and was just waiting for the kicker. Something big that would really take people’s breaths away and make them boycott the whole game for good.
Only ten days left until the article was due, and only a few days left of our fake relationship contract.
Was there even something bigger to report on? I mean, this was just the Bayview High baseball team, not some drama show Mom liked to watch on TV. Maybe the kicker was the paying off of players.
Surprisingly, and even more distressing, I missed spending time with Walsh to the point that I just found myself wanting to see those blue eyes and hear that voice. We texted back and forth, witty conversations included, but it wasn’t the same.
The clock on our relationship was ticking. By the time August rolled around, by the time school started, this would all be over. A memory.
The dread inside of me grew.
But, breaking the monotony of the past week, Walsh called me Saturday morning after he finished up practice. “I’ve been thinking about it, and I really want you to come over,” he said, chuckling a little. “I want you to meet my dad. He’s great. Kind of like me, but his jokes aren’t as funny.”
I smiled faintly as Mr. Denton’s terrier squatted down in the city boulevard. “Will your mom be there, too?”
Walsh had talked here and there about his dad, but hardly ever about his mom. His parents were still together, I knew that much, but she didn’t come up in conversation often.
Walsh’s voice lost its amused edge. “Yeah, she will be. So, can I pick you up at eight?”
“Eight?” I got out a plastic bag, flapping it against the wind. “Isn’t that a little late?”
“My mom likes to eat dinner late, if that’s all right.” His voice was hesitant. “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to. I just want to see you.”
I just want to see you. He must’ve still been around someone, trying to show off. The words made my breath hitch anyway, and I hated myself for it. Even though the Fourth of July and Walsh’s sweet gesture was over a week ago, things never normalized. At least not for me and my stupid brain. All those sweet things he said burrowed their way into my head and heart, refusing to budge.
“No, eight is perfect.”
“You sure? Because we can do something else. There’s that mini-golf place in Ashville that I’ve been wanting to hit up. I play a mean game of mini-golf.” Walsh paused. “Or if you need to work on your article, you can. I know your deadline is coming up.”
Ten days. “No, this is perfect. I want to meet your parents, since you forced me to introduce you to mine.”
“I don’t remember such a thing,” he teased. “I’ll see you tonight. Wear your sweatpants and your grungiest t-shirt.”
When we hung up, my mind was buzzing with anticipation and nervousness. Him wanting me to meet his parents felt strange—less impromptu than him meeting mine on the Fourth, more planned. Meditated. Sure, I’d met Janet on the fly, but he was inviting me over for dinner. Why did that feel so serious?
All I knew was that using him for the article felt wrong now—way, way wrong.
It felt like the deepest betrayal.
* * *
Convinced Walsh was being sarcastic about the sweatpants thing, I found my nicest pair of jeans in the bottom of my dresser, pairing it with a blue striped shirt. Since I’d braided my hair after my shower this morning, there was a wave clinging to the strands. Pretty, but not trying too hard. At least, I didn’t think so.
I dug through the bottom of my closet to find my black sneakers, well-loved with a hole near the eyelets. That was grungy enough for him, right?
It was seven-forty-eight when I decided that pacing around my room didn’t pass time quickly enough, so I headed downstairs. Halfway down the steps, I heard the telling sign of my parents’ fighting: Mom’s soap operas on high volume, trying to drown out the tension that hung like smoke in the air.
“We need to talk about it, Richard.”
“I’m trying.” Dad let out a sigh, and the image of him scrubbing his hand over his face the other night, his stifled cry, came to my mind. “I’m trying to talk to you. I have been.”
“How?” Mom’s voice wavered. “You’re never home! You’re always at the office. Don’t blame me—blame that stupid job of yours.”
Sinking down onto the steps, I