I didn’t call Wes with the latest revelation I learned about his life. I simmered on it, spending hours trying to make sense out of everything Grace said. It isn’t so much the part about Wes as it is the part about what my mother tried to do.

When Grace came into my room to comfort me, I let her. I acted the part—broken daughter who is trying to understand that her mom wasn’t well. The only thing I really understand is why nobody told me. I’m glad they didn’t, but I’m also glad I know. I think now was the right time for me to find out. As much as it hurts, it slides so many of my puzzle pieces in place, and the picture of me and my mother that was fuzzy for so long is so much clearer.

None of this was me. It wasn’t that I wasn’t wanted, or that I was some experiment to see if my presence would fix all of the broken things in my parents’ relationship. Nothing was going to fix things for my mom. She would never be happy—her mind and body simply wouldn’t let her. And as much as I mourn the joys I missed out on because of it, I feel this odd sense of closure on all of those painful wounds I carried around for so long.

None of it was my fault.

I slept; I think because of the peace. I dreamt of things that didn’t make sense—a new candy machine in the school hallway, a speech I was supposed to give in English that I wasn’t prepared for, and some chalk drawing in my driveway that looked like hopscotch. In my dream, I had both of my legs, and I hopped all the way into my garage.

Even now, as Wes pulls up to the curb and I finish the last bite of my Pop-Tart, I don’t feel anger or resentment. This is my life…and that was my mom’s. Neither could be helped.

“Your dad’s back in the gym today?” Wes asks as I climb into the passenger seat.

“Life as usual. That’s how we do things in the Winters house, we just mow right through the crap and pretend we never saw it,” I laugh, buckling my belt as Wes pulls away.

My phone buzzes just as I’m bending forward to tuck it in my bag, so I bring it back to my lap and see Rebecca’s name. Wes turns his stereo down so I can hear.

“Hey, it’s me,” I say, pulling the phone away from my ear for a second just to check the time. “Were we supposed to work out this morning?”

“No, and I know it’s early. I figured you’d be on your way to school?” she asks.

“I am,” I say.

“Good. Do you have your equipment?” I glance to Wes and he slows the truck down as I hold my finger up.

“I’m right by the house, so I can get it,” I say, swirling my finger in the air and asking him to turn around.

We’re back at my house in seconds, so I get out of the truck and continue to talk while I gather my things from the garage. There’s a new stain on the concrete in the middle of the ground, and I stop to stare at it while Rebecca explains that the magazine wants to get some shots today of me working out at the field. She says she’s cleared it with the school. I respond with automatic “okays” and “uh huhs,” but my focus is on that stain. It’s oil from the car I owned for less than a day. The last bit of proof that my dad’s gift to me was parked right here before police hauled it away as evidence.

“Do you think my dad can be in the shots with me?” I ask, snapping my focus back to Rebecca. I’ve interrupted her, and I’m not sure what she was saying. “He’s just been an important part of my progress. People should see the value of family.”

I spin it for her to sell to the magazine, and it works. She agrees and we hang up as I shut the garage and carry my things out to Wes’s truck. I didn’t ask because of the family element to the story. I asked because my dad is trying so hard, and because I want to show him that I see it—I feel his love, and I love him back.

So very much.

“Sorry,” I say to Wes as I climb in after dropping my things in the back. “The magazine is going to take some shots today out on the field.”

Wes grins on one side of his mouth then looks to the road, shifting and pulling us forward. “That’s awesome,” he says.

“My dad’s going to be in the photos with me,” I say, my eyes watching his face for a reaction.

Wes’s lips rest in a slight smile, and the longer I watch, the deeper his dimple becomes. I mimic his expression, and we don’t talk about it anymore. Wes is proud of me for this, but that’s not why I did it. I did it because at the end of the day, my dad’s earned it, too.

At least a dozen times during our drive, I try to find a natural way to bring up what Grace told me to Wes. There really isn’t a natural way to tell someone you found out your mom tried to kill you when you were little, though, much less add in the part that your superhero boyfriend had a vision and stopped it. By the time we pull into the school parking lot, I’m giggling at the very real absurdity of it all.

“All right, what’s funny?” Wes asks, resting his left arm on the wheel as he turns to look at me. I glance to his hat, the way it’s slightly crooked, shading his left eye from the sun, and just to tease him, I reach forward and tug it down low, over his eyebrows.

“You sure you can’t fly?” I ask.

He punches out a short laugh.

“Pretty sure,” he says, twisting the other way and fixing his hat as he leaves the truck.

I leave, too, knowing I need to talk to Wes about what I’ve learned, but deciding now isn’t the time to dissect more of Shawn’s lies.

Taryn and Wes’s brothers haven’t gotten to the gym yet, so Wes goes to work doing the exercises he doesn’t need a spotter for, and I grab a jump rope from the wall. My dad is flipping through a stack of papers at his desk in the corner, and he doesn’t notice me when I walk up. I glance at them, upside down, and recognize the name of our insurance company.

“For the car?” I ask, and my dad jumps a little in his seat. He sets his pen down and leans back in his chair, scratching at his chin.

“Yeah, looks like we’ll be able to replace it. Picking insurance plans is the one thing I didn’t screw up,” he says, shaking once with a laugh before he lets his palms fall flat on his desk as he stares up at me.

“You didn’t screw up a lot of things,” I shrug. His eyes hold onto mine for a few seconds before he responds.

“Thanks,” he says, quiet so only I hear.

My pulse picks up, not from nerves, but more from anticipation. I glance around to make sure we’re alone enough to talk without obnoxious football players eavesdropping. I notice Zack isn’t here, and I’m pretty sure he got suspended for yesterday’s fight with Wes. A few of his friends are here, and they’re watching Wes while whispering, I’m sure just waiting to text Zack about how the golden boy got off easy. What they don’t realize, though, is Wes really is made of gold—light, and gold, and something more. I’m not entirely sure he’s human sometimes, but I don’t care.

“Speaking of things you’re good at,” I say, sliding into the open chair at the side of his desk.

“Well this list oughta be short,” he chuckles, turning in his swivel chair and folding his arms over his chest. My dad reaches into his middle drawer and slides it open, pulling out a pack of gum. I see about a dozen half-ripped open packs in there. He takes out a stick and holds it out for me to take one. I shake my head no, but smirk as he puts the pack back in his drawer.

“I know, it’s a lot of gum,” he says, leaning back again as he unwraps his stick. “They don’t like me spitting seeds in here.”

I nod and smile while he pops the gum in his mouth and begins to chew.

“I haven’t had a chance to tell you about something,” I start, and my dad’s head tilts to the side, curious. “It’s a good thing. I know my track record might make you think I’m about to tell you I’m failing, but I’m not. My grades are pretty good so far, actually. I mean…it’s early still, but…”

“Screw track records,” my dad says, snapping his gum before smiling through tight lips.

“Exactly,” I say, laughing lightly. I glance around once more, satisfied that the few people in here with us are absorbed in their own worlds. “I’m going to be in a magazine.”

My dad’s eyebrows raise and his hands loosen around his chest as he sits up a little straighter.

“Yeah,” I smirk, my cheeks blushing with pride. I look down at my hands, twisting nervously in my lap. As much swagger as I claim to have, having someone see something in me still feels extraordinary.

“When? What for? How many copies can I buy?”

My dad’s face has never been so bright. He scoots his wheels closer to the desk and rests his elbow on the top, propping up his head as he stares at me with what looks like wonder.

“I’m sure they’ll give me copies, but you can buy a hundred,” I joke.

“Done,” he says fast.

Our smiles settle on each other and I let his eyes dazzle around my face for a few seconds, warm under his glow.

“It was going to be a story on Rebecca at first,” I say, pausing to raise my eyes and suck in my lips, still not used to the idea that I’m somehow important enough to do something like this. “She told them she knew of a better story…or not better, but just…”

“Horseshit, your story’s better,” my dad says, a little too loudly. A few people in the gym look over, but they go back to their workouts quickly.

“The story is going to be on her post-injury work as a trainer, and on me as her client…athlete…I’m not sure what they’ll call me. Client sounds so weird,” I say.

“They’ll call you amazing,” my dad cuts in fast.

I blush again and let my head fall to the side.

“Thanks, Dad,” I say softly.

“What’s the magazine called?” he asks.

“Girl Strong. You’ve seen it,” I answer.

“You’ve gotten it,” he confirms. I nod yes.

My dad lets his hand fall flat on the desk again and he continues to stare at me, his smile never shrinking this entire time.

“There’s another thing,” I say, butterflies back in my chest. I’m excited for this, and I hope he’s okay with it. My dad nods at me again, ready for more. “They’re coming to shoot my workout on the field today. My workout…with you.”

“With…me…” His head cocks slightly, and his lips twitch, uncertain what I mean.

“I could not have done any of this without you, Dad. The photos need to be with me and you. You’re part of this success story. Pushing me to be my best…it’s something you’re good at, turns out.”

My dad’s mouth closes, a hint of a smile on his lips, and he swallows hard, his eyes misting. His breath hitches, stuttering through his nose, and after a few seconds, his eyes close in a slow blink. For a moment, I think he might not open them, but he does. Leaning close, he reaches his hand toward my head, his palm caressing the side of my cheek and hair, covering my ear. He pulls me close and I bend forward as he kisses the top of my head.

“I’ll be there. Right after school. With whatever you need,” he says, his voice cracking halfway through his words.

He backs away and stands, flashing me a quick smile and holding up a thumb before he steps through the door, letting it swing closed behind him. He’s gone for a walk, to be alone. I let him, because I know he’s outside reveling in what a win feels like, and not the kind he’s earned thousands of out there on the field, but the kind he’s fought for with me…for months. Perhaps even for years.

“Are you sure you don’t want to make this about you and your hot best friend? I bet Girl Strong readers would really like a story about that,” Taryn says, swaying her hip into mine as we throw our backpacks over our shoulders and fall in step with the crowd that fills our main high school hallway.

“You know, that was my first pitch, but funny…they weren’t interested,” I say.

“Fools,” she says back fast.

Taryn and I walk down the hill toward the boys, and I notice a few other people hanging out with them. My eyes dim the closer I get to them, and I decide to question Levi first. He’s always been the weakest of the bunch.

“I know Wes told you guys, but who did you tell?” I say, giving him a sideways glance.

“Dude, this was all your dad. Don’t even look at me,” Levi says.

I take in the seven or eight guys standing and talking behind my friends and then glance out to the field where my dad is dragging the dirt, trying to make our field look better than the cheapest-per-ton spread of thin gravel and eight-year-old bases ripping at the corners. He’s almost manic in the way he’s working, rushing around in circles, the chains kicking up dust behind him.

“He’s proud,” Wes says, his arm falling around me as his lips graze my cheek.

“I know; I’m just not all about audiences is all,” I say.

“Pretend they’re fans. You’re just taking infield and hitting. Shit, Cherry…showing off is your thing!” TK teases, laughing at himself.

I roll my eyes, despite kind of agreeing with him, and I step in his direction.

“We’re going to have words about this Cherry nickname thing. You know better,” I say, pointing at him and trying to hide my smile.

“Yeah,” he says, waggling his head and sniffling confidently. “I do, but I wanted to piss you off so you’d get off your dad’s back. Worked, didn’t it?”

“Oh, I’m pissed all right,” I say, turning around. I smile to myself as I keep going into the locker room, knowing that TK is several feet behind me now, not sure if I’m joking or not.

I grab my things from the locker, where I stuffed them this morning, and I sit on the bench looking at my sliding pants, the socks I’ve cut and sewn to work with my leg, my favorite practice shirt.

“Want me to braid your hair?” I smile hearing Bria’s voice.

“For once, yes…yes, Bria…I want you to braid my hair,” I laugh, turning on the bench and letting her pull the band from the base of my neck.

Bria and I haven’t talked much since the bus accident. I didn’t really see her over the summer, but she’s been spending a lot of time with Levi. They like each other, but they’re both being stupid about it.

“Levi tell you about this photoshoot thing?” I say, my head jerking as she tugs my hair to make it smooth. “Yeah. Don’t be mad; he was excited.”

“I’m not,” I say.

Her hands work along the sides of my head, finger combing the loose ends into her hold, and she begins to weave and pull, making a braid.

“I know you don’t like people staring at you, or whatever,” she says.

“It’s okay. I figure if it has to be anywhere, at least it’s out there. I get lost when I’m playing,” I say, thinking about that part rather than the eyes that will be on me, watching me be the focus of something other than a rival team or a girl I’ve threatened just because she looked at me funny.

We’re silent while Bria finishes working on my hair, wrapping the end with the same band she pulled from my hair and running her fingertips along the weave to make sure every piece is tucked in where it should be.

“Is it one of those French kinds?” I ask.

“Yeah,” Bria says, stepping back to admire it.

My mom gave me a French braid once. She took a picture of it because she was proud of her work. There were times when she could be such a great mom.

I turn and stand from the bench, taking a few steps to look into the mirror that stretches along the back wall.

“Thanks,” I say, my mouth tugging up on one side.

If I still had a mom, I think I’d wear my hair like this more often. I actually like it.

“It’s really great that you’re doing this,” she says, her voice smaller behind me.

I turn with my prepared smile plastered in place, but it isn’t necessary. She’s looking down.

“My mom can’t make it out to our games, so you’ve probably never seen her, but she’s in a wheelchair. She was actually born without both of her legs. I can’t wait to tell her about what you’re doing and give her a copy of the magazine.”

She looks up at me with a blink, breathing in deeply through her nose. She didn’t tell me that because she wants me to say I’m sorry about her mom. She told me because, while half of the people out there waiting for my photoshoot are interested in the celebrity idea that comes along with photographers and magazine stories, Bria is actually interested in my message.

I have a message. That sunk in when Rebecca first brought this idea up for me, but it really cuts at my heart now.

“I don’t know how I feel about being a role model,” I shrug, showing an honest side of myself to Bria.

She shrugs back.

“I know,” she says, standing from the bench and backing away slowly, stopping when her hand is on the door to go back outside. “But there’s pretty much nothing you can’t become the absolute best at—so I feel pretty good about you figuring this role-model thing out.”

I chuckle as she laughs lightly on her way through the door, and the smile remains on my face when I’m standing in the locker room all alone. I look down again at my pile of clothes and my gear, and I inhale, readying myself to be the best, and to forget about the people watching.

It takes me a little longer than usual to get dressed, mostly because I pay attention to things like how well my shirt is tucked in, how even my pants are below my knees, how straight the seams are on my socks. Covering the prosthetic is actually easier than my normal leg, mostly because it only wraps up the socket.

I’ve gotten better at working with the blade leg. I’ve gotten faster, thanks to Rebecca. There’s a tinge in my chest, though, and I hate that I feel it. As good as I’m going to be, I’m still never going to be as good as I was. I’ve resolved myself to that, too. But right now, all I can think about is what the people out there are expecting to see. I’m afraid I’m going to disappoint them.

My phone dings, so I push the rest of my things into my locker and grab my gear, palming my phone, reading the text as I walk past the crowd that’s now doubled outside. I refuse to acknowledge them, and I walk behind a few of the storage sheds on my way out to the field so people won’t follow me or want to talk.

I slide open a message from Rebecca.

Just got here with Seth, the photographer. Anita Welton is writing the story, so she came to ask you a few questions before Saturday’s studio shoot.

I pause, still shaded by the shed where they store most of the track mats and hurdles. Anita Welton went to the Olympics. I watched her pitch for USC, and I watched her pitch for Team USA. I swallow hard and type back okay, on my way.

It takes a few more seconds for me to regulate my breathing and continue out toward the field. Wes is helping my dad carry out his equipment bag, and he’s holding the catcher’s mask, pads that are too small wrapped around his legs. They’re pink; I think they’re Bria’s.

“You look ridiculous,” I say when I’m close enough for him to hear me.

He slides the pink mask on over his head, his hair poking through the sides and the straps on the top.

“I look awesome,” he says, pounding his fist into his glove a few times.

“Ha!” I laugh hard, and my voice reverberates off the dugout walls.

“Who cares what I look like. Cameras are here for you, babe,” he says, walking slowly backward toward home plate.

“Babe, huh?” I say, dropping my bag down into the dust and pulling my batting gloves from my back pocket.

“You prefer Cherry?” he chuckles.

“You just keep that glove up, Stokes. I might need to foul something off and I wouldn’t want to hurt your pretty face,” I say, a little sway to my head for extra attitude.

Now behind the plate, he lifts the mask up and smiles crookedly at me.

“You love this pretty face,” he winks, sliding the mask back down and crouching.

I watch my dad talk with Rebecca and a man and woman I am pretty sure are from the magazine. My dad’s nervous; I can tell by how much he’s laughing at everything the other three say. My dad doesn’t find people amusing, and I know that he’s like me with this—we won’t be comfortable until we’re in the zone, doing our thing.

Rebecca calls me over, so I pick up my bat and jog to the mound. She introduces me and we all shake hands. Seth says something about lighting and his position, and what he’ll need from me, but the only takeaway that sticks is that he wants me to just do my thing as if he isn’t even here.

I think I can manage to forget about him and his lens. But the bleachers have filled, most of the people in them have faces I’ve known since I was six. I’m not sure I can tune them out.

We wait for a few minutes while Seth finishes setting up one of his lights, taking a few test shots from different angles to see how they turn out on his screen. Every picture he takes shows a preview on a laptop, and Rebecca waves me over to look. I call Wes to come look with me.

“This is going to look amazing,” she says, and I gaze over her shoulder at the screen. The color reminds me of the prints from the old camera my dad used to use. He said he had gotten it from his parents.

“You should have him show you some of his techniques,” Wes says, his arm brushing mine.

I close my eyes and let a wave of nausea pass.

“Maybe at the studio,” I say. “I’m trying not to pass out right now.”

“You’ll be fine. Once he starts shooting and you’re working, it’s going to be great,” Rebecca says.

I nod to her and walk back toward the plate. I feel Wes’s fingers brush against mine on the way, and I grip his hand hard.

“Just pay attention to me and your dad. Pretend this is a game,” he says.

“People don’t show up for our games,” I chuckle.

“They will now,” he says, pounding his glove again and crouching behind the plate.

A smile tugs at the corner of my lip and I look down to the spot where my bat bangs against the plate. I haven’t done that since I was a kid. I saw a baseball player do it once, and I thought it made him look tough. It somehow helps now.

“We’ll take it like normal. Bunt a few, then I’ll throw you some fastballs to swing away at,” my dad says, already settling into his role as he waves a ball in his palm and points to Wes. “Let me find my rhythm.”

I back away and adjust the Velcro on my gloves, watching as my dad’s arm windmills, delivering the ball to Wes with a snap. My dad’s always been a good softball pitcher, better than I ever was. He gets about seven or eight pitches in and rolls his shoulder a few times and points to me, then gives me a thumb up.

“Swing away, Cherry,” Wes jokes, and I breathe out a laugh.

“Foul tip, Pumpkin,” I sass back, soothed slightly at the sound of his laugh muffled by the mask.

Someone in the crowd behind me whistles, and I hear a few people cheer my name.

“Let’s go, Joss!”

I dig my feet in, twisting the blade until I find a stance that feels right—my balance just like before the accident, and I nod to my dad.

This is a game. The scouts are here. They will notice me.

My eyes lock in on the threads of the ball as it flies from my dad’s hands, and I load my arms, my weight just right, my inner voice chanting with joy because my dad could not have started with a better pitch. I take a hard cut at it, missing the ball completely.

My breath hitches and I grip the bat in front of me, my front teeth pressed together hard as I try to ignore the laughter behind me, the sarcasm and heckling from untalented assholes who think even though they bat ninth or ride the bench that they’re still better than me because I’m a girl.

“Damn it,” I grunt out, loud enough for only Wes to hear.

“You’re playing for them. Stop that,” he says, patting his glove against my leg. “You do this for you; like you always have.”

I step back into the box and let my bat hover over the plate, feeling the weight of it.

For me.

I turn my head slowly, my vision narrowing on my dad, his eyes squinting from the sun, and I nod to him to throw again. This time, the background noise mutes. My dad tosses the ball in his hand a few times, clearing the distractions on his own, and he holds it up for me to see he’s ready to pitch.

His arm winds the same, and this one is coming in a little higher. On a normal day, in a game, I’d let this pitch fly by, but today is too important. Failure is not an option. Through the rapid fire of camera clicks and the muffled chants and sneering behind me in the bleachers, I load my weight again, feeling the pressure on my thighs and quads, my blade digging into the loose dirt as I twist, my hips first, my hands last, the bat flying at the ball, catching it dead center.

I send this one deep over the right-center fence, farther than I think maybe I’ve ever hit a ball here before, and my dad spends a few seconds with his back to me watching it.

“Damn,” Wes says from his position below me.

“Right?” I say, dangling my bat over the plate, readying myself to do it again. “I told you I was stronger now.”

Wes’s only response is to pound his glove and ready himself for my dad to pitch the ball again.

After about a hundred swings, including a few on the left, we move onto the field, and my dad hits me hard grounders, some that I have to dive for, before I can gun the ball to Wes at first base. Back in my element, I sometimes forget that I’m on a stage, and I let my mouth get ahead of me, dropping a few F-bombs when I don’t make a play, or when I want to razz my dad for not being able to get a ball behind me. Nobody stops me, though. They let me do my thing on this stage that I was built for—the one place that I have always owned.

Exhausted, I pull my visor from my head and wipe the sweat off my brow with my arm as I walk toward the dugout from the dirt area around short and third. My eyes begin to focus on the people still sitting in the bleachers, and though it’s been more than an hour out here under the warm California sun, almost every single person who came, expecting a spectacle, has stayed.

“I think you might be more popular now,” Wes whispers at my side.

My brow furrows and I twist my lips.

“Uh, I’m not expecting to win homecoming queen,” I joke, but mostly because I’m uncomfortable with the idea that people suddenly see me differently.

“You shut people up,” he says, pulling my attention away from the slow exit in the stands. “It’s not a bad thing. And you’re going to make someone reading this magazine believe they can do something that looks really hard.”

I squint a little at his words, but as I step into the dugout, I really think about them, and I start to smile.

“Joss, that was amazing,” Rebecca says, pulling me into a sweat-filled hug.

“Thanks,” I say, still a little out of breath. I flip open my water bottle and drink nearly a third of it down while my dad, the photographer, and the writer join us in the dugout.

I glance to the side, toward the stands, and feel a little relief that everyone has finally left.

“Joss, if you can hang out here for just a little bit, I’d like to ask you some questions about your training—everything you did out there. Mostly workout stuff today,” Anita asks.

I stammer out a response that sounds sort of like, “Sure,” then insist that my dad and Rebecca stay with me, since they were such a huge part in my training. Then I spend the next five minutes rehashing every key moment in Anita Welton’s career to her face. I’d feel guilty, but she engages me on every point and question I ask, and by the end of it, our interview turns into a conversation between two women who like to play in the dirt and rule the boys. We cover my training, my climb back mentally and physically, and when they need to, Rebecca and my dad both insert themselves to give Anita the details on my recovery, or as Rebecca likes to call it, rebuild.

The sun is beginning to set by the time we quit talking, and I hug Anita before she leaves. My dad finishes picking up the gear and equipment on the field, and Rebecca makes a plan to meet with me tomorrow for our workout and to plan what we’ll bring for our joint photo session at the studio. With only a sliver of light left in the sky, Wes and I sit in the dugout, me between his legs, lying back against his chest in the corner.

“You ever see a firefly?” he asks.

My face scrunches and I laugh lightly.

“No,” I respond, wondering why this is the first thing he says when we’re alone.

“We had them in Nevada, near the water. They’d glow with this short and tiny flash of light that maybe lasted for two or three seconds. I would catch them in my hands and stare at them, trying to figure out how they were made,” he says.

“Are you comparing me to a bug?” I tilt my head up, lifting my chin to see his face above me. He winces a little and smiles, biting his tongue.

“You’re ruining this,” he says.

“I’m pretty sure it was already ruined,” I say.

I pretend to pout, but rest comfortably against his chest, loving the way it shakes with his laugh. His arms wrap around me tighter, and his lips dust the top of my head.

“My point is, I could never figure out how they worked. I mean, I get the science, but it just seems like it’s more special than that,” he says, taking a small breath as he rubs his hands along my tired arms. “You defy science.”

My head falls to the side against him and I think about his words, about where I was less than a year ago, even before my accident, and I think maybe he’s right. I’m sorta super, too.

“I can fly,” I say, my tone serious.

Wes’s laughter erupts instantly, and his arms hold me to him again as he rocks me side to side, eventually lifting me in his arms as he stands and starts to jog around the bases. Our laughter overtakes the chirping from the tall grass behind the field and the rustling in the trees from the breeze, and for that brief moment, everything in my world is simply perfect again.

One perfect day that lasts all the way until the end. I deserve this.