I lied. Sort of. Dad is coming back into town any time now, but before going home, I need some serious head-clearing girl time. I find Becca by her Jeep in the parking lot after the game, tapping her phone’s screen. When she glances up and spots me, she tosses her phone into the driver’s seat without another look.
If Eric is quicksand, then Becca is my solid ground. She’s been the only constant in my life for a long time. Back when Dad started driving trucks, I’d stay at Becca’s for weeks at a time. A year passed before her parents not-so-discreetly told her that they could only house and feed me for so long.
She snuck me into her bedroom for another week before they noticed.
“I need a milkshake,” I tell her. “I need the biggest, most fat-filled deliciousness of milkshake that exists in town.”
Pursing her lips, she nods once. “Done. Sammy’s it is, then.” She flashes a smile and climbs into her seat. I head to my car and follow her across town. The roads are empty thanks to game night; nearly every place in this town shuts down when there’s a home baseball game.
Sammy’s is an old cheeseburger dive with chipped paint and horrible lighting. They also put any big-name fast-food place to shame. And I’m pretty sure their giant milkshakes are illegal in at least seven states.
Thank sweet Jesus for South Carolina’s love of amazing food.
Becca and I settle into a booth near the back, even though the place is deserted. A Dolly Parton song crackles through the one functioning speaker mounted behind us. Becca’s hair is drying a heck of a lot faster than mine, hers falling into flawless red waves while mine probably rivals a llama’s.
Or a drama llama. Which, with the way I’m feeling, isn’t entirely inaccurate.
Becca stares me straight in the eye. “Spill.”
I suck down half my milkshake before I finally have the guts to say, “Eric Perry.”
“Is hot.”
“Not helping.”
She tilts her head to the side, her shoulders heaving with her sigh. “It’s okay to like someone. Normal, even. Especially guys who are actually, you know, nice to you.”
I point at her. “No. I’m not allowed to like anyone right now. I need you to keep me in check.” I look out the window, at the caution light flashing across the wet, deserted street. That’s one thing I’ll love about leaving for college in August: going to a place that isn’t a total ghost town on nights like these, a place that has life outside of baseball. Sometimes I think that’s the only thing holding this town together.
“Fine,” Becca says, and I look back to her. “I’ll keep you away from the baseball boy.” She takes a sip of her milkshake. “But you’re not allowed to keep me away from the baseball boy’s friend.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Blake’s pretty hot. But he’s as much of a player as Eric.” As much as Eric used to be, anyway. Ever since that thing happened with Laura, I’ve barely seen him talk to another girl.
“This is where you and I are different. I’ll let him play me all he wants. Because I can play the game even better.”
My grin only grows. “What the heck am I gonna do without you next year?”
Her eyes widen. “No,” she says firmly. “We’re not doing that right now. It’s March. We’re gonna think about soccer, and hot baseball boys who are not douches, and the fact that you’re turning back into someone who actually smiles again.” She pauses. “I’ve missed you.”
Her words are a hit to the heart, but in a good way, I think. “I think I’m starting to find my way back,” I say after a moment.
She eyes me, shaking her head slowly. “No, I don’t think so. I’m not sure you can be that Bri again—you’re never really the same after something, or someone, like that, you know? But you can be a New Bri. A Take-No-Shit-Bri.”
I like that Bri. I hold out my cup, which she taps with her own. “I’ll drink to that.”
~
By the time I make it home, my stomach is full of ice cream and utterly blissful. Which is a good thing, because Dad’s truck cab is in the driveway.
His coming home is always a double-edged sword. On one side, I’m more excited than a kid in a candy store. On the other, it sucks. Because it’s only a matter of time before he leaves again.
But I’ve got to say, it’s sort of amazing to walk inside and already have the lights on.
Dad’s sitting on the couch, flipping through channels. And even if my stomach is in knots at the inevitable “this is how long I have” conversation, I grin and plop down beside him.
He slings his arm across my shoulder. Presses a kiss to the side of my head. Settles on some fishing show, which is incredibly lame, but whatever. One thing I’ve learned is to enjoy the time we do have with people.
“How was it?” he asks.
He asks the same question every time he comes home, and my answer’s always the same: “Fine,” I tell him.
And even though he knows good and well that it’s a bold-faced lie, he nods, just like he always does.
Something else I’ve learned: No one ever wants to address the elephant in the room, even if the elephant is tap-dancing around in pink stilettos. Sometimes a lie, and accepting that lie, is so much better than dealing with the painful headache of the truth.