Page 86 of Nothing Like the Movies

I picked them up and put them in my pocket; he was probably freaking out, trying to find them, especially when the closing was tomorrow. As soon as I got back to the house, I’d figure out how to get them to him. I could text him, but maybe I’d give them to Clark to give to him instead.

I didn’t want to be thinking about Wes right now, even as I knelt at his father’s grave.

I looked down at the baseballs, blinking back more tears—whatthe hell is wrong with me tonight?—as I said, “Hey, Mr. Bennett. Sorry I’ve never come to see you.”

I pictured his face, handsome like Wes’s but not as kind, and I just started rambling.

About how well Wes pitched at the exhibition game.

It was what he’d want to hear if he was alive, so I assumed his preferences hadn’t changed. I told him how hard his son had thrown, and I told him how no one had been able to hit off him.

I even said he really “threw ’em the gas,” Mr. Bennett’s favorite expression.

By the time I was finished talking to ghosts at the cemetery, I was frozen.

I ran home, took a long, hot shower, and after hanging out with my dad and Helena for an hour, I finally went up to bed.

But before I could sleep, I needed to tell Wes about his keys.

I think I found your keys.

Nope. I backspaced, not wanting him to know I’d visited his dad’s grave.

I typed:Your keys were on the ground at the cemetery.

Gaaah—backspaced again. Why was I overthinking this? I just needed to tell him I found his keys—no big deal. I texted:I found some keys that I think might be yours. I’ll drop them in your mailbox.

Send.

Finally.

I’d been randomly looking out the window since I got back frommy run—yep, the silver car I saw him get out of earlier is still there—but there weren’t any lights on inside his house. It looked vacant and asleep, so maybe he’d left the car there or something.

My phone started ringing in my hand, startling me.

God.

I looked down, and Wes was calling me.

Whyyyyyyyy?

I took a deep breath, then raised the phone to my ear. “Hello?”

“Keys?” Wes’s voice sounded weird, like it was too close to the phone or something. “What keys?”

“Um, there are a couple keys on a Bruins Baseball key chain,” I said, mildly confused by his tone. “I just assumed they were yours.”

“Did my dad give them to you?” he asked, sounding wildly confused. “How the hell did you get them?”

His dad?“What? No, I found them on the ground.”

“The ground,” he said, dragging out the words. “The ground where? The cemetery? Are you back?”

Only it sounded a little like “shemetery.” “Yes. Are you drunk?”

“Little bit,” he replied, his words slower than his usual fast-paced rate of snappy sarcasm. “But that doesn’t change the fact that, like, did you visit my dad’s grave? Or did one of those dickhead squirrels run off with the keys? They used to take the stuff I left all the goddamn time, little dickheads.”

Definitely drunk.

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