Chapter 7

Iwalked through the kitchen and into the living room, running my finger over the back of the sofa as I passed by it. I stopped at the sofa table that held photos of the many summers spent at the beach. I'd been so happy in the photos with my parents over the years. My father's giant smile had always made me think he was so happy with our family. His athletic arms were wrapped tightly around me in most of the photos, always making me feel so safe. So special. So loved. Tears glazed my eyes as I looked at my mother's smiles. She was so beautiful. So happy. So oblivious. Just like me.

Preventing my mind from venturing to further dark places, I climbed the stairs to the second floor. I moved past my room and went into the guest room. I didn't feel like messing with Crew tonight. What Janie said about him struck a chord with me. Him hooking up with faceless girls was the reason I despised ball players like him—and my father.

I grabbed some clean clothes, then walked into the bathroom, undressed, and showered, cleaning my skin of the humidity in the air. Once I finished, I slipped on my panties and a T-shirt, pulled my wet hair up in a messy knot on the top of my head, and climbed into bed. Sleep found me sooner than I expected.

* * *

"Why'd you leave before the game ended?" Crew's voice was a blur between my dreams and reality.

I stirred.

"Were you bored?" The weight of his body dipped the mattress. "You missed my second home run."

I grunted.

"Other girls would've been impressed," he said, more surprised than bragging.

"I have a face. I'm not other girls," I finally mumbled.

"That's abundantly clear."

I opened my eyes. He was on the edge of the bed taking off his sneakers.

"What happened to your hand?" I asked, noticing the bandage wrapped around the palm of his left hand.

"I had a splinter. It got infected."

"A splinter at the beach?"

He cocked his head, as if I should've understood how he got a splinter.

"Ohhhhh," I said, realizing he'd picked up the pieces of my broken Adirondack chair.

"Most people would say, ‘Thank you.'"

"Why? It seems like karma to me."

He closed his eyes and shook his head, as if he couldn't figure me out.

"Why are you even in here?" I asked.

"I got used to sleeping next to you."

"It was twice," I countered.

He lifted the sheets and climbed underneath, facing me on his side. "Three times."

"I left you alone. I came in here."

"And I followed. Ball's in your court now," he said.

"It was a stupid game." I rolled away from him. "I quit."

"Didn't take you for a quitter," he said, his breath now tickling the back of my neck.

I wasn't a quitter. I was still in Cape Cod, wasn't I? "I learned something about you tonight," I said. "Despite your many wild nights here on the Cape, you don't do a lot of talking."

"Talking's overrated."

"It's such a shame that these girls are missing out on all the insightful things you add to our conversations."

He stayed silent.

"Why didn't you tell me we went to the same school?" I asked.

"What's it matter?" he asked. "It's a big school. We don't run in the same circles."

"But you knew I went there?"

"You're Marty Richmond's daughter. Word gets around."

"I'm more than Marty Richmond's daughter."

"Oh, I can see that."

That seemed too easy. "So, we've never—"

"Slept together?"

I gasped. "What? No. I was gonna say met?"

He laughed. "I'm just messing with you."

"It would explain what I did to piss you off so much though," I said.

"No, that was you screaming like a banshee and throwing a chair off of a balcony."

"You were screwing a girl on my balcony!"

"While you were supposed to be gone for the whole summer."

"It doesn't make it any less gross."

"Why's it gross? I certainly didn't need to force her into it."

"Oh, I could see that."

He grew silent. Had he run out of comebacks?

I considered what he said about expecting me to be gone for the summer. Maybe I had surprised them. Maybe I had appeared to them a little crazy. But come on. Who wants to ever walk in on that?

"Why'd you come back early, anyway?" he asked.

"It was a mistake."

"Because I'm here or for other reasons?"

I yawned. "Both."

Mr. Talking's Overrated finally reached his quota—or he didn't like my answer—because he said nothing else.