Page 40 of Pitcher

Anniston pulls away and wipes her mouth. Her face is flushed when she says, “See? That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

I could break the tension with a shitty lie about the kiss being like kissing my sister, but I don’t want to. She expects me to lash out because that’s what I do. I’m rude and shy away from emotions, especially when it comes to her.

But I can’t do it.

The kiss wasn’t bad.

It wasn’t like kissing my sister.

It was patient.

It was full of unspoken words.

The kiss, even if it was meant to be a distraction, was epic.

It should be memorialized, not tarnished or branded with a lie.

So instead of being a dick, I go with a subject change instead.

“We can get that stupid stuffed crust pizza garbage you like.” I try to shrug, but Dr. Phelps is wrapping my shoulder, and I end up making a face of pain.

The fake smile Anniston flashes me feels foreign. I don’t get her fake smiles. I get real ones. Always.

“Okay. I guess we can get your stupid meat lovers’ toppings, even though I’d rather have ham and pineapple.”

The kiss wasn’tthatgood. I’m not eating fruit on my pizza.

“Stuffed crust meat lovers it is,” I confirm, looking back to see if Dr. Phelps is almost fucking done. Things are getting awkward in here, and I’m ready to go. Anniston and I need normalcy. “Can we go?” I ask Coach.

He leans behind me to look at Dr. Phelps’s progress.

“Yeah, you can go. Take it easy for the next few days. All right?”

I nod my consent. At this point, I would agree to anything to get out of here.

Anniston grabs my phone, and I ease off the table.

“I assume you’re riding home with me,” she says, unlocking my phone and doing who knows what to my contacts. I know she deletes names. I know my once two thousand contacts did not disappear when I upgraded my phone. I let her keep her form of retaliation.

I scare off her dates, and she deletes mine.

We’re petty like that.

We’re in love like that.

“Why would I ride with you?” I ask absently. Where the fuck is my bag? Did I bring it in here or leave it by my locker?

“Uh,” she says all smug, “because you have only one functioning arm at the moment.”

No.

“I’m not leaving my car here.”

Seriously, I don’t have many friends here. People speak to me, but we’re not friends. There is no way I am leaving my car out here to be keyed or worse.

Anniston sighs and looks at Coach.

“He can’t help you,” I argue. “I’m not leaving my fucking car, Anniston.”

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