Page 56 of Heavy Hitter

“Fuck me,” Jimmy mumbles out loud in the empty apartment, then gets up off his bed to go pack.

***

HE FLIES COMMERCIAL, OBVIOUSLY, LIKE A SCHMUCK, THOUGH HE has his assistant call a black car to meet him at LAX. “Mr. Hodges,” the driver says, when he comes down the elevator at baggage claim. “Do you have luggage?”

“Nope,” Jimmy says, holding up the same battered Nike backpack he’s been carrying since he was a rookie. “There’s actually a not-insignificant chance we’re going to wind up coming directly back to the airport in an hour.”

The driver’s thick eyebrows twitch, but he doesn’t comment. Jimmy follows him through the crowded airport and into the parking garage; they cruise in silence down the 405 toward Malibu, the palm trees rolling by outside the tinted windows of the SUV. More people could stand to have this guy’s discretion, in Jimmy’s opinion, though he guesses it’s also entirely possible he has the woman who runs the Sinclair on speed dial and this whole dumbass gambit will be all over the internet before he even gets a chance to do what he came all the way out here to do. It’s always a possibility, when it comes to Lacey Logan. Turns out, it’s a risk Jimmy’s willing to take.

“You can just pull over up here,” he says finally, when according to his phone they’re half a mile from her complex. “I’ve got to, uh—make a call.”

Jimmy grits his teeth, the full idiocy of this particular endeavor hitting him all at once as he scrolls to her number in his contacts. He didn’t tell her he was coming here. She isn’t expecting him, and it’s not like he can stroll up to her porch and ring the doorbell; just watch her tell him to go fuck himself and leave him standing out there in front of who the fuck knows how many dozens of cameras while she holes up with her ex. A few hours ago, this felt not just romantic but like something he was committed to do, like the only path forward. Now, all at once, he feels like an enormous swinging dick.

He takes a deep breath, dials her number. “I really am okay,” she says, when she picks up. “This isn’t something where you have to feel sorry for me and—”

“I’m not calling because I feel sorry for you,” Jimmy interrupts her. “I’m calling because I’m outside.”

Lacey barks a laugh at that, sharp and a tiny bit hysterical-sounding. “Shut up,” she instructs, her voice wobbling a little. “No you’re not.”

“Well, no,” Jimmy admits. “I’m not right outside, technically. But I’m, you know. Close. If you have time to hang out for a little bit.”

“Has anybody seen you?”

“Not yet,” he says. “Why, you want me to hop out and go say hello?”

But Lacey doesn’t answer. “Wait a second,” she says instead. “How are you—don’t you have—I mean. Doesn’t the World Series start, like. Tomorrow?”

That makes him smile, he can’t help it. “You’re a person who pays attention to when the World Series starts now, huh?”

“Shut up,” Lacey tells him again. “Yes. Answer me.”

Jimmy glances up at the driver, still assiduously pretending not to listen. “Yeah,” he admits. “Starts tomorrow.”

“And you came here.”

“Yeah, Lacey. I came here.”

“Okay,” Lacey says softly. “Well. I’ll have Claire open the gate.”

***

SHE’S NOT WEARING ANY MAKEUP, IS THE FIRST THING JIMMY NOTICES. It makes her look younger, more vulnerable than he thinks of her as being. Her mouth is pale and thin. “Hi,” he says, tucking his hands safely into his pockets so he doesn’t reach for her, then pulls one out again to offer a wave to Claire. “Good to see you again.”

Claire nods like, frankly, she could take him or leave him. He’s going to have to work on that, Jimmy thinks. “Lacey,” Claire says, “if you’re okay here, I’ll—” She motions toward the door.

“Yeah,” Lacey says. “Yes, of course. Thank you.”

They’re alone then, the house huge and quiet all around them. Lacey sits down on the couch. “I need to fix things with her,” she says, nodding in the direction of the driveway. She’s wearing a fancy gray sweatsuit and slippers, her dark hair in a braid down her back. “Claire, I mean. Although let’s be real, I need to fix things with everybody.”

Jimmy frowns. “Everybody like who?” he asks, but Lacey doesn’t answer.

“You really didn’t have to come out here,” she tells him instead. “I didn’t mean to make you worry, especially if you’ve got your whole—” She shakes her head, pulling one knee up to her chest. “I’m fine.”

“Oh, yeah,” Jimmy tells her, sitting down on the enormous tufted ottoman across from her and stretching his legs out, his ankle just barely knocking hers. “You look great.”

“Fuck you,” she says, but she’s smiling a little. She’s got her wrist wrapped in an Ace bandage. “It’s not a big deal,” she says, when she catches him looking. “It’s not even broken. I’ll be fine for the next leg of the tour.” She waggles her fingers in jazz hands to illustrate, then she stops halfway through and abruptly starts to cry.

Jimmy startles. He’s never seen her cry before and before he knows what he’s doing he crosses the space between them, sitting back on the couch beside her and pulling her gently into his lap. He holds her for a long time while her body shakes, these huge sobs that feel like they’re coming from her marrow. “I’m so embarrassed,” she says into his chest, her tears leaving wet spots on his T-shirt. “I fucked up.”

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