15. Nikki

15

*********

I knowI've been quiet. I'm sure Alex senses it. Even before we became more, he could read me better than most. Better than all. I'm just not sure how to talk about it. It's all so much. It's more than a diagnosis from a visit to the student health center. It's life-altering. At least, it is for me. And Alex, he's got a game today. We're getting ready to leave, and I'm sitting here in his room like a miserable lump while he packs his gear.

"You ready?" He lifts my chin from my phone screen and I snap out of my daze at the sight of his eyes. His dimple. Ah, that get out of jail free card.

"Yeah, sorry. I was . . . spacing," I admit.

Really, I was searching for answers. Not about surgery, but about how people like me can still do what I want to do. Surgeries seem to be fifty-fifty. Some people have lost more hearing. Others have corrected the loss that's already come. Nobody goes back to being perfect, but maybe I wasn't perfect to begin with. I'm not sure how long this thing has been growing in my ear and changing me, but perhaps I've simply gotten used to it. And maybe what I hear isn't very good after all.

I take Alex's hand when we leave his house. Cole is already piled in the car, kindly taking the back seat so I can sit up front. That's something that hasn't changed. Cole has always pushed Alex and me together in subtle ways. Our moms would love him. Unless . . . oh man, did they get to him? That's something we're going to have to ask him when we come out. Which we still need to talk about.

I sigh, once again overwhelmed by my own chaos. There's so much.

"Hey, Nik." Cole reaches around from the back seat and hugs me from behind. I squeeze his hands, then glance to my left, where Alex is staring lasers into the rearview mirror.

"You okay?" I tilt my head, calculating where Alex's gaze is landing, pretty sure it's on Cole's forehead.

"I'm good. Yeah. Just something I have to do." Alex shifts in his seat, leaning his opposite elbow on the console so he can look Cole in the eyes.

"I thought we talked about . . . this," Alex says, waving his finger between me and him.

"Wait, Cole knows?" I shift to join the conversation, but the inside of a sedan is a really tight place to hash things out with three people.

Cole chuckles.

"I knew enough. But I wanted him to say it out loud in front of me. Mostly because?—"

"Fine. You were right. Are you happy?" Alex's grumpiness seems to only make Cole laugh more, and he claps his hands together once and makes this really dorky swoony face.

"I've never been happier, my sweet Alex," he teases.

My face sours, and I push Alex out of the way to point a finger at Cole.

"Don't ever use that phrase again. I don't say that. Nobody says that. That's . . . weird. So stop." I shake my head, then move to meet Alex's gaze. "Am I right?"

"Oh, you're right. Very weird," Alex says.

We both nod and I lean over the console the remaining few inches to give him a quick peck before buckling up. Cole remains silent for a few seconds.

"Gee," he finally breaks through. "I see what you like so much about her."

The dead silence that follows lasts only a few seconds, but soon the three of us erupt in laughter. It feels good. And for the short ride to the stadium, I don't think about anything besides the many ways I plan to torture Alex with my sweet Alex in the coming days.

I kiss him one more time before he heads toward the fieldhouse with Cole, and I catch him telling Cole to shut up as they walk away. I hover by the main gates, trying new searches on my phone while I wait for Omar and Brian to meet me. I finally find one article about a professor in Indiana who works in the sound engineering department and he's nearly deaf. It's more of a human interest piece, but for me the takeaway is the power of the visuals in the technology. It seems the professor was a roadie with a pretty famous band for years in the seventies and eighties. Lax safety precautions destroyed his hearing, but he found that working with the same musicians for so long gave him a certain feel for when things were right.

"It's those unteachable instincts," he said in the story. "I can rest my palms on the board and feel when something is off. And now, thanks to technology, I can see it."

"What's so engrossing?" Omar says, startling me as he pops up behind me.

I jump and fumble my phone.

"Was just reading, waiting on your late ass," I tease, not ready to talk to him about my news. I will, however, share the more exciting news with him.

"So, how was your weekend? Anything . . . new?" My voice lifts up at the end, a character trait definitely weird for me, and Omar notes it as we walk.

"Why are you smiling like that?" His eyes dim while Brian looks at me, amused.

"Oh, she had sex," Brian says, and I was not quite prepared for his bluntness. Neither, it seems, was Omar, as we both cup our mouths with our hands and stare at each other with wide eyes.

Omar points at me across his boyfriend's body while Brian chuckles, proud of himself for solving the riddle so fast.

"You're not denying it!" Omar's shouting is barely muffled by his other hand, which still covers his mouth.

I drop my hands, sure my face is beet red, and shake my head slightly.

"I am not denying it."

Omar's hand drops long enough to glimpse the large O formed by his lips. My face does the same, and soon we're both back to hiding behind hands.

"You two are schoolchildren," Brian teases. I'm getting a Coke. Save my seat.

As soon as Brian leaves us, Omar pulls me to him as we walk toward our seats.

"It's happened," he says.

I nod.

"It's happened a few times," I admit.

More hands over faces, and now we've added giggling.

I stop when I spot Alicia, this time here alone, without her posse. Why is she here? My chest tightens, but Omar is quick to shake me—literally, though gently. "Do not go there, Nikki. You had sex a few times," he repeats my words back to me.

I shoot him a grin.

"I did, didn't I?"

Feeling more confident and a little like bragging, I decide to step over the seats this time rather than endure passing by my least favorite person at Tiff. I give her a wave that she sneers at, then slump down in my seat. Omar strategically positions himself between her and me—along with the dozen or so other seats I've built into the barrier.

"Oh, she's going to hate you," he says.

"Good, it's mutual."

"So, spill it. Does this mean you two are a thing? Did you drop the big L? What did he say? I want play-by-play, though not sure I need to know about your skivvies and junk," he says, sprinkling his fingertips in the air over my crotch.

"Omar!" My mouth widens as I chastise him.

He shrugs, and I do my best to cool my body temperature. I must be glowing red.

"We haven't really talked about, I don't know, terms?" I'm not sure what words to use here, but that one feels too legal.

"Okay, so you aren't defining things just yet. That's okay."

I sigh.

"Is it?" I look out on the field, catching Alex's gaze. He tips his hat and my chest warms as I lift my palm.

"Nik, you've been imagining for years how all this would go down. It doesn't have to fall into place all at once. But"—he stops and literally takes my hand in his, closing it between both of his. It's strange for him to be serious like this. I meet his eyes—"You have to make sure you tell him how you truly feel. Not just the lust part, but the love part."

My shoulders hike up.

"I don't want to overwhelm him. I'm so happy that we're here, and that we clearly both have feelings. Love is a big leap."

And just to prove why he's my friend, he echoes my words right back in my face.

"Is it?"

* * *

It'sa miracle I'm able to follow the game. My mind is spring boarding between my own problems, the advice from Omar, and the new problem playing out on the field—Alex isn't at shortstop. Coach moved him to the outfield today, giving Edwin a start at short.

"Is he really going to be that upset?" Omar asks.

"Yes," both Brian and I say at the same time. We make eyes, and I'm glad Omar is dating an athlete because he gets it. I'm sure there are similar pressures in lacrosse.

Alex managed a base hit for his first at bat. Nothing memorable but a solid slap down the line. His speed stands out, like it always does. And he's made some good plays in the outfield. But as he goes through the motions outside the dugout, taking practice hacks off to the side, I see the forces starting to crush him. And all it does is make me wonder if he's noticed the man sitting by himself far along the third base side.

Alex Sr. showed up alone about twenty minutes ago. He's wearing his Tiff jacket, which is unique enough that it draws eyes. If he's in view of the dugout, there's no way Alex hasn't noticed him.

I lean forward in my seat, scanning between Senior and Junior. Alex is first up for the inning. He digs his back foot in and hovers his bat over the plate. It's a different look for him, different from his last at bat, which was also different from his norm. He's trying things, which is common for guys going through slumps. But nothing is landing. It's getting him through, but everything looks so uncomfortable.

Whatever his thought process was for this new approach, it was wrong, because he swings at the first pitch and sends the ball straight up for an easy out with the catcher. I hold my breath and suck in my bottom lip, willing Alex to keep his cool as he walks back into the dugout. I flinch at the sound of metal clanking against wood, and I can't help but glance back at his father after Alex threw his bat into the rack. Senior never tolerated that type of outburst on his field—in his son. "Emotions are good," he would say. "But tantrums? Those are for babies."

I watch as his father rubs his hands over his face and shifts in his chair.

"I'll be right back," I say to Omar and Brian.

I skip over the seats and walk along the concourse to the other side, making my way down the last row of steps until I'm right next to the man, who in many ways, had a part in raising me.

"Hi," I say, getting his attention.

"Nikki!" His genuine excitement to see me feels nice, and he leaps to his feet then swallows me in a hug. It feels like a betrayal, but I throw my arms around his back and reciprocate.

"How are you?" he asks, scooting over a seat so I can sit next to him. I check the view, a little relieved that one of the light poles obscures us slightly. I'm sure Alex has noticed, regardless.

"I've been good," I say, which isn't a total lie. I have been good. I've been great. I've also been a fucking mess. "You?"

We meet eyes for an awkward second, and I quickly glance away.

"Sorry, I didn't mean?—"

"It's okay."

We watch the field for a few seconds in silence.

"Alex isn't good," I finally utter. But he knows that.

"That's my fault."

"Mmm," I agree.

The next two batters strike out, so at least Alex made contact. I know he'll look for me when he gets to the field, if he hasn't already.

"Why'd you come?" I swivel my head to look at him when I ask.

He takes a deep breath, his arms crossed over the TIFF logo on his jacket, his face marked by tan lines from the glasses he usually wears. They're propped on his head right now.

"I don't miss a game. Been watching them online. Saw fall ball too."

I nod.

"Okay, but you came in person." I know why he's here, but I want him to say it. And then he needs to find a way to say it to Alex so his son can let go and listen long enough to get what he needs.

"He's struggling. His stance is all wrong. His at bats have been?—"

"He's been shit. He knows that," I say, wincing a little at calling him out on it bluntly.

"I know he knows. He might not think I know him, but I still do. I always will. At least out here. This is the one place . . ."

"The one place you still want a relationship," I finish.

He sighs, then rolls his head to the side to meet my gaze.

"Yeah, I guess so."

"What should I tell him?" I'm certain he knows what I mean by that question. I don't need to know what to say about him being here, or about life, or about how sorry he is. I need the small nugget. The piece of wisdom. I need the thing that works. That has always worked.

He chews at his lips, his mouth so much like his son's. They share the same dimple, though his is permanent now, weathered from sun and wrinkled with age.

"Tell him to cut the field in half. Stand quiet. Crack the whip and commit."

I repeat his words in my head.

"Okay," I say, standing but placing my hand on his shoulder. It's a hard space to navigate with him—to have old fondness and new hate.

I head back to my seat and plop down next to Omar, feeling both his and Brian's eyes on me. I glance at Omar and give him the tight smile I do when I don't want to talk about something.

"Okay. Later, maybe," he says.

I nod and look back to the field.

"Later, but definitely." I'm going to need to talk to someone about this mess, and it can't be Alex.

Tiff ends up losing by two runs, and the new pitcher, the one I saw buckle Alex's knees during practice, was the one to blow the small lead we had. I'm a little smug about it. He might be a nice guy, but the fact he kicked Alex when he was already down, so to speak, puts him on my shit list.

Alex's dad left before the ninth. I'm relieved. This is going to be difficult as it is because I'm sure Alex saw us talking. I send Brian and Omar to Patty's without me and take a seat on a folding chair one of the coaches left just outside the clubhouse. Alicia is lingering by the gate. I want to tell her she's been cut loose, but also, she's not my concern right now. Alex is.

He's one of the first to exit for once, which catches me off-guard. He doesn't spot me right away and starts to walk in the other direction, scouring the walkways that circle the field.

"I'm right here," I say.

He spins around fast, and his expression isn't what I expect at all.

"Oh, I figured you'd be giving my dad a tour or something."

"Alex, what?" My mouth hangs open, and his lips pull tight as he steps in close, his eyes narrowing.

"That was a pretty long chat. Nice welcome hug. How is the old man?" His tone is curt. He's hot, which I did expect. Just . . . not . . . this hot.

"He's been watching your games at home. He wanted to help. And?—"

I know the words aren't coming out right as I utter them. I prepared what to say, but in the heat of the moment, it all jumbles.

"Ohhhh, he wanted to help. He should have stayed home, then. Hope you didn't invite him to my next game," he says, turning his back to me. He starts to walk toward the gate and I follow.

"Wait a second, that's not fair," I utter.

Alex turns around but continues moving away.

"You know what? I'm just in a mood. I had another shit game. I got moved to the outfield. I might not even play tomorrow, and now my best friend is cozying up to the guy who ruined my life. I just . . . I need a minute." He holds his palms out, then lets them fall to his sides.

I stop, letting the distance between us grow.

"You need a minute?" For whatever reason, my mind replays his dad's advice. It's locked in there. Why is that what I'm remembering?

"I told Alicia I'd give her a ride home. I'll . . . let me go home, shower, get my shit together. I'll . . . I'll text you." He spins around and continues his walk.

I have a lot of my mother in me, but my temper? That comes from my dad. There's a reason he's in a job where he doesn't have to talk to people often, where he's essentially in charge. Because discourse? Not his thing.

Without missing a beat, I pull my sneaker from my right foot and throw it at Alex as hard as I can. It smacks him in the center of his back, a vivid dirt-colored shoe print left in its wake. Alex stops and turns around to stare at my shoe.

"Nikki, what the fuck? Did you throw your shoe at me?" He holds his palms out again, which pulls my dad's traits out even more. I pull my other shoe off and throw it at his head. He deflects it and it goes tumbling down a small grass ravine.

"You're being nuts!" He bends down and picks up my shoe, then marches to the other one before carrying them both back to me, dropping them at my feet.

My nostrils flex.

"You're taking Alicia home?" I point at her over his shoulder. She sees me, so I give her the middle finger.

"Jesus, Nik. She doesn't have a ride." He shakes his head, then bites the tip of his tongue. "You . . . you hugged my dad."

His voice cracks with that last bit. I knew it would be a risk to talk to him in front of Alex, but I did anyway. I did it to help him. Though now that I'm in the middle of this fight with him, I'm not sure what reasoning made me follow through with it. It was a bad idea.

"I'll call you after I drop her off," he finally says, dropping his hand the same way his dad used to do when he was done with a conversation. I open my mouth to point it out but stop myself because too many ironies have already piled up.

I'm too pissed to cry. And I know Alex isn't going to do anything but take Alicia home. He wouldn't. He's not that guy. When he was with Alicia, he was faithful. Even when she wasn't always. In high school, he was the best boyfriend to every girl but me. He's a good man with a good heart and a lot of instant baggage and stress. But also, he knows that taking Alicia home right now is a slap in my face. And he's doing that because I talked to Senior.

"Hey, you're still here," Brayden says from behind me. I shut my eyes as he's the last person I want to see right now.

"I was just leaving," I say, starting to walk. Alex's car is pulling from the lot. I'm sure Brayden sees. I bet he loves that.

"Wait up," he calls from behind me. I don't slow, but it doesn't stop him from jogging to catch up. He matches my gait.

"Brayden, we don't have to do this?—"

"I'm sorry," he cuts in.

I glance to my right and shoot him a skeptical expression.

His mouth drops into a flat line and he shakes his head.

"No, I'm being sincere. I'm sorry. I wanted to apologize for being a major asshole at the party. And we don't have to be friends. Just, please accept that from me."

I stop walking for a beat, and he halts as well.

Alex's truck is long gone, but even still, talking to Brayden feels gross. It feels like a betrayal.

"Okay, Brayden. I accept your apology. But you owe one to Alex. And I'm not going to let that go."

He holds my gaze for a second, and I catch the short laugh he lets slip, but I think he sees in my eyes how serious I am. Finally, he nods.

"Okay, Nik. I'll work on that." He holds out his hand, and I smirk and let my own little laugh slip. We shake, but I know in my gut he won't work on shit.

"You going to Patty's?" I ask.

"I am," he answers.

"Good. You can buy my beer."

We walk the four blocks in silence, and sometimes I'm a few steps ahead. But I let him keep up with me. And I'm doing that because Alex took Alicia home.

Maybe that's what he has been warning me about with us. When you cross lines, people get hurt. If we were just friends, this wouldn't burn through me the way it is. I still would have talked to his dad, though. Because that move? That was friend Nikki doing him a solid. And he'll realize that eventually.

*********