate it because I love it. “Yeah, why?”

He balls up the paper from his cheeseburger. “You’re quiet.”

I float my gaze over the room and land on the ceiling, chewing on my lip. With everything I’ve experienced, and especially with Vince having a funeral for an eight-year-old today, it seems insignificant to be upset over this. Nevertheless, I am. “It’s my birthday. I’m twenty-eight today.”

“Happy birthday.” His words force me to look at him and his smile. He taps his glass against mine.

I take a deep breath, waiting until the sting in my nose goes away. “We’re not really celebrating birthdays anymore.”

“What’s that mean?”

“We used to all go out to eat. But we don’t do that anymore…obviously.” I push the cold cheeseburger away and finish off my second glass of wine. “Last month for my mother’s birthday, I bought her a card she never opened. The next day, I saw it in the garbage, still in the envelope.”

Vince’s lips tip down, and I force a laugh.

“What’re you gonna do, right? Things change, people die, birthday cards get thrown away.”

“Yeah, but…” He licks his lips and scratches his eyebrow with his thumb, clearly unable to come up with something to say, even though I don’t expect him to. After a moment, he stands abruptly to open the small pantry. He digs around and returns to me with a half-smushed Twinkie in its clear plastic packaging.

When I don’t move, he opens it and holds the snack cake out to me, singing an off-key version of “Happy Birthday.” Then he takes my hand and places the Twinkie in my palm. We catch each other’s gaze and laugh together. It’s silly and sweet and cures a little bit of the burn from my family forgetting my birthday. This isn’t quite Jake sitting on a table like Sixteen Candles, but it’s close enough.

“Thank you,” I say and rip off the end piece to offer it to him, but he declines.

“It’s your cake.”

I pop the piece into my mouth, and Vince watches me with his hazel eyes. It’s difficult to pretend I’m completely oblivious to him and the buzzing electricity between us, but I’m not sure I’d know what to do if I ever acknowledged it. It’s like I’ve forgotten how to be a human.

I finish the Twinkie and change the subject, breaking away from the growing pull toward him. “Going to give me the grand tour of your bachelor pad or what?”

“I don’t know about grand tour, but if you want to…”

Gracie pads beside me when I wind around the waist-high wall to the other side, which is presumably the dining room. It’s empty.

“It’s a work in progress,” he says, motioning to the whole of the house. “It was built in 1938 and pretty beat-up when I bought it.”

I scuff my foot on the hardwood floors. He must’ve refinished them because there are no marks of wear and tear like some other parts of the house. I follow him up the creaky steps to the top floor. He flicks the lights on in all the rooms. The bathroom is nice, and I tell him so.

“It’s the first room I did,” he says, skimming his hand along the new sink. It’s modern, all gray and white. The room next to it is smaller and outlined in painter’s tape, with one lamp on the floor plugged into an outlet in the corner. Vince’s bedroom is at the opposite end of the hallway, completely finished with shiny wood floors, cream walls, and a comfy-looking green bedspread on the huge mattress. There are even floating shelves on the walls holding succulents. As I touch the wood-framed picture of his family on top of his dresser, he says, “I watch a lot of HGTV.”

“It all makes sense now.”

When I turn around, he’s right behind me, close enough I can smell the soap he uses, and I’m tempted to wrap my arms around him. He’s the only guy I’ve been in close contact with for months. The only one I’ve wanted to be around. And he’s an undertaker.

Hades.

I back away from him. “So, what’s your deal?”

“Deal with what?” He lounges on the bed with his legs extended, feet crossed at the ankles.

“Why are you single?”

He eyes me suspiciously. “Have you been talking with my mother?” I snort out a laugh, and he glances around the room as if for an escape but makes no move for one. “I don’t know,” he starts quietly. “I was with this girl for a while.”

When he doesn’t continue, I lean forward, circling my hand to urge him on.

“Her name was Sandi with an I.”

“As opposed to a Y? That’s important?”

He offers me a shy grin. “I met her down the shore.”

“Ah, where all good Jersey romances start,” I joke, but I wrinkle my nose. I hate to admit it, but I’m jealous of Sandi with an I.

Vince shakes his head at me. He can tell I’m judging the woman he used to date. “She’s a nice girl, a pediatric nurse, super-Italian family.”

“But you’re from a super-Italian family.”

“Yeah,” he acknowledges. “And it was too much.”

“Too much what?”

“I’m close with my family. She was close with hers. You know…too many Sunday dinners, too many gossipy aunts and interfering mothers. It got to be too much after a while.”

My own family is basically the opposite, but I can understand why it might be hard. When I sit next to him on the bed, he elbows me, tossing my own question back at me. “What’s your deal?”

I hesitate, glancing down at my hands as I scratch at my nail polish.

“Hey, I told you. Now, you tell me.” Vince puts his hand on top of both of mine, his golden tan over my fairer skin, his fingertips a little rough.

I resist curving my palm up, lacing our fingers together, and instead move my hands to tie my hair up in a ponytail. “Well…since I changed my Tinder profile to Sister to a dead brother looking for the meaning of life, I haven’t gotten many matches.”

He huffs next to me. “You didn’t.”

“I didn’t,” I say. “I deleted the app after moving home. Living in your parents’ basement doesn’t make for the greatest opportunities for houseguests.” I pick at the comforter, unnerved by Vince’s concentration on me. “Besides, I’m sort of a mess anyway.”

“I don’t mind your mess,” he tells me, and I shoot my eyes back up to his. He’s so sincere, I have to blink a few times to clear my senses. He doesn’t shift toward me, not even a centimeter, simply lets his words settle between us. For as much as I should be warmed and comforted by them, I’m scared. Fifteen years ago, I would have been jumping for joy, melting right into his arms at the first sign of him wanting to be with me. Now, I’m melting, but for a different reason.

Because I don’t have the capacity to reciprocate the same honesty.

Vince has been a constant in my life since it happened. He’s been a friend and my oasis, a chance to forget about everything. It terrifies me that at this moment I want to get lost in his smile for a long time.

“I should go,” I say, leaping up from his bed.

“You sure? Are you okay to drive?”

I wave his questions away and leave his bedroom before I change my mind. “Yeah. I’m fine. The wine was basically grape juice.”

He follows me downstairs, and I stop next to the front door, where Gracie’s lying down. I bend to pet her, and when I straighten back up, Vince is in my space.

Yielding to my instincts, I close my eyes and lean against him. He combs his fingers through my hair, brushing it behind my shoulder, then he presses his lips against my temple, my cheek, and my ear, where he murmurs, “Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart.

God, how I love that word.

Though I don’t think it suits me very well.

I’m not sweet, and I certainly don’t have a working heart.

But I love hearing him say it, love imagining that I am as sweet-hearted as he believes me to be. And for one short moment, I pretend I’m worth his smiles and gentle endearments.

When I finally open my eyes, he’s standing back by the thick railing of the steps with his hands in his pockets.

“Talk to you later?”

“Of course,” he says in his perfectly easygoing way, and I dash from his house, my insecurities trailing behind me. He doesn’t need to carry all of my baggage, even though he would without question. I can’t ask that of him.

Besides, I’m too used to carrying it all myself. I don’t know how to give it up.