The drive to the airport with Ashton is a lot different from the semi road trip Grant and Doris and I made to pick him up. There’s no playlist. It’s just the two of us, and he’s got his arm in a sling and a cast on that arm, which, kind of ironically, used to be Chassie’s look. The closer we get to the airport, the more of a sinking feeling I have in my stomach. I don’t want him to go. But he’s been given the all-clear to travel, and I’m sure he’s ready to get back home, and out of the South.
I miss the support of my friends, but it’s good we’re alone, because we haven’t had much time to just be together and talk about everything that’s happened.
The thing we’re not talking about is whether he’ll be able to play baseball again. We’re just going to have to wait and see, say the doctors. But he’s young and in good shape, and there’s a physical therapist in Chicago who works with Major League Baseball players who he’s already got an appointment with. If I had a Magic 8 Ball, I hope it would say Outlook good.
“This sure wasn’t how I thought this trip would go,” I say.
“Me either,” he says. “It sucks.”
“It does.”
He’s not done, though. “It really sucks that this is the world we live in. It sucks to be seen as a color, or a race, or a fucking cookie, before you’re seen as a person, if you’re even seen as a person at all. It sucks that this guy might have ruined my chances to play baseball in college. And it sucks that that’s something you’ll never truly understand, even if you want to.”
“I do want to,” I say, at the same time that I know he’s right. I think about what my mom said, how she was scared for me, but also about how I’m protected because of what I look like. I think about how people are still dressing up like they fought in the Civil War, more than 150 years after the Civil War has ended, and how that feels to me, but how it feels even worse to Ashton. I think about what happened to Doris on the waterslide, and how she was treated afterward. It’s not fair, that’s what I feel like screaming. None of this is fair.
“I’ve been so worried that once the painkillers wore off and you had time to think about everything you’d hate me. That you’d regret coming,” I admit. “That you’d never want to come here, or see me, again. And that you’d probably be right to think that.”
“No,” he says. “Pony, here’s the thing: It’s not about you. This is my body, my arm, my life. You’re going to have to let me process this, and not make it your thing, you know?”
I stare at the road, feeling tears well up in my eyes. “I’m sorr—”
“Don’t say it!” he turns to look at me. “And no crying, OK? I don’t think I can handle that right now. Plus, you’re driving.”
“OK,” I tell him, wiping my eyes. “Ash. I’m here for you, whatever you need me to do.”
He reaches over and takes my hand. “Listening is good. Not apologizing, not asking me how you should be or what you should do, but just really listening.”
“OK,” I say. “I can do that.”
“And there’s another thing.” He smiles. “I think it’s your turn to come see me next.”
“Really?” I ask. “You want me to?”
“I hate what happened here, but I’m not sorry I came to visit you. There was no way I was spending the whole summer without you. If I hadn’t been able to afford a plane ticket, I would have taken the freakin’ bus down here. And I feel like I know you even better now, even though it’s only been three days together here, and we had three months back in Illinois.”
“I guess there’s something about going to a hospital together that will do that to you,” I say.
“More like sleeping in your room,” he says. “I mean, I always knew you were kind of a nerd—” He’s grinning now.
“You did!?” I hit him—gently—on his good arm. “Well, you knew about the detective fiction at least. I can’t wait to start The Thin Man.”
“Hey, be careful!” he says, play-yelping. “Anyway, now that I’ve seen all your crime novels—”
“Detective fiction,” I correct him.
“Now that I’ve seen all of those lined up next to your books about coding and How to Become an Internet Entrepreneur—”
“Cat gave me that!” I say.
“Well, let’s just say I’m even more impressed. Dating a really hot girl who’s good at field hockey is one thing. Dating a future internet billionaire who loves books is even better.”
“Shhh.” I poke him in the stomach, and he starts giggling.
“Ow, don’t make me laugh! It hurts too bad.” He gets serious. “Hey, what’s going to happen with Grant? I still want to thank him for reporting that guy to the cops.”
We found that out yesterday, when a policeman stopped by the house to tell us Grant had been by on the night of the incident at La Casita, all bruised up. He’d told them Deagan Dunkirk had perpetrated a hate crime in the restaurant, attempting to hide his identity by wearing a bandana on his face.
“How did you recognize him?” they’d asked Grant.
“He told me to stay away from his sister,” Grant had apparently said. “Which points to a certain older brother in town who has a pretty good reason for beating the crap out of me. But his only reason for going after Ashton was because he’s not white. I think that makes it a hate crime, doesn’t it?”
“We’ll look into it,” the policemen had told him, and then tried to persuade Grant to go to the hospital to get checked out, but he’d refused. Later, they’d picked up Deagan. Once they found the bandana in his pickup truck, he’d admitted everything.
“Grant’s not returning any of our calls,” I tell Ashton. “And his mom won’t respond, either. We’re pretty worried.”
“You’ll hear from him,” Ashton says. “A guy like Grant isn’t going to ghost. You girls are too important to him.”
“Doris denies it, but I’m pretty sure Grant’s in love with her. Even after all this. Especially after all this.”
“He is,” says Ashton. “I’d recognize that look anywhere.”