Page 69 of Triple Play

What I should say is, I didn’t know how you’d take it. What I actually say is, “Has anyone ever told you you’re kind of infuriatingly perfect?”

That startles a laugh out of Blake. “Yeah, but emphasis on the infuriating.” After a long minute of contemplation, he sobers. “I know what it’s like to keep a secret. My brother…” He trails off like there’s something else. “I guess we all have stuff we don’t want people to know.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Blake

Shira danced.

Details start to click into place: her hesitance about discussing her life before she broke her ankle, how she was concerned with money—not that she’s after mine, but that she emphatically isn’t.

Only one piece doesn’t quite fit. How Felix knew. Was that something I should be able to tell, like a transmission on a wavelength I can’t quite hear? No. Shira didn’t want me knowing, not from the way her eyes are still trained at the shining surface of the tabletop. It stings a little: that Felix knows her better in two days than I did in a month. That she trusted him with the truth.

Infuriatingly perfect. What she just called me. What Brayden has screamed at me, most notably in a police station parking lot at four a.m. If only. If only I was as perfect as I pretend to be. That’s not quite right either. Shira’s perfect—if not as a person, at least perfect for me. I want her to know that. I want her to raise her head, to toss back the wild gloss of her hair. To be the fierce version of herself I met a month ago who I can feel myself falling for.

“I know what it’s like to keep a secret,” I say, finally. “My brother…” I try to press together the fragments of my courage. “I guess we all have stuff we don’t want people to know.”

Shira nods empathetically. From across the table, Felix does as well. Maybe we all got into Lilac carrying something heavy. Maybe I found two people who could understand.

“It’s not that serious.” Even if the hitch in my voice betrays me.

“It’s okay if it is,” Felix murmurs.

“Could you, uh, come here?” I ask. “I don’t want other folks to overhear.” Though the nearest diners are tables away.

Felix doesn’t question it. He slides into the empty space beside me on the bench, close, the big line of his body a wall between me and the rest of the room.

It’s strange being squeezed between them; it should be uncomfortable, but it’s not. Because you were with them last night. My stomach is tight as a fist—these aren’t the swooping nerves that I felt in the hot tub when every yes felt terrifying and thrilling in equal measure. Instead, my hands seat themselves on my knees, leaving sweaty imprints on my joggers.

Shira reaches for me, threading her fingers through mine. “Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s okay.”

On my other side, Felix doesn’t exactly hold my hand. But he does cap his palm over my knuckles, once, before he withdraws it. Come back. I shouldn’t need the scrape of his calluses. I shouldn’t even need the subtle strength of Shira’s hand in mine.

Having them briefly only makes me want them more. That’s the thing about wanting. You can only push it down for so long.

“Last year,” I say, “there was an incident with my brother. I got a call late at night to come bail him out. It was a party. The police were there. He claims someone stuck a bag of pills in his pocket. The thing is…it’s not the first time someone’s quote-unquote stuck a bag of pills in his pocket. Or the first time I’ve had to make a generous donation to a police charity fund to get him out of trouble.

“That’s when I decided I needed out of Atlanta. So that if he was gonna call someone, it couldn’t be me.”

Neither of them says anything, but Shira nudges closer to me. After a second Felix does the same. It feels like this morning, like waking up in both their arms, not trapped—something infinitely scarier. Being held. Being wanted. The other thing I’m not saying.

Still, a muscle in my shoulder relaxes, the one that’s been smarting since we left Boston. I tilt my head back. A strange laugh occupies my throat—relief? Or maybe its cousin—acceptance?

Shira kisses my cheek, a small darting kiss that leaves a smudge of lip gloss. A nothing kiss, except for how it’s not, and I’d buy her an infinite supply of that lip gloss if it means she keeps kissing me that way. “Thank you for telling us,” she says.

Felix doesn’t kiss me. But our hands are still beneath the overhang of the table. For years, I pushed down thoughts about other men—vague, largely faceless fantasies. None of them match the one I’m having now: that he’ll take my hand in his, brush his thumb over my knuckles.

Guilt claws at me—or it should. Instead, I feel a strange wash of contentment, as if I’ve been carrying something heavy and can finally put it down.

“Anything you’ve been wanting to tell us?” I ask Felix. I mean it as a joke. Felix confessing he doesn’t really make mac and cheese from a box. Felix confessing that he’s secretly always wanted to be a second baseman and we can both find a spot on the roster.

He shifts against me. Clears his throat. “Farm’s broke,” he says. “My parents died a few years back—car accident—and my sister and I inherited the farm. Mostly its debt, anyway. I was gonna keep playing to try to dig us out. Guess that didn’t work out so well.”

A real confession. A single word—fuck—escapes before I can help it.

Felix laughs. “Yeah, it’s pretty fucked up.”

I’m sorry. Not that I signed with Monsters, but at having displaced Felix. “I feel really bad about that, man.”

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