Riding With Brighton(32)

“See, I knew it. You got a dirty mind on you.”

“No, you’ve got the dirty mind. I’m talking about actual dirt. Come on.” I step out of the Bronco that’s now parked behind my truck.

“What are you doing?”

I open my truck and get my equipment bag out. “You want to play some ball?”

“Are you kidding me? That’s what you want to do right now, play ball?”

“What else am I gonna do?”

“I don’t know, cry into a quart of Ben and Jerry’s?”

“I’m gay, not a woman,” I tell him, walking to the path that leads back to the rocket park where our day began.

“So maybe you are a dumb jock asshole?”

“Huh?” I turn around, walking backward, so I can look at him.

“Your comment about women. It was kind of douchey.”

“What? Why? That’s what women do when they’re sad, don’t they? Eat ice cream and cry? That’s what my mom does. And all the women on TV.”

“You’re generalizing. Like all gay guys are feminine.”

I roll my eyes. “Fine, I’m a dumb asshole. Maybe you can fix me.”

He’s walking a few inches from me now. He reaches out and grabs ahold of my waist, pulling me to him and kissing me softly on my lips. I kiss him back, thinking about the comment he made earlier about how some people’s kisses are compatible. We definitely have that. “I don’t think you need fixing.”

“So you like dumb assholes?”

“Maybe I do.” He laughs, letting go of my waist and turning me around. I grab his hand as we walk down the path and he looks at it—our hands—and then smiles at me. “So baseball, huh?”

“Yeah. As a dumb jock, this is what I do when I’m feeling stressed out. What about you? What do you do?”

“Music. Definitely music.”

“Maybe we can try that next… if this doesn’t work,” I suggest. I would be damn happy if he just wanted to go chill at his house. Because, yeah, I want to be the guy that he can lie on his bed and listen to music with. I want to have dinner with his family, even if his mom’s cooking. I want to see him in a damn suit.

“Maybe,” he tells me with a wink.

When we get to the old baseball diamond, I drop my bag and unzip it. “Can you pitch?”

“Of course I can pitch. Despite the fact that I’m gay.”

“Shut up. That’s not what I meant. You don’t play sports.”

“I know that’s not what you meant. You’re just so fun to mess with. Cooper plays ball, which means I spend a lot of time practicing with him.”

I throw my bats on the ground and hand him one of my gloves and the bag of balls. “You’re a good older brother, huh?”

“I like hanging out with him and Paisley so, yeah, I guess I am. What about you?”

I walk to where home plate used to be, and Brighton walks to where a mound should be and drops the bag. “I don’t know if I’m a good older brother or not. Tyson doesn’t really give me a lot of opportunities to find out. He’s moody as hell and spends most of his time locked up in his room.”

He pitches me the ball and it’s no strike, but I manage to hit it anyway. “How old is he?”

“Fifteen. He’ll be sixteen next month, and then I’m guessing I won’t see him at all once he has the freedom to leave the house whenever he wants.” The next pitch is better and I hit it to the edge of the playground.

“Good one,” he says before pitching another ball. “Has he always been like that? Distant?”

“No. We used to be pretty close, but you know how it goes—middle school hits, you get a whole new set of friends, which in his case I’m pretty sure were a group of aliens skilled at lobotomies because overnight he turned into a different kid completely.”

I think about that as I keep hitting the balls Brighton’s throwing me. I love the way it feels when my bat connects. I love the crack it makes when it hits the sweet spot. I love the way my body feels when it’s fully extended. My brain vacates. I’m all feel and no thought.

But this is a different kind of cleansing, like I’m finally seeing clearly. “I think he’s probably on something. He’s definitely smoking and drinking.” Shit. There’s another thing I’ve been lying to myself about. “God, this clarity shit sucks.”

Brighton laughs. “It’s hard being the older brother. I worry about Cooper and Paisley all the time.”

“That’s the thing,” I say, taking a break, letting my bat hang by my feet. “I don’t worry about him enough. I’ve been living inside my fucked-up, confused head, not worrying about anything but myself.”

“You’re too hard on yourself, Jay. You realize that, don’t you?”

He walks across the dirt to me and takes the bat from my hands. I let it go and head to the bag of balls. “I don’t think that’s true. I mean, I haven’t been taking any responsibility for my own life.” I pitch to him, and he hits it easily. God, this kid really can do anything. It’s a little annoying. “And like I said earlier, existing in your shadow just makes all my flaws obvious.”

“I think what you’ve been doing today is pretty amazing. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to do it. Existing in your shadow isn’t easy either.” I look at him skeptically. He swings at my next pitch and misses. “See, I’m not perfect.”