Rounding Third - Michelle Lynn Page 0,50

I’d like to tell her that I haven’t forgotten that night or my friends who are now buried up on Cherry Blossom Hill.

I smile, and my mom pats my hand.

“We should get going. It’s been nice seeing you again, Linda.”

“Yes, it has. Stay out of trouble, Ella,” she says.

I wish I could grab a carrot stick and shove it in one of her judgmental eyes. How could I have ever blamed Crosby for wanting to get out of this town?

We walk away from where Mrs. Crandle was stocking the fresh bread on the shelf.

“Some people don’t know when to keep their thoughts to themselves. Don’t listen to her, honey.” She pats my arm for me to stop my speed-walking tendency.

“I told you, I didn’t want to come in.” My voice is harsher than I’ve ever used toward my mother, and I regret the words the minute they leave my mouth.

“They aren’t mad at you.” She excuses her so-called friends, the ones who turned their backs on the town preacher and his family after the accident. “Your own guilt makes you see and hear things differently.”

The rage grows to a beast-like level, and if I have to keep my cool among the people who hurt not only me, but also the Lynches, I need to excuse myself.

“I’ll be in the car,” I say, not waiting for an answer.

Once I turn around, I step into a wall. Well, actually, upon inspection, it’s Xavier Bishop, Kedsey’s brother.

Standing at six-six with his broad shoulders and rippling muscles, he glares down at me, and quickly, that beastly anger fizzles down to a mouse’s level.

“Cinderella.” It’s not a greeting or a question. It’s flat and plain. Like he’s been most of his life.

“Ella,” I correct.

Xavier has never called me Ella, so I shouldn’t be surprised that he isn’t now, but with him, my nickname holds no endearment.

“I heard.” His red-spiked hair has grown out now and softens his rigid features. Mixed with his freckles, he’s almost boyish again.

“Heard what?” I step back to gain my personal space, but I run into my mother behind me.

“Hello, Xavier. How are you?” My mom smiles, displaying that small-town charm she’s known for.

His lips turn up at the corners. “Hello, Mrs. Keaton. The apples were brought in from the farm this morning.” He points to the produce stacked in barrels from the Bishop farm, but that doesn’t deter my mother’s curiosity.

“How’s Ridgemont?” he asks me.

I fiddle with the zipper of my sweatshirt, not meeting his eyes. He and Crosby were friends. Two grades separated them, but they were as close as brothers at one point. That didn’t seem to make a difference when Crosby and his family were run out of town though. I guess all bonds can break.

“It’s good. Ariel’s there now, too.” I make the small talk I chastise my mother for because there’s something Xavier is trying to ask, and I’ll do anything for him to keep his mouth shut.

“Your mother told me.” He smiles.

Curiosity hits me as I wonder if Xavier ever wanted to go to college. A lot of kids I graduated with were stuck with training to take over their family businesses instead of moving on to college. My parents were adamant that Ariel and I graduate college. If we chose to run the farm, that’d have been our decision, but it was never an obligation. It was more of the reason I wanted to go pre-med. If I don’t come back to run the farm, I’ll be able to afford to retire my parents and they won’t be strapped to a profitless farm.

My mother’s chin is practically resting on my shoulder, and I roll my eyes because she won’t give me alone time with Xavier, so he will tell me what he’s hinting at.

“It was great seeing you. Come up to Ridgemont sometime.” I smile, nudging my mother to continue her shopping. We’re two steps away.

“I think I will because I’d love to see him.” His words almost sound baiting or threatening.

My stomach drops. My mom turns around, her eyes narrowing and rising with flames of anger.

I whip around to face him, placing my hands on my hips. “Why?”

“Who’s him?” My mom disguises her anger with a tone as sweet as the apple pie next to us.

“Crosby Lynch,” Xavier says.

All the shopping carts stop, customers pretending to peruse the items on the nearest shelf to eavesdrop.

“I’m sorry. Did I misunderstand you?” My mom’s voice cracks, and her face pales.

“No, Mrs. Keaton. Crosby is