20. Alex

20

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Nikki's kneeknocks into mine at a regular pace. I don't dare tell her to relax because, one, she hates that, and two, she has every right to let out her nerves. This is terrifying for her.

"I'm so hungry," she whines, the clipboard on her thighs vibrating with her constant movement. I bite my tongue and don't tell her to stop wasting calories fidgeting. Now is not the time.

"I've got a great lunch spot for us," I say, resting my hand on her knee. I subtly slow the movement, but she gives me side eyes.

"Sorry," I whisper, squeezing once then pulling my hand away.

"I don't have time for lunch," she says.

I chuckle.

"Don't pretend you don't want to miss accounting. I'll help you with your assignment." Her head swivels, and she hits me with a short-lived but honest grin. It slips back to the focused straight line, but it's still in there.

Nikki had to fast for this appointment. She's not great at being hangry, as we call it. That's the other reason I'm doing my best not to poke the bear.

I think she's really going to like this place I found for lunch. This location comes with an ulterior motive, but a good one. I remember eating there with my parents once when they came up for the weekend to visit. It was the before time, when our family unit was cohesive and we all got along, for the most part. There was this woman who played guitar in the corner, singer-songwriter type music. She was really talented, but she was also legally deaf. My mom has no problem talking to strangers, and she basically pulled the girl's life story out of her. It stuck with me because of her perseverance, having lost most of her hearing after a long battle with meningitis in high school. I called ahead to see if she was still there, and with some luck, she happens to be today.

"Miss Thomas?" Nikki looks at me first, a flash of panic in her eyes. I think if I weren't here she might sit here silent and wait for them to go searching for her so she can slip out unnoticed and go home.

"I'm right here," I assure her. If I could get in that scan with her, I would.

"Okay," she says.

"Yes," she utters, standing and holding the clipboard flat against her legs, kicking it with her thighs as she marches forward like a stubborn, nervous grade-schooler.

"Hi, Nikki. I'm Jasmine," the technician says, and Nikki flashes me a quick smile to see if I caught that her name is the same as Nikki's middle.

I give her a thumbs up.

All good signs.

When she disappears behind the door, I lean forward and look through the game film I had our hitting coach send me from our last series. I'm improving, and my average is finally starting to look like me again. But something still feels off, so I want to study my swings.

I play the clips a few times, slowing them down and zooming in to check my rotation, my hips and shoulders all seemingly lined up right. I memorized Nikki's routine for this scan based on the paperwork so I keep checking the time to imagine the steps she's at. The actual scan itself is quick, but the contrast solution administration takes some time. Nikki doesn't love needles, so I imagine the IV process was somewhat challenging for all.

She should be well into that, though. I just hope she doesn't vomit from anxiety or the solution. I read some people do. And Nikki sure does like a good cookie-tossing session. It's half the reason she stopped drinking a lot at parties our freshman year. Though a part of me likes to think she blames her intoxication for her poor judgment in ever saying yes to Brayden.

I run through my video clips one more time, putting off what my inner voice suggested I do this morning—send them to my dad.

I'm so fucking conflicted over him. I can't really stand being in the same room with him, but there's also a part of me that wants to get over that. I think my mom would prefer I don't hold a lifelong grudge. That's her way, though. Marie Mendoza is an optimist, the world rose-colored through her eyes, her son perfect, her ex-husband flawed but trying. I aspire to find more of her in my fabric. I hope it's there. But I've come around to the idea that a lot of my father is. And if his flaws are part of me too, at least I'm aware of them. Giving up on making Nikki happy simply isn't an option.

After another twenty minutes, I relent and type out a message, sending my father the video links and asking for his input. I know he'll see what I'm missing. He always says that sometimes we look for things to use as a crutch. Maybe that's what's happening here. And if that's the case, he'll tell me—in all his harsh and direct glory. It's baseball, not intimacy. Perhaps that's why my father has always been better at speaking its language.

He responds a few minutes after my text.

SENIOR: Are you coming to Odell anytime soon?

I sigh and read his words a few times, knowing what he means. He's found something. And he'd like to help me fix it. A part of me would like that too.

ME: Did not plan on it.

His response comes fast.

SENIOR: I'll drive up Friday.

I swallow but also realize that he has my schedule memorized. He knows that Friday is an off-day for us. We have a doubleheader Saturday and a game Sunday instead. If Friday goes well, maybe I'll invite him to stay for the games. Or maybe I won't, and he'll just invite his damn self like he did last time.

I chuckle quietly.

ME: K

No I love you or friendly banter. It's all business for now. Maybe in a few months we can add in some chatter about playoffs and other teams. And if the draft goes well, maybe . . . maybe . . . I'll ask him to be a part of the signing.

He's already one up on me for son-to-father favors as it is. Fucker drove behind the field after my grand slam and nabbed the ball. Sent me a pic of it later that night. Said he's keeping it on his desk at work.

I'm not sure I would have given it to him if I had the option, but part of me is also glad he has it. It feels nice to know he's proud. One more thing my mom was right about.

"Sir?"

I pop my head up and shove my phone into my back pocket to meet the eyes of the assistant who led Nikki back for her scan. My pulse picks up with worry.

"Yes." I scramble to my feet.

She smiles softly, probably amused at how my panic matches the patient's, but it puts me at ease.

"She's getting dressed. She was a little anxious, and she's afraid she might faint, so she asked if you could come back and help her out to the car."

"Of course." I follow her back to the dressing room area. I wait with her outside the door while my eyes focus on the shadows moving around the space at the bottom of the doorway. Nikki's hopping, trying to push her foot into her shoe, so I knock softly.

"Hey, Nik? You need a hand?"

The door clicks and inches open.

"Please," she says.

"May I?" I ask the technician.

She chuckles.

"That's up to her."

I nod and step inside as Niki slumps back into the chair. She doesn't faint, but she sure is sweating, and her face is practically gray.

I pick her shoe up off the floor and hold out my other hand.

"Gimme," I say, and she lifts her leg, propping her heel in my palm.

I work her shoe on, then snag the other one from the floor and do the same. Once she's fully dressed and has had a minute to regulate her breathing, I hoist her up in my arms. She doesn't even protest that I'm carrying her through the lobby, which means as stubborn as she can be, she's that much more freaked out by this experience.

"I hope you're still up for lunch," I say as I lean over to help her buckle in. Her hand finds my chin, nudging me to look her in the eyes.

"I could be dead and I would still be up for lunch," she jokes.

I laugh, then close the small gap between our mouths to kiss her.

"All right then."

Not wanting to send her into a new round of panic, I keep my ulterior motive to myself on our drive into the historic downtown. I luck out with a spot right by the door, but Nikki seems solid enough on her feet now to get up to the curb on her own. Her arm is wrapped with a bright green bandage from the IV, and there's a small stain in the center which means she probably bled a little bit. She's not great with blood.

Wow, when we have kids one day, I'm going to do a lot of the gross stuff.

I let that thought simmer in my chest, keeping it to myself as we enter the café. Kids with Nik. Now that I'm manifesting the idea, it feels so probable.

"This place is nice," she says, taking in the open dining room that leads right out onto a patio and a grassy seating area in the back.

"My mom loves this place," I say.

"Kind of jealous she never brought me here when she took us both out," Nikki says. We both follow the hostess, who gives me a wink, having read my notes when I called ahead. She puts us at a table just inside the main dining space and to the side of the small platform where a guitar rests on a stool.

"There's music?" Nikki brightens.

I nod with a smile.

I scan the restaurant, spotting the woman I want her to meet at the other end of the bar. She's drinking water, probably on her break. I didn't go so far as to call her ahead of time too, but I remember her being kind enough that if I can urge Nikki to talk with her, she'll be happy to.

We order drinks, Nikki splurging with a sugary smoothie type thing. I encourage her to also guzzle down some water, but she's probably had plenty of that. Water is the only thing she's had for twenty-four hours. And lots of it. Apparently, you need to have your insides float for a proper CT scan.

"Hi, I'm Annabeth," the woman says softly through the mic.

Nikki puts down her glass and folds her hands together as she leans onto the table, her eyes immediately noticing the cochlear implants on her ears. Her gaze shifts to me, and I suck my mouth into a guilty, straight line.

Her head falls to the side a touch, having caught on.

"Trust me," I say, and she takes a deep breath through her nose and gives me a tepid nod.

"This one's called ‘Love, Actually,' and no, not after the movie." The few people in the restaurant with us titter, and when I glance at Nikki, she's smiling at the joke.

Annabeth works her hands up the guitar, her eyes focused intently on every touch, her chin tucked in as she studies herself. I remember her telling us that she likes to see the music work. It sets her brain up to sing confidently, knowing that part is right.

And her playing is beautiful. Her touch goes from soft to intentional, the shift easy and natural. I don't really know shit about music other than what I like, but I'd say she's definitely mastered the nuances.

When she leans into the mic and begins to sing, Nikki sits back, letting her folded hands fall into her lap. Her lips part, and for a long while she doesn't blink. She simply listens and watches. I'm not sure what she hears because I don't really understand what she's missing now. The doctor did tell her that she may have been missing the midrange for years, which means she's already learned how to maneuver around the loss. But Nikki doesn't believe that's the case. She would know best.

Annabeth finishes, and Nikki claps softly, her eyes shifting to me for a second, long enough to soften and show that she's giving in.

"Yeah?" I say.

She nods.

"This was a good plan, Alex Mendoza." She leans into the corner of the table, and I meet her halfway for a kiss as our waiter drops off our lunch.

Nikki devours the burger in minutes, beating me, and at one point I notice Annabeth smirk at seeing the petite girl out eat the muscle man. We order dessert, cheesecake, because my girlfriend is obsessed with the stuff, just as Annabeth announces another break. I nod to Nikki, urging her to introduce herself.

She breathes out some stress, then leans into the table, making eye contact with the musician.

"Excuse me, but could I . . . can I ask you something?" Nikki's gaze drifts to me for a second.

"I've seen you play before. I came here with my mom," I insert, filling the silence and setting Nikki at ease. She doesn't want to be the only one talking. I can tell.

"Aww, thank you for coming again. And sure. What can I answer?" Annabeth pulls a chair from our table and takes a seat while my girlfriend kneads her hands together on top of the table. It catches Annabeth's eye, and I think maybe she has a hunch what has Nikki's tongue tied.

"It's the implant, right?" She reaches up her right hand and runs her fingertip along the edge.

"Yeah, and sort of the whole thing. How do you— You sing so well. And you play . . ."

Annabeth chuckles.

"I wasn't always deaf. In high school, I got really sick with meningitis. I was a pretty big music nerd. Only member of the guitar club," she says, raising her hand.

Nikki's hands part and flatten on the table, her shoulders relaxing as she lets out a soft laugh.

"I was the only girl in the AV Club," she says, holding up her hand. Annabeth gives her five, and I sit back in wonder as the two women form an instant bond.

We spend an hour at the café, waiting through Annabeth's final set so Nikki can continue learning how she made the decision to get the implants and when. How it changed her practice, what she hears and feels. How her body adjusted, and her mind. And they talk about the grief and depression, the part that lingers in the shadow and, I know, eats at Nikki's soul.

I pay the bill as Nikki and Annabeth exchange numbers, and we walk our new friend out to her Volkswagen. I carry her amp, tucking it in the tight back seat. These cars are stupid. Quirky, but stupid. I keep that to myself.

They hug, Nikki promising to come to her first solo show at the Rebel House next week. I'd usually send Omar with her to something like this. But this time? I think I want to come along. In fact, I might not send Omar in my place for anything ever again if I can help it.

Because I'm never going anywhere.

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