“So you don’t get hit in the head.”
“Yeah, I know what a helmet is.”
He sighs. “Then why’d you ask?”
“I just meant why’d you give me this one?”
He shrugs. “It’s pink.”
“And you just assumed that because I’m a girl I like pink?”
“Well, yeah.” He has the decency to look sheepish.
“This helmet is for a child.” It’s true. The pink helmet he gave me is for a little girl. Or a little boy. I’m not going to be all sexist the way Penn was and just assume that only a little girl could use it. Boys can like pink too. My little cousin Jeremiah likes to wear pink tutus during preschool dress-up time. At least he did until his parents freaked out and pulled him out of that school because they thought it was too progressive.
“Oh.” Penn takes the helmet from me. “Well, what about this one?” He picks up a black one and puts it on my head. It slides down over my eyes.
I push it back up. He laughs and shakes his head. “It’s too big for you.”
“No, it’s not.” I strike a pose and puff out my bottom lip. “It makes me look like a badass.”
Penn shakes his head, then walks over to one of the cages.
I become painfully aware that now that I’m wearing a helmet, he’s probably going to expect me to actually hit.
I follow him over to the batting cage, and he pulls a bat out from a bag that’s sitting against the wall.
I pick one up and try to pretend I know what I’m doing. I swing it around in circles.
“What are you doing?” Penn asks.
“Just, you know, warming up.” I toss it around a little more, hoping I look casual and natural.
“You’re holding that baseball bat like a golf club.”
“No, I’m not!” I quickly pick the bat up and rest it against my shoulder.
“Now you’re holding it like a purse.” He shakes his head. He steps behind me and puts his arms around my shoulders, showing me how to hold the bat. He smells like soap and vanilla and Axe body spray.
He swings my arms for me and little jolts of electricity fly through my body.
“Now, keep your eye on the ball,” he says.
A ball comes flying out of one of the machines, and I jump back and scream. “Ahhh!” I drop the bat, and Penn laughs.
“What the hell?” I say. “I wasn’t expecting that!”
“It’s on a timer,” he says. “Sorry. I should have warned you.”
“Wow,” I say. “What if I’d been hit? What if I’d died?”
“You weren’t going to get hit,” Penn says. He comes over and stands in front of me. “I would never have let you get hit.”
He’s staring at me with intensity, and I know he’s telling me the truth. I don’t know why, but I have the feeling that he would never put me in harm’s way.
“Fine, whatever, “I say, mostly because I can’t handle the way he’s looking at me. “Can I try it again?”
“Course.”
He puts his arms back around me. I’m finding it hard to concentrate when he’s this close. Another ball comes flying, and I feel his arms tighten, and then he’s swinging, and we make contact with the ball. It goes flying to the back of the cage.
“And that,” he says triumphantly, “is how you do it.”
We hit a few more balls, but his arms against mine are giving me goose bumps and making me feel dizzy. After a few minutes I step back.
“Had enough?” He grins.
“Kind of,” I say. “My arms are getting sore.”
He hits a few balls by himself, and I watch as his biceps flex. I try not to stare, but he’s good. Like, really good. The balls go flying all the way over the fence that’s against the back wall, and I can tell he was taking it easy on me. He’s strong.
I shiver, because it’s actually very sexy.
“So,” I say when the machine finally stops and Penn takes a break. “Why’d you stop playing?”
“Because the machine ran out of balls.”
“No, I mean . . . like, in general. How come you’re not on the team anymore?”
Penn shrugs. “Got hurt.”
“And you’re still hurt?”
“No. Well, I mean, I’m not in pain anymore.”
“Then why aren’t you still playing ball?”
He swings the bat and then tosses it onto the ground. “You ask a lot of questions.”
“You don’t ask enough.”
He grins and then crouches down and slides the bat back into the bag. “Yeah? And what am I supposed to ask you?”
“I don’t know. Isn’t there anything you want to know about me?”
He shrugs. “You told me all that fascinating stuff about yourself earlier, remember? And I already know you’re cool, you’re smart, and that you have medical anxiety.”
“I don’t have medical anxiety!” I notice that he didn’t call me cute, and I wonder if I should be offended. Do I want him to think I’m cute? I think again about how it felt when he had his arms around me a moment ago, and my pulse starts to race.
“Then why are you running from the nurse?”
“I’m not running from the nurse!” I think about it. “I’m hiding from her.”
He shrugs, then zips up the bag of bats and stands back up. “Whatever. Same difference.”
“Not really,” I say. “If I was running from her, I would have literally been running.”
“I meant running more in the metaphorical sense.”
“I know that.”
He takes off his helmet and shakes out his hair. His hair is a little bit shaggy, like he needs a haircut. He doesn’t look messy or anything, though. It just looks sexy. I swallow as he throws his helmet down onto the ground. A heat is moving through my body, starting in my toes and sliding up through my torso. I wonder what we’re going to do now. Is he going to take me home?
Before I can figure out if I want him to, the door to the batting cages opens, and two guys come strolling in. They’re both wearing navy-blue T-shirts and white track pants, the kind that snap up the side. They’re talking and laughing in that way guys do, the way that makes it clear they’re talking about something unsavory, like a girl they had sex with or how drunk they were the other night.
“I’m telling you,” one of them says, “it’s true.”
“I don’t doubt it,” the other guy says. “That’s so hilarious.” He draws out the word, making it sound like hi-lar-ious.
They move closer, and I recognize the taller one. It’s Jackson Burr. He’s in our class at school. I’ve never had much contact with him, though. He’s the type of guy I’ve always been afraid of—good-looking and unpredictable.
His gaze lands on Penn. “Well, well, well,” he drawls, “if it isn’t Mr. Mattingly himself. To what do we owe the honor?”
Penn shrugs, like the question is no big deal, but his shoulders tense up and his jaw sets into a straight line. “Just hitting.”
“Oh, yeah?” Jackson smiles and then looks at me, his eyes moving up my body, like maybe Penn was talking about hitting something else. “Who’s your friend?” I try not to feel insulted. Jackson Burr and I have been in a few of the same classes every year since we were freshman. You’d think he’d at least know my name.
Penn shrugs. “No one.”
Jackson must agree with him, because he turns his gaze away from me, like I’m dismissed. Wow. Talk about every single boy cliché happening in, like, the space of four minutes. Two guys talking like they think they’re the shit? Check. A guy writing me off because I don’t have blond hair and big boobs? Check.
I can’t believe Penn insisted I come here with him, and now he’s, like, pretending it means nothing.
“I have a name,” I say. I reach my hand out to Jackson. He looks back at me, surprised, almost like he’s startled that I’m there, even though a second ago he was undressing me with his eyes. “I’m Harper.”
“Harper,” Jackson say
s, like he’s never heard the name before. He reaches out and takes my hand. His hand is rough and kind of cold. “I’m Jackson.”
I think about telling him that I already know his name, that he’s been in a bunch of my classes, but then I figure, what’s the point? All it will do is give him a big head, that a girl he’s never noticed before knows who he is. So all I say is, “Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, too.”
Penn’s just standing there, still all tense.
Jackson’s friend is over in the corner, looking through a bag of bats, almost like he’s bored with this whole interaction.
“So,” I say. “Um, you guys were on the baseball team together?”
“Oh, me and Penn go way back,” Jackson says. “We’re old friends. Aren’t we, Penn?”
“Sure,” Penn says. But he’s not smiling. He turns to me. “We should get going.”
“You don’t have to leave on account of me,” Jackson says. “Stick around. We can hit together, like old times.”
I’m about to say I don’t mind, that if they want to hit together, I’ll just hang out and watch them practice, but I can tell Penn doesn’t want to. It’s weird. His whole vibe has changed. Before he was light and flirty, and now there’s a darkness permeating through him.
“No.” Penn shakes his head. “Come on, Harper.”
Jackson smiles again. “Okay,” he says. “Maybe another time.” Then he turns and looks at me. “I hope to see you around again, Harper. Don’t be a stranger, okay?”
I have no idea what he’s talking about, and then I get it. He’s trying to flirt with me because he wants to annoy Penn. I mean, think about it—when Jackson looked at me before, he pretty much wanted nothing to do with me. And now all of a sudden he’s going out of his way to talk to me? It’s obviously just to get under Penn’s skin. Is it working? Is it wrong that I hope it is?
I turn around to look at Penn, to see if he’s maybe getting all jealous over Jackson talking to me.
But I can’t see his face.
He’s already walking out of the batting cages, leaving me no choice but to run after him.
Penn
I hate Jackson Burr. He’s the biggest asshole I’ve ever met, and what just happened is a perfect example of why. That dude doesn’t give a shit about me or what I’m doing, and the only reason he even asks me that stuff is because he’s hoping I’m going to tell him bad news. He wants me to tell him bad news. He gets off on it.
I’m halfway out the front door of the athletic complex before I realize Harper is following me. Jesus. I almost forgot she was with me.
“Hey!” she yells. She’s struggling to walk across the parking lot in her strappy sandals. It must have rained while we were inside, because the sky is overcast and the pavement is dark and slick. Harper’s dodging little puddles as she races to catch up. “Hold on a second, would you?”
I slow down reluctantly. My body is filled with energy, and I don’t want to stop moving. “Sorry,” I say.
“What the hell was that about?” She takes a few more steps toward me, and then takes a big jump over a wider puddle, but she doesn’t quite clear it. Her foot splashes rainwater onto her shin.
“Shit,” she swears. She looks down at her soaked sandal, perplexed, like she can’t believe what’s happened. I try not to laugh.
I’m at my truck now, so I reach into the backseat, pull out a towel, and take it back to her. Harper looks at it doubtfully.
I roll my eyes. “It’s fine,” I say. “It’s not that dirty.”
“Not that dirty?”
“Yeah.” I shrug. “I probably used it, like, once.” That towel’s been in my truck for God knows how long, so I really can’t say for sure if I’ve used it once or a hundred times. But seriously, what does she think is going to happen? It’s just a towel.
“What if I get flesh-eating bacteria?” she asks.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Sort of.”
“My towel doesn’t have flesh-eating bacteria.”
“I’m not saying you have flesh-eating bacteria. I’m just saying that—”
“Good. Because I don’t. And therefore, neither does my towel.”
“Well, your towel technically could even if you don’t. Your towel could have come into contact with flesh-eating bacteria on its own. Or some other kind of bacteria. And it could have infiltrated the—”
Oh, Jesus Christ. I lean down and start drying off her foot with the towel.
“Hey!” she yells. “What do you think you’re doing.” She tries to kick the towel off, and her sandal goes flying through the air and lands in another puddle.
“Great,” I say, shaking my head sadly. “Now see what you’ve done?”
“What I’ve done?” She’s standing on one foot and she’s having trouble keeping her balance, so she puts her arms out to keep from falling over. I walk over and pick up her shoe.
“Yeah,” I say. “If you’d just let me clean you off without freaking out, you wouldn’t have lost your shoe.”
She glares at me and then takes a few hops. And that’s when she loses her balance and her bare foot steps right into a puddle.
“Oh God,” I say, mostly because I can’t resist. “Now you’re definitely going to get flesh-eating bacteria. It probably lives in that stagnant water.”
“No, it doesn’t!” She pulls her foot out of the water like it’s radioactive, and starts to sort of hobble toward the car.
“Oh, no way,” I say, rushing to catch up with her. “You are not getting into my car with a dirty foot.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” she says. “With all those straw wrappers you have on the floor? Now you’re worried about a little bit of dirt?”
I’m insulted that she’s insinuating I’m a slob. Yeah, maybe there are a few random straw wrappers on the floor of my car. But a few straw wrappers do not a slob make.
“Relax,” Harper says. “I’m not going to mess up your precious car.”
She’s still hopping on one leg, a little faster now, and I have a flash of her slipping and falling and cracking her head on the pavement. I run to catch up with her.
“Let me help you,” I say, putting my arm around her waist.
She tries to push me away. “I’m okay.”
“Please,” I say, and tighten my grip. “The last time you tried to push me away, your shoe ended up in a puddle.”
“Good point,” she grumbles. Her one sandaled foot slips on the pavement and she leans into me to keep from falling. As she does, her hair brushes against my cheek, and I’m surprised at how soft it is. She smells like flowers and coconut.
I lead her over to my car and open the door for her, then sit her down and finish wiping her foot off with the towel. Then I clean off her wet shoe and hand it back to her, before tossing the towel into the backseat.
“Thanks,” she says as she slips her sandal back on. She sounds shy, and her hair is falling over her face, making her look pretty adorable.
“You’re welcome.”
She scrunches up her lips and pushes them over to the side, like she’s thinking about something. The light is shining through the windshield, illuminating her face, and I think that maybe I’m going to have to kiss her. Which is weird. Because she’s way too nice for me to kiss.
Then why did you bring her here with you? Why were you thinking about her all day?
“So what’s the deal with you and Jackson?” she asks. She bends her legs and sort of pulls them against her chest, folding herself into my car sideways.
I’m still thinking about what it would be like to kiss her, so I move away and lean against the car, making it harder for me to see her.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, why was there all that tension?”
“There wasn’t tension.”
“Fine.” She shrugs. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”
“I don’t not want to tell you. It’s just t
hat there’s nothing to tell.”
She sighs. “You’re secretive, I get it. Obviously something very painful happened and you don’t want to get into it. It’s not a big deal, Penn. I’m not, like, offended or anything.”
I glance down at her, wondering if she’s joking. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“No.”
I shake my head. “Look, Jackson and I used to be friends. And now we’re not anymore. There’s nothing to tell.” There’s a lot more to tell. But I’m not going to talk about it with Harper. I don’t talk about it with anyone. Not Jackson. Not even myself. And so there’s no way I’m going to talk about it with some girl I just met. Even if she is hot and adorable all at once.
I can feel my mood darkening.
“Okay,” Harper says. I expect her to press me on things, but she doesn’t say anything else.
“Look,” I say. “I should probably take you home.”
The last thing I want to do is take her home. I want to keep her with me. And besides, I don’t want to go home. There’s nothing there for me, except Braden zoned out in front of the television, and my mom probably bustling around the kitchen, baking or doing something equally ridiculous, given the fact that my dad is gone again.
“Yeah,” Harper says. “I should get back. My mom’s probably freaking out about where I am.”
But she doesn’t move, and neither do I.
The door to the sports arena opens, and Jackson comes walking out. He heads over to his car and pulls some batting gloves out of the trunk, then disappears back inside.
Me and Harper just watch him, silently.
“So,” I say after a moment, “you want to go get something to eat?”
Harper
Is this a date? I can’t tell. I think it might be a date. We went to the batting cages and now we’re going to get something to eat. So we must be on a date. I mean, think about it. If someone said to you, “Hey, you wanna go to the batting cages and then maybe go out and get something to eat?” you’d think that was a date. Wouldn’t you?
And yeah, Penn didn’t exactly call me up and ask me if I wanted to do that stuff, it kind of just happened. But still.
“Where are we going to eat?” I ask. I haven’t had anything since lunch, but I don’t feel hungry. In fact, my stomach is filled with butterflies, and they’re swarming around and making me feel jittery. I’m thinking about how his hands brushed against my skin, and it’s making me all flushed.