Chapter Twenty-Eight
Lucy
“Anything?” Otis asked, following Lucy from the kitchen to the living room, and from the living room down the hall to her bedroom.
She forced a smile. “For the eighth time, nothing yet.”
Otis’s shoulders slumped. “He said something. About me telling everyone being bad luck. Do you think it went bad?”
“Even if it did, it wasn’t your doing,” Lucy said. “Maybe he’s out celebrating.”
Without her.
She glanced at her phone again. It was past eight. The tryout had been at one-thirty. She’d tried texting, but he hadn’t answered, and now she was a little fed up with the suspense. She opened a text window to Serena: I still haven’t heard how Dylan’s tryout went. I’m worried.
S: *raised eyebrow emoji* I would be, too. Maybe you should call him?
Maybe she should. Lucy hadn’t wanted to bother him, but the waiting was killing her, so she dialed his number. He didn’t pick up, so she left a message. “Hey, it’s me. Just checking in. How’d it go?”
Then she sat there, staring at her phone, as the minutes ticked by. Otis popped in and out, looking for news.
Finally, the little dots indicating a message from Dylan popped up. Otis had peeked his head around the door for the third time, so Lucy waved him in. “I think I’m about to have an answer.”
“Good.”
D: Not well.
Lucy and Otis exchanged a sad look, before she texted back: Damn. I’m so sorry. Do you want me to come over, cheer you up?
“You shouldn’t curse so much,” Otis said, looking over her shoulder, but he sounded so glum, Lucy didn’t clap back.
“I feel bad for Dylan, is all. He worked really hard for that tryout.” Knowing Dylan, he was probably brooding and licking his wounds. She needed to do something.
“You’re right, though. He probably needs cheered up.” Otis tapped a finger against his temple. “You…you could kiss him. Just this once.”
Knowing how much it took for Otis to make that suggestion, Lucy hugged him. “You know…you might be right. At very least, I’ll go check on him.”
“Good.” Otis started from the room, but paused in the doorway. “And Lucy? I don’t mind so much if you go out with him.”
Lucy smiled at his back as he scampered away, calling to Mom about cookies. Otis’s blessing meant more to her than she’d realized. She wanted him to be happy. Dylan, too. If she could manage it, she’d see that both the boys in her life were.
L: Hey, want me to come over? I think you could do with some cheering up.
D: …
D: …
D: …
L: You there?
D: I’m out with Tristan right now.
Lucy frowned at her phone at his curt tone. Rain check, then?
D: …
The minutes ticked by, until half an hour later, Lucy was pacing her room, phone in hand. When it finally rang, she didn’t even check who it was before answering. “Where are you?”
“Uh, Lucy?” It was Tristan.
“Oh, hey.” She slumped on her bed, disappointed. “Are you out with Dylan?”
“Um, yeah.” There was a conversation going on in the background. “We’re at Nate’s house.”
“Dude, I think he’s had enough,” a guy said. “I’m cutting him off.”
There was a rustle, and Tristan murmured, “Yeah, good plan.”
Lucy cocked her head. “What’s going on?”
“I didn’t want you left hanging. It’s…Dylan’s not really in a good place to talk right now.” Tristan’s tone made it sound like he was talking about a particularly feisty toddler. “He’s a little upset.”
“A little upset?” a voice slurred—Dylan. “A little? I’m lots upset.”
“Hey, that’s enough, man. Let the grownups talk, okay?” Tristan said, muffled.
“Is he drunk?” Lucy asked, growing alarmed. Dylan—disciplined Dylan, drunk? “Where does Nate live? I’m coming over.”
“No, you don’t have to come over.” Tristan sounded super uncomfortable. “He’ll be fine. We’re all mostly sober and can take care of things. I swear we won’t be driving, either.”
“Is she…asking to come over?” Dylan’s voice held that belligerent edge that came with way too much alcohol. “Tell her no. She wrecked my career. I’m done.”
A cold knot hardened in the pit of Lucy’s stomach at his acid tone. “Wait, what did he say?”
“Ignore him,” Tristan said firmly. “He’s completely wasted and has no idea what he’s talking about.
“Or maybe he’s being brutally honest.” Lucy clenched her fists. She was done being shocked. She was pissed. “Lots of things are starting to make sense now. Like how he seemed to have this internal struggle before eating a cupcake. I mean, who has to debate their conscience over a cupcake a girl baked with her own two hands?”
“Lucy, he’s really drunk. I’m not kidding. He’s done, like, five shots of Jack in less than thirty minutes. He has no idea what he’s saying right now.”
“In vino veritas,” she said, her face flushed with anger.
“Uh, what?”
“In wine, truth. It’s Latin. You jocks should give the classics a try.” Lucy blew out a furious breath. “What I’m saying is that whisky makes us honest. He means every goddamned word he says.”
“I think he’s just grasping at straws, okay? He had a really bad day, and he hasn’t come around to accepting it, yet.” Tristan sighed. “Lucy, please, don’t blame yourself.”
“I’m not blaming myself!” she shouted. “If he wants to blame me, fine. I don’t have to listen to it.”
“Then don’t!” came Dylan’s return shout. He’d heard her through the phone. “My life was…fine…before you came around.”
“It wasn’t fine! It was totally boring!” She let out a growl. “Fuck you, Dylan Dennings.”
“You wish!” he slurred. “Skinny-dipping? Really?”
All the rage drained out of Lucy, leaving a cold shock behind. She swallowed back a sob— She had some dignity left and she damn well wasn’t going to cry in front of him. “Go to hell.”
“Lucy, wait—” Tristan said, panicked.
“Too late.” Lucy hung up, lips trembling. Dylan blamed her for blowing his tryout. It had been one of the most important things in his life, and he blamed her for ruining it. Not only that, he made it sound like she was a dark star, sucking the good things out of his entire life.
Lucy pressed her fist against her mouth and sank onto her bed. Fat tears spilled over her eyelids and ran down her face. She’d been accused of many things—some of them true—but never “dream killer.” The thing was, she couldn’t even really understand what she’d supposedly done to deserve that title. He’d been so relaxed, so happy last night. Surely that would’ve helped, not hurt.
She ground her teeth together, pissed that she was crying in the first place. There wasn’t a rational reason to blame her. Not one. And now she was getting mad. Who did Dylan think he was, blaming her for a bad tryout?
Well, screw him. Screw all of them. She’d been right all along. Dylan wasn’t her type, and neither were baseball players in general. At least now she knew.
With a wordless growl, Lucy punched her pillow, turned out her light, and made herself go to sleep.
The next morning, Lucy drove Otis to the ball field in stony silence. Otis kept giving her worried looks before asking, “Okay, what did I do?”
They stopped at a red light, and Lucy slumped. “Nothing. Nothing at all. Dylan is just being a…a…boy.”
“Did you go see him last night?”
She shook her head. “I was told not to by his friends. He’s…mad right now.”
“Well, yeah. He didn’t do good for that scout.” Otis fiddled with his seatbelt as Lucy started through the intersection. “Don’t be too mad at him, okay?”
“Can’t promise you that.” She gave him a sidelong look before refocusing on the road. “But I won’t make a scene, either.”
No, she was saving that righteous rage for her protest with Serena later. She needed a good fight, and she’d hold onto it for the hens’ sake.
Otis didn’t say anything until they made it to the drop-off line. “Drop me here. Don’t park and walk me up. If Dylan is being a boy—and I’m not sure what that means—don’t go in.”
Lucy sighed. “Fine. I’ll be back to pick you up at noon. Have fun.”
“I will.” Otis surprised her by giving her a quick hug. “It’ll be all right. Promise.”
She watched him sign in, then bound across the field to his friends. Before she pulled away, she caught sight of Dylan. He was standing on the pitcher’s mound. When he saw her, he looked away.
Lucy drove off as fast as she could.