Page 66 of Triple Play

Or I could tell them. Hell, they might find out anyway if Brayden decides to be his usual self tomorrow. The truth sits right at the tip of my tongue. What’s that thing about a secret? Three people certainly can’t keep one. But maybe they’d make it a little easier to carry.

“Something happened last year.” Not exactly my best work, even if it feels like what I’m about to say will be blown on the wind around the parking lot. Did you hear what Blake Forsyth’s brother did? Did you hear what Blake Forsyth did for his brother? “He and I had a falling out, then I signed with Boston. Not proud of it, but sometimes you have to know when to walk away, I guess.”

Shira nods, swallows a few times like she’s processing. She doesn’t seem like the type to judge someone for their past, but not everyone is up for being in a relationship with a quote-unquote troubled family member. If Shira isn’t okay with him, it’s better to know now before we’re serious with each other. More serious, my brain corrects.

That’s enough to put an ache into my chest. How my other secrets have been sitting in my mouth all day. How, when I woke up with Shira snuggled to my chest—with Felix’s arms wrapped around us both—the words almost slid out. I’m?—

Just a ballplayer who fled rather than dealing with his problems.

Whatever Shira’s thinking seems to pass. Her face unclouds. She squeezes my hand briefly before releasing it. “Brayden’s gonna be here tomorrow?”

“Yeah.”

Then she smiles, the kind of smile she had on in the hot tub—when she was drawing me into deeper water. This version doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “So,” she says, “sounds like we gotta have as good a time as possible tonight.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Shira

Soon after Blake tells us about his brother, a tow truck rolls in to pick up Lilac. Logistics occupy the next few minutes: paperwork, the process of getting her hitched to the truck. “All set,” the driver calls.

It’s absurd to want to kiss a car goodbye, so I settle for stroking my hand gently on Lilac’s roof.

“C’mon.” Blake tugs me gently as the driver gets back into his truck. “You’ll see her soon enough.”

Of course, he doesn’t have a problem with leaving something the second it turned into an inconvenience. No, that’s not fair. I don’t know his brother. If Blake says he’s an asshole, he’s probably an asshole. Or he’s just someone Blake shed just as easily as he’ll shed you.

The thought rattles around in my brain on our Uber ride over to the auto shop, where the mechanic says it’s going to be a while and maybe we should wait across the street.

So we scurry across the road to a restaurant with a sign outside bragging, Stressed, blessed, and taco obsessed.

I’m at least two of those right now.

Inside, the restaurant is almost empty. Despite this feeling like the longest day of my life, it’s only eleven a.m. The host doesn’t recognize Blake, but then again recognition would mean looking up from her phone, which she doesn’t. “Inside or outside?” she asks in a bored tone.

Outside has nothing much other than a view of the auto shop we just left. In here, there’s a broad dining room surrounding a dance floor, a stage holding instruments from an absent band. Fans whirl the air.

Felix and Blake both look at me like it’s my decision. “Inside’s good,” I say.

She seats us at a table in a corner, two chairs on one side and the L of a padded bench on the other. “Waitress’ll be here”—the host glances around for other servers—“when she gets here.” And she leaves us to examine our menus, half of whose page space is dedicated to margarita listings.

I’m struck by the sudden urge to get very, very drunk. “Is it too early to get mezcal?” I ask.

Felix laughs. “If you’re asking, then it’s not.”

“We’re probably gonna be here a while.”

Blake folds his menu just as the server rolls up, a college-aged woman who looks no more interested in being here than the host did. “You know what?” Blake says. “Let’s get a round. I could really use a drink.”

An hour later, Blake has Tajín from the rim of his glass stuck to his lower lip. Felix is humming along to the music being piped into the still-mostly-empty dining room. Time’s going, if not syrupy, at least a little softer around the edges.

“This goes down pretty smooth,” I say. So do the endless bowls of tortilla chips and smoky green salsa the server brings over.

Her attitude brightened when Blake slid his card from his wallet—a card whose matte black design screamed high limit—and told her that we planned on running up a tab.

Blake’s already on his third margarita. His hair is beginning to tuft in the vague dining room humidity. He points a lime wedge at me. “Tell me a Lilac story.”

“A what?”

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