The Natural History of Us Read online

  “Oh. Right.” He frowned at that, then shook his head and glanced back at the ball. “I got to meet Larry that day. He signed this and even showed me a proper grip.”

  Justin stretched his arm back, miming a perfect throw, and the harsh lines on his face faded away, transforming into a boyish grin. He dropped his hand and sighed. “Baseball’s been my life ever since.” He waved the ball in his hand. “And Larry, my favorite player.”

  I smiled. “He’s one of my dad’s favorites, too. I’m actually shocked he didn’t name any of us after him, but then, that’d be pretty weird whenever we saw him over at the house.”

  Justin’s eyes cut to mine. “What do you mean?”

  I lifted a shoulder. “Dad’s friends with him and he comes by the house sometimes. Mostly after a school visit to go over drills with the team. Dad brings him home for dinner. As you know, he’s really active in supporting local youth athletic teams.”

  As I spoke, every muscle in Justin’s body turned to stone. I scrunched my nose, clueless as to what I could’ve said to make him catatonic, and waited five, maybe six heartbeats before he closed his mouth and then asked, “Team?”

  Now I was really lost. “Well, yeah.”

  He had to know… right? I thought back over all our conversations, at school, at the ranch, and over text, and realized I’d never specifically said anything. I also never told anyone at school. The teachers knew, of course, but it never came up in class, and it wasn’t like I wore a neon sign over my head that said I was the Coach’s daughter. I’d just always assumed Justin knew.

  Judging from his current frozen form, I wasn’t so sure.

  Will this matter? Praying it didn’t, I tucked my hair behind my ear. “Justin, you know my dad’s your baseball coach, right?”

  A giant step back and a harsh, cynical laugh gave me my answer.

  SATURDAY, MAY 24TH

  2 Weeks until Graduation

  ♥Senior Year

  PEYTON

  SWEET SERENITY RANCH 1:35 P.M.

  “Hey girl, you ready to ride?” Annie Oakley’s wise eyes peer at me from her stall, saying more than she could even if she could speak. Everything I’ve already been thinking myself. “Yeah, I know. It’s been a while.”

  The ranch at least is quiet today. Dad already left for the ballpark and Mama is out buying supplies for the business. Trevor has a golf event, Faith and Cade are inside working, and I’m out here, trying to resurrect an old dream.

  “Don’t worry if you’re scared,” I say, gently tugging Oakley toward the barrel course Cade and I laid out just last week. “That’s perfectly normal. In fact, if you want to know a secret, I’m pretty scared, too.”

  Her soft whinny makes me smile and I comb my hand through her long, chestnut mane.

  It’s not as if the two of us haven’t ridden together since the accident. We’ve gone on walks around the pasture, even made it up to a slow trot. Easy instructional things with the kids. But slow and easy ain’t gonna cut it for the exhibition. It’s time for me to put on my big girl panties.

  We make it out to the course way too soon. A quick check around the field is enough to know we’re still alone. I can still back out if I want to. Walk away, give Annie an apple, and pretend this never happened. No one would be any the wiser. But even as I think it, I know that’s not true. I would know.

  Justin is a hell of a lot of things, but one thing he’s not, at least in this case, is wrong. There is a huge part of me that lives beneath the fear that wants to do this. Wants to break out of the steel prison of anxiety and feel the wind slap across my face again. My heart rate picks up speed just imagining it.

  A question bubbles to the surface, the same one that’s taunted me for years. What if?

  What if I really can do it again? What if I can find greatness, find that missing piece that’s been absent for so long, and be whole again?

  What if I’ve wasted my best years on the circuit for nothing?

  Obviously, the “what if” game is a double-edged sword. Not only the back and forth of doubts but the chance that things can go horribly wrong. I could fall again, get hurt worse than I was before. Or I could find out, once and for all, that it really is all over.

  That certainty is something I’m not sure I can handle.

  A strong breeze, unusual for this time of year, slaps my face, and I breathe deeply. “Enough navel gazing,” I mutter, channeling my dad. I take the reins and cluck my tongue. “Come on, girl. Let’s do this.”

  Luckily, the mechanics of riding still come naturally for me. After I mount Oakley, it’s easy to steer her toward the opposite end of the course. Easy in theory, at least. From the way my heart pounds, you’d think I was doing a heck of a lot more than a slow walk.

  Breathing through the anxiety bunching my stomach, I tell myself everything is fine.

  “Nothing we haven’t done before.”

  Oakley’s ears twitch at my voice and I close my eyes, visualizing success. As I rock back and forth in the saddle, I remember everything I need to do. The steps, the posture… the confidence. I open my eyes, exhale the fear, and glance at the doghouse one last time.

  With a cluck of my tongue, I nudge Oakley’s flank.

  Wind lashes my hair back as we pick up speed. My clucks continue, my spurs nudging us onward, knowing we’ll need to go much faster than this at the event. Hooves pound the earth beneath me as the first barrel approaches, so much slower than I ever remember, but that doesn’t seem to matter, because suddenly and without warning… it’s all too much.

  My heart racing impossibly fast.

  My chest squeezing with each pulse. I can’t. Catch. My breath.

  Fear coats my skin and I tremble as I push my heels out and forward. Self-loathing churns my stomach as I slide myself back in the saddle. My eyes slam shut and I pull on the reins, somehow finding enough air to force out one pathetic word. “Whoa.”

  Silence.

  The absence of wind.

  Only me, my hammering heart, and Oakley.

  And the answer to, “What if?”

  Fighting back tears, I soak in the moment of defeat. Saturate myself with it. In case I need further proof, I open my eyes and see where we slid to a stop, right in front of the first barrel. A humorless laugh breaks free, along with a blasted tear. We never made it beyond a slow freaking lope. If that doesn’t count as a failure, I don’t know what does.

  “Peyton!”

  I curse at Cade’s frantic voice, the rhythmic sound of his close, thumping footsteps telling me that my covert ride wasn’t nearly as secret as I’d hoped. Quickly, I swipe the telltale evidence of my tears and put on my game face mere moments before he rounds the fence in front of me.

  “Are you all right?” His eyes are wide behind his black frames. I hate that I scared him. Even more that I disappointed him. We both know that I’m far from all right, but I answer the only way my pride will allow. I roll back my shoulders, cluck softly, and nudge Oakley forward, around the first barrel.

  Cade watches, leaning his arms against the fence post as Annie and I walk—not trot, not lope, and certainly not gallop—around the second and then the third and then straight out of the ring. It’s not until we are headed back to the barn that I look back and meet his worried gaze.

  “It’s time to go to the game.”

  JUSTIN

  FAIRFIELD ACADEMY LOCKER ROOM 2:00 P.M.

  “Gentlemen, we’re almost there.”

  Coach Williams stands before us like the god of baseball that he is, a clipboard in one hand and pride in his eyes. The air feels charged, electric. Like the calm before the storm. The storm, of course, being us kicking Newfield Prep’s ass.

  “Today is just one more step to glory,” he says, looking around the room. “After today, we move on to the Semi-finals, and then, hopefully, the Regional Championship. For you seniors, that’ll be the curtain call for your time on this team. Some of you will go on to play college ball. Others, potentially drafted.” He
swings his gaze to me and I freeze. “I for one am eager as hell to say I coached you when.”

  A moment of understanding passes between us. This man has been more of a father to me than my own. It’s his opinion I value, his respect I crave. The thought of losing that in a few short weeks scares the hell out of me, and, perhaps sensing that, Coach holds my stare just a moment more before nodding and glancing away.

  “Until then, though, this is your team. This is your family.”

  I make eye contact with Carlos, Drew, and Brandon.

  “The stands out there are already packed. Parents and girlfriends, your classmates, they’re all here waiting to cheer for you. Scouts are here, too, ready to see what you’ve got. You should be proud. You’ve earned this respect and attention!”

  It’s impossible to explain to someone who’s never played a team sport. For someone who’s never put their faith and trust in their brothers, knowing they’ll have your back. To someone like that, this kind of speech can seem lame. But as I look at my teammates, the determination that blazes hot with every word our coach speaks, I know the truth. Moments like these are powerful.

  Coach lifts his chin and smiles. “You boys remember that when you take the field and show those suckers why the Hoakies own the diamond!”

  Boom. The entire team rushes to stand, lifting our voices as one in a raucous roar. If we didn’t want it before, we do now. We’re taking this win. We’re taking it for us, for our school, and for Coach, who deserves it a hell of a lot more than we do. He brought us here and it’s him we surround now, chanting and talking shit, acting pumped. Hell, it’s not acting. We are fucking pumped.

  The room swells with energy, and the strangest feeling floods my chest. It’s not painful, not really, but it’s intense. I drop my head, fighting to hold everything in. The emotion, the reaction. The words.

  My head is still down when Carlos finds me on the bench near my locker. “You nervous, man?”

  I raise my eyes and huff a laugh. “Do I look nervous?”

  His left eyebrow cranes, his right one drops, and I follow his pointed gaze to my bouncing leg. He lets it slide. “So the whole family showed today,” he says. “Got Gabi sitting with them, too.”

  He crosses himself and points to the sky, eyes closed in petition, and I give him the laugh I know he wants. It rings false and Carlos drops the constant grin.

  “Guess the old man’s traveling again, huh?”

  “Guess so.”

  I don’t know why I’m surprised. I lift my shoulder in a half-hearted shrug as someone somewhere turns on our game day tradition: Outkast’s “Hey Ya!”

  Why this song is our anthem, I have no idea. If I had to guess, I’d blame the fool sitting next to me. But right now, I couldn’t be more grateful for the distraction. Superstitions exist for a reason, and there’s not a player on this team who’ll dare hit the field before shaking it like a damn Polaroid picture.

  I exhale confusion and anxiety, breathe in eagerness and a sense of belonging. Carlos jumps to his feet, sticks out his ass, and begins popping it in the air like Beyoncé. Our first baseman beats on the lockers as Brandon and Drew leap on top of the benches. Everyone starts outdoing each other in how horrifically bad they can dance—and no doubt, it’s damn awful.

  The familiar tune works its magic and I bop my head, preparing for what is to come. Only one of us has any rhythm at all, and wouldn’t you know, he’s on a mission to cheer me up. Carlos grabs a discarded shoe as his microphone, rolls his hips in a circle, then bats his eyelashes like a chick before blowing me a kiss. I throw my head back in a laugh.

  “‘You think you’ve got it. Oh, you think you’ve got it.’”

  My best friend is certifiable. Not a shrink in town will tell you any differently, but he’s my boy, and other than my girl, he’s probably the only one to ever get me to genuinely smile. But when he breaks into the Carlton, and does a piss poor impersonation, I decide it’s time I step in.

  He can never do it like me.

  By the time we’re all shaking our Polaroids, I’m over the shit with my dad. Screw him. I didn’t need him to show up anyway. To Mitch Carter, fatherhood is paying bills and shoving training suggestions under the door. I don’t need those either. I’ve already got my partial ride to A&M, and if the season plays out, there’s a decent chance a pro team will draft me. Yeah, the salary will suck, but the signing bonus will be sweet, and my trust fund from my grandparents kicks in the day I graduate.

  College or pro… it doesn’t matter. I’m out of here the second I get my diploma. I’m leaving home and I’m not taking another cent of my father’s money. He thinks love is a fat bank account, well he can take his overstuffed checkbook and shove it.

  The playful music fades to silence and I turn with the team, breathing hard, as we look to our captain. The smile on Brandon’s face is cocky as he lifts his hands and yells, “Who’s ready to kick some ass?”

  Adrenaline surges through my blood stream as I scream with the chorus. This is ours to lose. Today, I’m not holding anything back. I’m leaving it all out on the ball field. Because those scouts out there watching in the stands, waiting for a good show?

  They’re my ticket to giving my old man the big F-U.

  ***

  The look in Carlos’s eye when he enters the dugout clearly says, don’t start. After three swings and a miss, it’s safe to say the boy is off his game. Grumbling, he tosses his gloves and helmet in the cubby, slides his cap back on his head, and falls on the bench beside me.

  Not taking my eyes off the field, I tell him quietly, “It’ll come.”

  The tension is getting to everyone. It’s another Texas scorcher and the stands are packed with anxious fans sweating it out on broiling metal seats. It’s the bottom of the fourth and we’re two runs ahead, not nearly the sort of margin our team is used to. But we’ll find our rhythm. Of that I have no doubt. Losing today isn’t an option.

  Knowing that Carlos needs to work it out on his own, I sit next to him without saying a word, drinking tepid Gatorade. A low buzz behind us signals an incoming text and it doesn’t take a genius to guess who it’s for. Reaching back with a sigh, Carlos grabs his phone and unlocks it, then grins like the whipped dope that he is.

  I lean over to get a look at the screen. It’s a picture of Gabi blowing him a kiss. No message, no words of wisdom. Just her showing her unique brand of unconditional love. I had that once.

  Nudging his arm, I say, “I know I talk a lot of shit, busting your balls and all, but that girl’s good for you.”

  Carlos nods and types out a quick reply. “I know it.”

  As my best friend finds comfort with his woman, I stretch my arms out, casually glancing out into the stands. Far left, third row, right next to the dugout, to be exact. Otherwise known as Sunshine’s seat.

  Ever since freshman year, she’s sat in the same exact spot. She never misses a chance to support her dad. Once there was a time she came to support me. With her attention focused on Drew out at bat, I push to my feet, preparing for my turn, and simply watch her.

  I love everything about this sport. You can’t fake it in baseball. It’s pure and honest and demands excellence. Another reason why I love playing it, at least at Fairfield Academy, is the uninterrupted excuse to watch the girl who owns my heart. Every time I grab my helmet and gloves from the cubby at the end of the dugout, I get to look at her. Every once in a while, I even catch her looking back. That makes my whole damn day.

  Now, as I tug on my gloves, I know she feels me staring. A slow flush rises on her peaches and cream skin, and her legs suddenly move with a restless twitch. I smile. Despite what she says, her body can’t hide how much I affect her. How much she still wants me. It gives me hope for an entire thirty seconds—until I spy Cade shuffling down the bleachers.

  I glance away before he sits. I can’t watch him take her hand or make her smile. Not when that hand belongs in mine, and those smiles are meant for me. Instead, I glance at the coi
n in my hand, remember a different day, and use that memory to center me for my turn.

  I take a deep breath, feel the calming weight of Peyton’s coin in my palm, and place it in my sock before heading out onto the field. I’m ready.

  SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 12TH

  16 Weeks until Disaster

  ♥Freshman Year

  PEYTON

  FAIRFIELD ACADEMY BASEBALL FIELD 3:12 P.M.

  My confidence lasted as far as the parking lot.

  The diamond behind the school was most definitely Justin’s turf. He had his areas in the school, I had mine, and rarely did the two meet. Sure, I sat in the bleachers, watching practices and games, but the two of us didn’t talk. Heck, we barely made eye contact. Up until now, our friendship had been kept completely separate from our everyday lives, away from prying eyes, and if things had continued as they were before, it probably would’ve stayed that way indefinitely. But ever since the day Justin discovered who my father was, things had been awkward. Stilted. Strained. I didn’t like it.

  My plan for today involved stepping up my new life philosophy, doing what scared me, with the total acknowledgement that I’d likely get burned. If Justin was that uncomfortable hanging out with me because of my dad, I wouldn’t force him to be my friend. And if being seen with the coach’s daughter/nerdy new chick embarrassed him around his friends, well, I could take a hint. But he was worth at least a fight.

  “Hey, Carter, you got a sec?”

  He was standing alone a few yards away from the dugout, beyond the short fence, shaking his legs out before the game. I figured this conversation was best done minus an audience.

  Justin glanced over and his entire demeanor changed. “Peyton.” His eyes brightened with his smile… though I didn’t miss the cursory glance he gave toward the dugout. “What are you doing here?”