Dare You To (Pushing the Limits #2)(81)

In one graceful movement, Gwen swoops the cake off the counter and ushers it out the kitchen door. I inhale and let my head fall back. I don’t know what the hell just happened, but every cell in my body screams it’s bad and I’m going to hate the consequences.

MY GRANDMOTHER LEFT MY MOTHER her pendulum clock. It hangs on the wall behind Mom. With each swing, the clock ticks. It’s nine o’clock at night. The last of the guests left an hour ago. I should be wondering why my parents called me in here, especially since they’re voluntarily in the same room. Instead, I’m wondering what Beth is thinking.

Mom sits across from me at our kitchen table while Dad leans against the door frame leading to the formal dining room. The temperature, like always, is frigid.

“Mrs. Rowe is under the impression you’re still participating in the writing competition,” says Dad.

I glance up at him. “I’m considering it.”

“There’s nothing to consider. You’re playing Eastwick that weekend and that game will decide rankings going into the spring season.”

Eastwick is the only team that beat us during regular season play last spring. “We’re playing Northside that Monday and they’re undefeated this year. Coach may want me to pitch that game.”

“Maybe,” says Dad. “But you’ll still be able to play a couple of innings on Monday. They’ll need you to close the game out.”

Mom takes off her pearl necklace. “I talked to Mrs. Rowe last week. She said that Ryan has a rare talent.”

“He does,” says Dad. “Baseball.”

“No,” bites out Mom. “Writing.”

Dad rubs his eyes. “Explain to your mother you’re not interested in the writing.”

“Ryan, tell your father what Mrs. Rowe told me. Tell him how much you enjoy her class.”

My shoulders curl in with the anger. I hate their constant fighting. I hate that I’ve caused them to fight more. I hate that they’re fighting over me. But what I hate more is the feeling that everyone else is controlling my choices. “I love baseball.”

Dad releases a sigh of relief.

“And I love writing. I want to go to the competition.”

Dad swears under his breath and heads for the fridge. I turn in my chair to face him.

“You’ve never let me walk away from a competition before and I don’t like the feeling of giving up. I’ll miss one game. And this is recreational league play. It would be different if this was spring season.”

Dad pops open a bottle of beer and takes a swig. “What happens if you win the writing competition? Are you going to give up pitching against the best team in the state for a piece of paper that says congratulations?”

“I want to know if I’m any good.”

“Jesus, Ryan. Why? What difference would it make?”

“I’ve been offered the chance at a college scholarship—to play ball.”

Dad stares at me and the dishwasher enters the rinse cycle. “Have you been talking to college scouts behind my back?”

Yes. No. “The recruiter made sense. He said their pitch coach can help me with my placement issues and teach me to break the tell on my pitches. They’ll pay for me to go to school and I can get free coaching. I can train with them for four years and then go for the pros.”

Beer sloshes from the bottle when Dad throws out his arms. “What happens if you get injured? What happens if instead of improving, you lose your edge? You’re a pitcher. There is no better time for you to go after your dreams than now.”

“What if…”

He stalks across the kitchen and slams the beer down in front of me. “Do I need to remind you how much money we’ve pumped into you? Do you think the coaching we’ve paid for over the years is cheap? Do you think the equipment, the Jeep we bought you were free?”

My gut aches as if he punched me. “No. I don’t think they were free. I’ve offered to get a job.”

“I’m not looking for you to get a job, Ryan.

I’m looking for you to do something with your talent. I’m looking for you to make a name for this family. I want to know that the years your mother and I have sacrificed financially, emotionally, with our time are not in vain.”

Mom calmly folds her hands on the table.

“He does have talent, Andrew. You’re angry he doesn’t want what you want. You’re angry he’s choosing something different.”

“Baseball is what he wants!” Dad’s knuckles turn white as he grips the back of the chair.

“You have no idea what anyone in this family wants.”

His voice shakes as he talks. “What do you want, Miriam? What will finally make you happy? You always wanted me to run for mayor and I’ve agreed to it. You wanted me to expand the business and I am. I have done everything to make you happy. Just tell me what you want.”

“I want my family back!” Mom screams.

Over the past months, my mother has been sarcastic and rude to my father. But in seventeen years, I’ve never known her to scream.

The shock wears off Dad’s face. “You can’t have it all! Do you want your friends to know that your son is g*y? Do you want your church to know your son is g*y?”

“But we could talk to Mark. Maybe if he agreed to keep it a secret—”