Need Me (Broke and Beautiful #2)(36)

He read her abrupt message once again with the kind of voraciousness one reserves for a pie eating contest. Perhaps when he was finished reading the assignment, he could figure out how to dull the sick feeling that had hit him at the realization that she was no longer in New York City. She was hours and miles and eons away from him at that very moment. If he wanted to see her, it wouldn’t only be a bad idea; it would be impossible. Feeling helpless on top of miserable wasn’t a great combination. Massaging his pounding forehead with one hand, he continued reading.

My family is like a baseball team. Dad is the third base coach, except he never tells you to stay on third. He’d say it was the coward’s way out and God hates a coward. No matter how low your odds are of reaching home plate, he’ll send you there every time, fully believing you’ll make it. He lacks the ability to doubt, even when he should, and often to his detriment. Mom is the catcher, giving everyone subtle signals as to how they should proceed in every situation. A nose scratch means change your shoes. An ear tug means you’re adding too much salt. Of course, if she ends up calling for the wrong pitch, it’s not her fault. You should have known it was the wrong call. Maybe she was just testing you. My brother is the mascot. Loved by many, but forgotten by all unless he’s standing right in front of you, big and colorful. High as a kite. He’ll make you laugh in a way that has you forgetting why an hour later, but the content, happy feeling lingers. Making you want to be around him again.

I’m not sure who I am on the team yet. Sometimes I think I’m the team doctor, but the pull of running the bases is too strong. I want to drop my scalpel and sprint so fast my lungs hurt. So maybe I’m the pinch runner who steps in when someone can’t carry their weight or is missing a step. But when I’m standing on first base, cheating towards second, I get lost staring into the outfield. The place where all your thoughts and secrets get swallowed up by a discreet blue sky. Blue sky never tells, it just listens. When I’m in the outfield and I hear the crack of bat meeting ball, when I see the ball sailing up, up and know it will eventually come down, time elongates into something without boundaries. The ball hangs in the air so long, it could be plucked out of the sky with my daddy’s barbequing tongs, flipped over like a sizzling burger. I want that ball more than anything. Anything. That’s what I used to think. When I don’t make the catch and the collective groans go up from the dugout, I used to think I was crushed. Used to wish for time to go in reverse so I’d get another chance.

Time does have boundaries, though. It puts you at the plate when you’re not ready and it strikes you out. It strikes you out. It strikes you out. All the while, the things that used to be important, like a perfect pop fly, begin falling outside your reach. Or fade into memories. New things take their place. Jobs. Friends. A man.

If you look extra closely, you can see it happening. The smell of a tweed jacket replaces the scent of freshly cut grass. Stolen kisses replace . . . everything. A man becomes that perfect pop fly that lands at your feet, not in your glove.

While I don’t fear failure even though it hurts, I do fear the answer to one question. Now that I know what real, consuming want feels like, will I want to catch that ball as much next time I’m in the outfield?

It was possible he didn’t breathe until he’d finished the entire three pages. Him. She’d written about him? The tone was the same as her other work, but she’d never spoken about something personal. Why now? Unless she’d written it Friday afternoon, before the clusterf*ck at the Longshoreman, she’d written those candid thoughts after he’d destroyed what had been between them. Destroyed it.

Ben shoved the laptop off his legs, not really caring where or how it landed. Had she let him into her head as some devious brand of torture? His head ached twice as bad now, stomach pitching as he gained his feet and headed for the bathroom. Halfway there, he stopped and paced back toward the bed. Then he walked to the kitchen and turned in a half circle.

This was wrong. So wrong. He’d compared Honey to the woman who’d burned his father. This country girl who assigned her family members positions on a baseball field. Who wasn’t afraid to run for a pop fly or relate her feelings to the very person who’d shamefully abused them. Him. He’d landed outside her glove, and he could have been inside of it. Could have been caught by her, caught her in return. He hadn’t even stopped to consider that she might be everything she appeared to be. Not a liar or deceiver . . . but an amazing girl who’d gone after something she wanted. He’d been lucky enough to be that thing, and he’d punished her for trying, when maybe, just maybe, he should have been running toward her at top speed.

No, not maybe. He wouldn’t feel this gutted over a maybe.

This couldn’t be fixed. Could it? Could he . . . get her back? Convince her that despite his careless treatment of her thus far, he would make a stellar boyfriend? She had every right to laugh in his face. Furthermore, being Honey’s boyfriend—and he really liked how that sounded—would still mean jeopardizing his job, but there had to be a way around it. Once she was no longer actively in one of his classes, which would only be another two months from now, she wouldn’t technically be his student. They were both consenting adults. There had to be some sort of condition or allowance.

Unless . . .

Ben’s gaze swung toward the refrigerator. To the offer letter from NYU. Taking the job would be the perfect solution, allowing them to be together without him losing his job as a professor. Or jeopardizing her education. Damn, though. It would be a huge leap of faith, when Honey could very well tell him to f*ck right off.