Page 52 of Pitcher

Bad move, Rhys.

Theo bounds down the steps—where did he get a bat—and eats up the space between us. His eyes are hard and unforgiving.

“Get in the fucking car. We’re going home.”

Say what?

“Rhys can take me home. You’ve been drinking.”

And you pissed me off.

“Anniston, no one has time for your pettiness. Get in the goddamned car!”

My heart. It just stopped.

Am I being petty by leaving? Am I being petty because I feel betrayed by my best friend on my birthday?

Is he being petty by not allowing me to save face and leave with Rhys?

I guess it doesn’t matter. Tonight has just gone to shit.

I clear the knot blocking my airway and hold my head up high and meet Theo’s angry glare, his jaw clenching with barely contained rage.

“I don’t want to go home with you, Theo.”

He reels back like I hit him. His head cocks to the side and grins like something feral.

And then I cry.

I tried to hold it in but nothing, not even pinching my hand, makes it stop.

“Let me go, Theo. Let me leave with Rhys.”

A harsh breath whooshes out as the shock of what I said sinks in.

I can’t believe I said it myself.

Rhys has been quiet up until now, and the idiot he is decides now is the best time to step in. “I’ll get her home safe, Theo.”

That shocks him out of it, and he slips back behind his trademark asshole.

“You know what you can do, Rhys? You can take your subpar ass back in the house and spit bullshit lines at the rest of the gullible girls in there. This one—” He looks at me, his mouth tight at the corners. “—is mine.”

If I didn’t just feel like I was put through a meat grinder, I would be able to appreciate that he said I was his. Instead, I choose the fact he thinks I’m gullible and can’t function without him.

When did I become that girl? When did my whole life revolve around one person?

I hear steps behind me, and then as Rhys passes, he murmurs out a hateful, “Asshole.” When Rhys is inside the house, Theo’s shoulders slump and he drops the bat to the ground. “Ans,” he whispers, but it’s too late.

It’s far too late for an apology.

“I just want to go home.”

He sighs, raking his hands through his hair, and nods, digging his keys out of his pocket.

“I’m driving,” I tell him. He’s had far too many. I don’t give a shit how much he loves his car; he isn’t driving drunk.

“Okay,” he concedes quietly, passing me the keys. We walk in silence to the car, and when I crank it up, we ride in that same silence until I’m parked, up the stairs, and at my bedroom door.

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