Page 92 of Force At Third

17

After Locke and I finish our chicken legs and wash our hands, he takes mine and heads straight to his room. There’s no should we or shouldn’t we conversation; the decision was made. I mean, he still hasn’t put Mama June’s ring on my finger, but I know it’s coming because Leland tends to do what he says he’s going to do.

The first time he told me he was going to “Locke me down real soon” was right after graduation, and I told him not to ask yet. We both had to focus on our dreams—his being the majors and mine being graduating from college.

“After that, then,” he agreed. But then he was pulled up to pitch for the Mets within weeks of being in the minors.

The second time he told me he just wanted to “Locke us down” was on the phone after I broke up with him. His voice was filled with the pain and hurt I’d caused him, and I caused even more when I told him that I didn’t see us getting married—ever.

My eyes are burning, and I avoid looking at his reflection in the mirror, knowing that we will inevitably end and that it’s most certainly my turn to be the one who wants to ask him why, like he had me, and him being the one who can’t give me the truth. And even Leland won’t, and he’ll convince himself—his lie is so he doesn’t hurt me.

He changes into ball shorts right in front of me and walks back over, leaning against the vanity, shirtless arms crossed. “I’m not sure how much cleaner you’re going to get them.”

I turn the water on, rinse the brush, spit the mouthful of paste into the sink, rinse it out, and turn off the water. “I broke and took half of one of the pills before you got here. Couldn’t sleep.”

“Why just half?” He takes my hand as he passes and walks us to the bed.

“I just don’t want …” I pause, not wanting to finish the statement, which is: I don’t want to cause a miscarriage.

“No one else you can talk to about all the things going on inside of you but me right now”—he pulls back the covers on the side of the bed closest to the windows—“so utilize me. I’d surely like to be able to discuss it without worrying you’re going to tell me no talking.”

I shake my head, afraid if I speak, I’ll cry, and if I cry to him, it won’t stop, like ever.

“Gwendolyn York, the man standing before you is not angry you didn’t tell me. You had your reasons. My hope is that you can share every-fucking-thing with me someday.” He covers me up, walks around to the other side of the bed, ducks down, and pops up, holding …

“Oh my God, is that?—”

“Gwenie Bear? Sure is.” He laughs at himself. “She doesn’t say shit to me anymore when I squeeze her paw, but she’s a hell of a listener.” He hands the brown Teddy bear he’d taken me to the mall to make on our three-month anniversary. We made each other one.

“We must have gone there a?—”

“Five times,” he answers.

“I have no idea where any of mine are.”

He lies back and links his hands behind his head. “I know where all mine are.”

“No way. I don’t believe you,” I lie back, looking it over.

“One under every bed in each home I own.”

I laugh as I let her drop on my chest. “To think, I was pretty sure I couldn’t feel any shittier than I?—”

“Not my point at all,” he sighs. “I was young, never been hurt a day in my life by anyone?—”

“Locke, you’re killing me.” I crush the bear over my face.

He curls up and sits, turning his whole body to face me. “Baseball was a gift. I had natural talent, size, build?—”

“The ass?” I pull the bear from my face and smile.

He pushes it back into my face. “I’m doing a thing here, and you’re just drugged-up enough to let me, so I’m fucking going for it.”

“I feel like there are laws against this type of torture.”

“No talking, Gwendolyn York,” he says, and I smile bigger into the bear. “My point, when I stepped up to the majors, I realized talent, luck, both?—”

“A nice ass and a big bat.” I giggle.

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