Better With You, page 8
I keep trying to be angry with her, but I just end up pissed at myself.
I did this.
I made my bed, and now I have to lie awake and stare at the ceiling in it.
Turning up my gym playlist, I step up to the squat rack. I start every set with “Drop” by G-Eazy, and as soon as the beat hits, my head clears of the bullshit.
I’m halfway through my second set of heavy squats when the gym door opens and in walks Xavier, one of my roommates and my catcher. Of all the guys on the team, I’m closest to Zay. I gotta be. He’s my partner on that field. But even with that connection, I still wouldn’t call us close—not since last year, at least. I have to keep all my plays close to the vest these days.
My nerves jump. I wasn’t ready to face one of them yet, and I watch him closely as he heads in my direction, scanning for any sign that he might know something. He’s wearing his team sweats, his Beats are already on his head, and his face is a bored mask. He steps up to the rack next to me, nods in my direction, then starts stretching. When he begins his set without saying a word to me, I release a relieved breath and get started on my final set.
I’m on my first set of light deads when Zay finally strikes up a conversation.
“Missed the party last night,” he says, eyes on his reflection in the wall mirror.
“Yeah,” I nod, focusing on putting more chalk on my hands, “wasn’t feeling it.”
He just grunts. Face still bored. Tone still nonchalant. He positions himself under the bar and starts a set of squats, so I step back up to my bar and start a set of deads.
We finish our sets at the same time, and when I step back to take a breather, he drops a bomb.
“There was a cool live stream on The Morning Show yesterday.”
I freeze, and my eyes snap to him. He’s still facing the wall mirror, arms folded on top of the racked bar, but he’s looking right at me.
I keep my face neutral. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He positions himself back under the bar and readies his stance for another set of squats. “Some cookie competition for that café on Main Street.”
I swallow and say nothing.
“I was at the house. Watched it on my phone.” He meets my eyes in the mirror once more. “None of the other guys were awake yet.”
I nod, and he starts another set, leaving it at that.
When I finish my deadlifts, I head to the mats for some core work, and twenty minutes later, I’m packing up to head out. I swing by Zay, where he’s moved to the deadlift bars.
“Since when do you watch The Morning Show?” I ask as he drops the bar and steps back for a rest. He shrugs and takes a drink from his water bottle.
“Since sophomore year, I think.” He flashes me the faintest of smiles, super rare for Zay. “Carmen Fredricks is hot, and I like when they do the ‘About Town’ segments. Found some cool local places that way.”
“Cool.” Zay really is a man of mystery. “Welp, I’m gonna head out. See you at the house.”
“See ya.”
* * *
“My dude!” Dylan yells as he comes through the front door later that evening. I can hear him kicking off his shoes on the mat and the jangle of his keys being hung on the hook. He comes down the hallway, sees me sitting at the kitchen table, and slaps me on the shoulder in greeting. “Riggs, man. Missed a banger of a party last night.”
“I bet.” I laugh at the sight of him. Pretty sure he was wearing those same clothes when I saw him on Friday, and he looks like he’s about to pass out. “You look like shit.”
“I feel it.” He rummages in the fridge and pulls out a beer. “Gotta get my partying in before preseason. You know coach will flip shit if we go crazy once training starts.”
“You mean your dad will flip shit.”
“Yeah, don’t remind me, bro.” Dylan’s dad is one of our assistant coaches, and he’s definitely tougher on Dylan than the rest of the team, which is saying something, because Coach Neal is a hardass. I’m lucky I spend most of my time with Elbin, the pitching coach. I’d have a constant headache if it was Coach Neal in my ear all season.
Dylan pops open the tab on his beer and takes a swig. The front door opens again, signaling the arrival of Xavier. He comes strolling into the kitchen and nods at us, me sitting at the table with my notebook and laptop, and Dylan leaning against the counter gulping down his beer. I watch him from the corner of my eye. Is he going to say anything about seeing me in the gym?
“Missed quite the party last night,” Zay says to me, no inclination that he’d already said those words to me just a few hours earlier.
“I heard.” I tap my pen on my open textbook.
“Thought you said you were gonna come out.” Zay eyes me and then pulls two more beers out of the fridge. He’s gonna pretend we didn’t see each other. Thank fuck.
“Yeah,” I shrug, “wasn’t feelin’ it.”
“Were you feelin’ Talia?” Dylan jokes, and jabs Xavier’s shoulder. Zay just brushes him off, hands me a beer, and heads toward the living room.
“Nah.” That’s all I give him, but flash him the suggestive smirk I know he’s expecting. I let them think what they want. I play into it, sure, but the assumptions are theirs.
“Then it was that little punk rock pixie emo chick.” I choke on my beer. Dylan’s sporting a smug grin and lifts his eyebrows as if he’s uncovered a huge secret. “The one with the green hair and the bike.”
I can feel Zay’s eyes on me when I set my beer down and hit Dylan with a glare. “How do you know about her?”
“Saw her leaving last weekend at like four in the morning. At first, I thought I was drunk and seeing things.” He snorts, and my heart kicks up. “Like a little fairy sprite skipping across our lawn and climbing onto a fucking motorcycle.”
“Fairies and sprites are basically the same thing,” Xavier says from the couch.
“Shut up, dude. You know what I mean. She’s tiny and has green hair.”
“It’s turquoise,” I say without thinking, which makes Zay and Dylan swing their attention back on me. Dylan is smirking like an ass and Zay just looks...bored. Like usual. “What? It’s turquoise. Learn your fucking colors”
“So, you are boning her.” Dylan is such a douche. “No worries, dude. We won’t tell Talia. Bro code.”
“Past tense,” I say, my irritation with Bailey from yesterday making a powerful resurgence. She’s read all my texts but hasn’t responded. “Boned. She’s old news.” The words taste bitter on my tongue, and it takes all my strength to keep my smirk from turning into a scowl.
“Dick down and dash,” Dylan raises his beer in salute. “My man.”
I smirk and shrug, but Zay butts in. “Sounds like she was the one dashing.”
I send a glare his way, but he’s not even looking at me. He still looks bored, his attention now on the flat screen as he skims through channels.
When Dylan cracks up laughing, I decide I’ve had enough.
“I’m out.” I start gathering my shit and shoving it back into my backpack.
“Bro, it’s only eight.”
“Tired,” I huff, and walk to the stairs.
“I bet Talia’s tired too,” Dylan calls from behind me, but I ignore his dumb ass and head up to my room.
I drop my backpack on my desk chair—no use trying to study now—and head into my en-suite bathroom for a shower. Perks of my dad owning the townhouse—I get the master. I’m going to shower and pass out. I’m over this weekend.
* * *
I’m jolted awake by my phone, the ringtone I saved for my mom sounding from it loudly. I take a breath, momentarily paralyzed, and then give my head a shake. She didn’t call yesterday, I remind myself. She’s checking in. I grab the phone and answer.
“Maman?”
“Mon étoile.” Her lilting voice greets me, and I slowly release my breath.
“Hi, Mom,” I say with a smile. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine, darling. How are you?” She dodges the question, but I won’t press. This is a call for happy news.
“Good, good. I’ve got a surprise.”
“Oooh, do tell.” I can hear the excitement in her faint French accent, and it’s almost enough to hide the slight slurring.
“Remember how I told you I was entering that baking contest? The one for that café on campus?”
“Bien sûr.”
“Well, I made the palets de dames aux raisons that you like. I used your recipe.”
She ooohhs softly and I can tell she’s pleased. It makes me smile and my heart swell. I love her happy.
“And how did you do?”
“I won, Mom.”
“Oh, that is wonderful! Congratulations!”
My smile is bigger than my face one second, elated that I’ve made her proud, but it immediately falls when I hear a small gasp.
“You sure you’re okay, Mom?” I ask, trying to keep my tone calm. “I can come home.”
“I am fine, Alex. Do not worry. I will see you soon.”
“Okay.” I inhale and exhale. “Okay, Mom. You get some rest. It’s late.”
“Tell Talia I send my love.”
“I will. We’ll video chat with you soon.”
“Je t’aime, mon étoile.” Her voice, while full of love, is weary. I close my eyes and force yet another smile.
“Je t’aime, Maman. See you soon.”
When I hang up, on impulse, I check my text thread with Bailey.
Nothing. Of course, nothing.
I shoot off a text to Talia, letting her know we need to schedule a video chat with my mom, and then I lie back on my pillow. Talia won’t respond until morning. Bailey won’t respond ever. My mother is...well. She is what she is.
When I finally fall back asleep, it’s with a frown on my face.
7
First thing Monday morning, I make the call I’ve been dreading to Flannagan’s. When Mrs. Flannagan answers the phone, I clamp my eyes closed. It’s reality, now. My failure. It’s unavoidable.
“Flannagan’s, this is Josie, how can I help you?” Her raspy voice fills my ear, and I force a smile, thinking maybe she’ll hear it over the phone.
“Hi, Mrs. Flannagan. It’s Bailey Barnes.”
“Ah, Bailey. How’s school?”
“Oh, um, it’s good. I was actually calling because—”
“Hon, you need me to grab Michael?”
I sigh and nod slightly. “Yes, please.”
I know I sound meek. Tired and quiet. I can’t muster enthusiasm today. Not when I have to own up to yet another failure. I zone out in self-pity while on hold, the dulcet jazz music lulling me into a false sense of calm. A murky, sad calm, but calm, nonetheless.
“Bailey, what can I do ya for?” Mr. Flannagan says by way of greeting. He seems chipper, but he knows. I know he knows.
“Hey, Mr. Flannagan. I was just calling to let you know I’m gonna have to put a hold on my order again. It’s just...well, some things fell through, and...”
“It’s not a problem, Bailey,” he says, voice soft and tinged with something I hate. “You don’t need to explain. We’ll hold it as long as you need.”
I blow out a breath and squeeze my eyes shut again. “Thanks, Mr. Flannagan. I appreciate it.”
“You just call and let us know when you’re ready, alright? We won’t set a date. We’ll just wait till you say go.”
I know it’s for the best, but I wilt some more at the idea of not having an official deadline. What can I do, though? It’s not like I can keep having them put me on their schedule only to shove it back again. They’ve got a business to run, after all.
“Sure thing, Mr. Flannagan. Thanks again.”
“You take care of yourself, Bailey. No getting into trouble with them Hoosiers. Don’t get comfortable there.”
I snort a laugh. As if my Podunk hometown in central Illinois is more desirable. “No worries, Mr. Flannagan. Bye.”
I hang up with Mr. Flannagan and then make a call to Jada, my manager at Bar 31. She’s been wanting me to pick up serving shifts at Cheap Seats, the campus sports bar. It’s owned by the same guy that owns Bar 31 and sometimes we trade staff. I’ve always turned her down because: a) serving requires way more schmoozing than bartending, and b) I freaking loathe sports. Too loud, too many people, too much shit I don’t care to understand.
Sure, we get customers in to watch games on our bar televisions, but it’s nothing compared to Cheap Seats. That’s where the fanatics go. I just...ugh.
I’m desperate. There’s no other way around it. So, I bite the bullet and pull up her contact, the very action sending a pang of surrender through me.
The call is short, and when I hang up, I’ve agreed to pick up a serving shift this Wednesday.
As in, Wing Wednesday.
Fifty-cent wings draw almost as big of a crowd as football.
Fuck me.
I hate Wing Wednesday.
Not only do I have to wear this ugly blue Cheap Seats t-shirt that’s two sizes too big, but I’ve only been here two hours and I’ve already had half a pint spilled on my jeans and ketchup dropped onto my shoe. And, of fucking course, I forgot my non-slips, so the ketchup is on my checker-board Vans. No way I’ll be lucky enough to find another pair of those at the thrift store, so that ketchup better come out or I will riot.
“Bailey,” Sarah shouts from the hostess stand. I can barely hear her over the buzz of conversations and the drone of the music, but I see her wave me over, so I weave through the crowd and high-top tables until I’m in front of her.
“What’s up?” I fidget with the loopy bow of my apron strings.
“I need you to take table 32. It’s not in your section, but Erika just got sat with a fifteen-top and she’s in the weeds.” Her eyes are all business. Sarah runs a tight ship.
“I don’t know what any of that means, but sure.”
She rolls her eyes at me and turns to greet some new customers. While I’m waiting for her to check them in and put them on the waiting list, I readjust my ponytail, then grab a napkin from the stand and swipe it over my forehead and the back of my neck. It’s hot as shit in here.
Sarah turns back to me as I’m tying my giant t-shirt up on the side with my extra hair tie. An inch of my stomach shows, and you can just see the crescent moon tattoo on my hip peeking out of my jeans. I’m doing it so I don’t sweat to death, but if it also gets me tips, I’m cool with it.
“Fifteen-top means a table with fifteen customers. In the weeds means she’s busy as fuck. Table 32 is the big corner booth in the back of Erika’s section.” I nod and she shoves five menus at me. “Go with God.”
I snort a laugh and head to table 32, swinging by the drinks station to get five ice waters first.
As I approach the corner booth, I recognize a very familiar head of hair tied into a half-bun, brown scruff on a strong jaw, and tree trunk-like biceps. Riggs.
Next, I recognize a familiar brunette beauty, with expensive highlights and a Vogue cover model face, who just happens to be draped all over Riggs. Talia.
Awesome.
I’ve blocked his number and so far, have avoided looking him up on social media. I almost caved last night. I have a feeling this encounter will make or break my restraint. I steel my resolve, put on a sugary sweet smile, and walk up to the table.
I don’t give a shit.
“Hey, guys,” I chirp as I set out the ice waters. “Welcome to Cheap Seats. I’m going to be your server tonight.”
I stand tall and lock my eyes on Riggs. He’s staring at my hip, right where the crescent moon tattoo is peeking out, and I can feel the heat radiating from where his eyes are focused. I hate the pang of longing that prickles over my skin. I clear my throat loudly and his attention snaps to my face. He knows I caught him; his body is stiff as stone, but his face is an impassive mask. I raise a brow and take a minute to look him over before dropping an impromptu bomb. “My name’s Alex.”
So much for pretending like I don’t give a shit.
Riggs’s eyes flare slightly, and then I look at the rest of the table. Talia is squinting at me like she knows something’s up, but the other people at the table—two more guys and a girl—are completely clueless.
“Our special tonight is fifty-cent wings. That includes nuggets—I mean boneless. Can I get you guys started with something to drink besides water?”
I’m passing out the menus when one of the guys at the table—blond, fit, probably one of the jock roommates—calls me on my shit.
“Wait,” blondie shouts, “your nametag says Bailey.”
I widen my eyes at the guy, the picture of innocence, and say with a fake surprised giggle, “Oh! It does.” Then I look back at Riggs, drop the smile, and deadpan, “my bad.”
Everyone is quiet for a minute as Riggs and I have a stare off, but then Talia slides her perfect hand down his shoulder and draws my attention to her.
“We’ll start off with two pitchers of Miller Lite, please.” She’s all smiles, but I can’t stop thinking about her slender fingers and elegantly manicured nails gripping on to those familiar biceps. “We’ll need a minute for our food order.”
I nod and give her a tight-lipped smile, then turn on my heel to put in their drink order.
I grab the pitchers from the bar and enlist the help of one of the bussers to bring the glasses since I don’t trust myself with a heavy tray. I’m still a novice at this serving thing and I’m not trying to spill a shit-ton of beer or break a bunch of glasses, especially not in front of these jerks. Riggs Stanton will never catch me off my guard ever again.
They’re talking about me when I head back to the table. I can tell from the way their heads are bowed and their eyes keep shifting toward me. Of course, their conversation stops when I step up with the drinks, but I grit my teeth and swiftly get to work, setting up the glasses and pouring the first round of drinks into the pints. It’s dumb that we have to do this—I’d much rather drop the pints and pitchers and be done with it—but the manager requires us to pour the first round, so I do it. Because I also am not trying to piss off the boss.
