5. You Smell Like A Brewery

FIVE

YOU SMELL LIKE A brEWERY

Garrett

That could have gone better. On the plus side, it could have gone a lot worse. A beer to the face is a first for me so I can now happily cross that off my bucket list. In all actuality, I was expecting a fist instead of the beer. I haven't said her nickname in years. I don't know why I said it. The name tumbled out of my mouth faster than I was able to swallow the letters down. The real punch in the gut was her throwing my own words back at me. She once asked me why I rarely swing at the first pitch and I told her, "The first is always practice." I'm glad after all these years, she never forgot. Perhaps all the hatred she has for me is a ruse. At least that's what I'm holding onto with both hands. Despite her venomous tone, she did talk to me. I'll take that as a small victory. She has every right to hate me right now. What I did was shitty, but at the time I was hurting. The best thing for me to do was to cut ties and leave. All I ask is she give me a few minutes so I can explain everything to her. Preferably without glasses of beer present.

"Um. I'm not exactly sure what happened and how you know Dessa, but I'm a big fan. And not because of the missed ball or anything. You're still an amazing player." A guy with short brown hair and a Porter's t-shirt holds out a white towel.

"Thanks." I pluck it from his grasp and run it down my face and over my chest, absorbing what beer I can from my shirt.

"I take it she's not thrilled to see you." He takes the towel once I'm finished.

"Did the beer in the face give it away?"

"A little bit." He holds out his hand. "I'm Lach."

I grip his hand with mine. "Garrett. Thanks for the towel and sorry for the beer on the floor."

"No problem. Not the first time. Can I get Seattle's most hated guy a beer? I promise I won't throw it in your face. I'm sure every person here will also happily buy you a beer since you gave Minnesota their first championship win."

I exhale a bitter laugh because it's all true. Seattle does hate me, and I did give Minnesota their first championship. The last one is the silver lining, I guess. As much as I would love to drown my sorrows in a cold pint of beer, I need to remain level-headed so I can draw up a game plan on how I'm going to get Dessa to talk to me since my first attempt failed. Truth be told, I didn't have a plan, anyway. But what was I expecting, a hug and a hand job? Instead, I got a face full of beer, and it wasn't even good beer. "Thanks, but maybe another time."

After leaving Porter's, I drive back to my parents', mostly because I don't have anywhere else to go. When I walk through the rear door that leads into the kitchen, my mom is at the counter plopping a spoonful of cookie dough onto a cookie sheet. As I pass by, I press a kiss to her cheek.

Her nose crinkles. "You smell like a brewery! Have you been drinking?" Her hands slap the table as she swivels to face me. "Please tell me you didn't drive home."

"No, and it's a long story. Apparently, Dessa wasn't as excited to see me as I was hoping." I yank open the fridge door and pull out a bottle of water. Twisting off the cap, I swallow a big gulp. The sweet aroma of melted chocolate chips lingering in the air makes my stomach rumble.

Her shoulders sag before her eyes soften, a small smile gracing her lips. "She'll come around. Just give her time."

I huff out a deep breath and shake my head. "I doubt more time is what she needs." But I'm out of options. I rap my knuckles on the counter. "I'm going to take a shower."

"Leave your clothes outside the door and I'll throw them in the laundry," she calls over her shoulder. The oven door creaks as she places the cookie sheet inside.

I hike up the stairs two at a time to the second floor and to the bathroom across the hallway from my bedroom. After I strip out of my clothes, I deposit them outside the bathroom door and turn on the hot water. Steam billows from the top of the shower curtain, filling the room. As I climb inside, the hot water cascades down my body and swirls into the drain, kind of like my failed attempt at an apology. With a sigh, I scrub my hands down my face, defeat washing over me.

Dessa hasn't been this mad at me since the time in middle school when I ditched her to play kickball with the boys. She wouldn't speak to me for a whole week, and it was the worst seven days of my entire life. She thwarted all my efforts at giving her notes in class by tossing them in the garbage before even reading them. Every time I tried to sit with her at lunch, she left to sit somewhere else. Finally, I got her to talk to me with a peace offering of my mom's chocolate chip cookies. It worked all those years ago. Maybe it will work again. At this point I'm willing to try anything.