The Art of Losing(30)

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “It was.” My jaw tightened. “I could have let it go. I didn’t have to argue with him or antagonize him. But I’m just so tired of guys being complete dicks when they’re drunk. I just . . . lost it.”

“I know, sweetie,” she said, stroking my arm. “But Raf’s not drinking anymore. He might be one of the good ones.”

“What if he starts drinking again, though?” I said. “I can’t handle that. I can’t fall for another drunk asshole. No matter how cute or sweet or nice he is.”

Cassidy pursed her lips. She clearly wanted to say more but knew better when I was in this mood. “Good luck with that,” was all she said.

She turned back to the game. But I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to keep talking about this. About Raf. I needed to talk myself out of the way I was feeling about him.

“No, seriously,” I said.

Cassidy’s pursed lips widened into a smile.

“Come on, Cass. Think about Raf,” I went on. “He’s not what I’m looking for. Who I should be with. He barely graduated, he’s going to community college, and he just got out of rehab! I can’t be with a guy like that. He’s a mess.”

Cassidy lifted her shoulders. “Let me just say this: on paper, Mike looked pretty good,” she said in a flat voice. “Maybe you shouldn’t be so quick to judge.”

I opened my mouth, then closed it. She was right. Mike was from a middle-class family, went to my school (a private school), was a good athlete and better student, and was going to a four-year college, presumably. Good on paper. The type of guy who should appeal to me.

But she was right, and we both knew it.

Still, I had one rebuttal. “Are you actually defending Rafael Juarez as a legitimate relationship option? The guy we cursed with a voodoo doll after he stood me up the summer before eighth grade?”

She shrugged again, eyes glued to the field, even though she had zero interest in the game. “I’m not the one who kept thinking about him. Who never stopped thinking about him.”

I was out of points to argue. Cassidy’s smug smile meant she knew she’d won.

Rather than admitting it, I moved next to Spencer.

“Are you having fun?” I asked him. “Do you need anything?”

He didn’t seem to notice I was there. His eyes were pinned to the pitcher from the Mets, who was about to throw the final pitch of the inning. If I’d been paying attention, I would have known to wait a few more seconds. But once the inning was over, Spencer relaxed his shoulders a little bit, finally turning toward me.

“Last time we came to a game, Audrey bought me this hat,” he said, touching its brim.

I blinked a few times. “Oh yeah,” I whispered. “I forgot about that.” Or maybe I’d just blocked it out.

It shouldn’t have surprised me that Audrey had used the money she’d earned babysitting on a gift for Spencer; she did stuff like that all the time. I teased her about her “random acts of kindness.” That was the kind of person she was. But still, I didn’t get it. When I asked her about it later, she just said it made her sad to think that Spencer didn’t have a dad who would do stuff like that for him. And that, of course, made me feel like crap. There was a reason I didn’t get it. I never thought about things like that.

She was the better one of us Langston girls. Even Spencer knew it.

“Do you miss her?” I asked him.

Spencer shrugged. Audrey’s restlessness had never meshed well with his studious reticence. He and I, though, could sit next to each other and read for hours without saying a word and be perfectly happy. At Thanksgiving, we would do exactly that while Audrey bustled around the kitchen, peeling brussels sprouts and mashing potatoes, setting the table, and doing whatever she could to keep busy.

Spencer hadn’t said a word about Audrey until now, but that wasn’t unusual. He wasn’t exactly the emotional type. So I let him be, since he seemed to be enjoying himself. Silently. No wonder I liked this kid. A quiet kid was my favorite kind.

The Nationals eventually won, so Spencer beamed the entire time that we walked to the car. Me . . . not so much.

We’d sweated buckets and spent exorbitant amounts of money stuffing ourselves with mediocre hot dogs and Cracker Jacks and ice cream. The hallways were mobbed. And loud. Lots of whoops and chants and the occasional person swooping out of nowhere to demand a high five. Almost everyone had stayed until the end of the game and the parking lot was, well, a parking lot. The lines of cars were barely moving.

Raf let Spencer ride shotgun again so he could dangle his leg out the open door. He was fascinated with the idea that doors could actually be removed. Of course, his mom still made him sit in the back seat of her hybrid sedan with his seat belt fastened before she would even turn on the car.

Once we were finally on the road, I made Spencer put on his seat belt and promise to keep his arms and legs inside. I may not have thought of buying him a hat, but I’d at least keep him safe.

After dropping Cassidy off, Raf drove Spencer and me to our neighborhood. He pulled slowly around the cul-de-sac and parked on the street between our houses. Spencer leapt out as soon as the car stopped and ran inside to go to the bathroom, leaving me and Raf alone.

He offered me his hand to help me out of the back seat.

“So, tomorrow,” he said.