Page 56 of Pitcher

“Theo.”

Her tone goes from soft and concerned to hard and angry. Good. I want her angry. I want her to feel just like me.

“Are you planning to ignore me all day?”

Yes. Yes, I am. How do you like dem apples, Anniston? Sucks, doesn’t it?

I turn the volume up on the TV, purposely drowning out the sigh she drags out for my benefit. The next chug of beer goes down bitterly. I hate being an asshole to her, but dammit, she started this. She fucked up my whole day by being mad at me. Anniston knows I act like a dick when she’s around other guys. Shit. Why does she think she doesn’t get asked out very often? Everyone in this town knows she’s mine.

Yes, I don’t deserve her.

But I’m selfish and I don’t give two shits what anyone else thinks. I want her, and when I pull my shit together, I’ll have her. Just not right now.

The door slams, and I realize my tactic of drowning out any more of her attempts to talk to me worked all too well.

Way to go, Theo. Piss on the last few days you have with her.

Argh!

My fingers squeeze around the neck of my beer. I want to throw the fucker into the kitchen. I feel sure I could get it into the sink. The shatter will make me feel better.

But I don’t.

Don’t ask me why.

Maybe I’m tired of acting like a dick, throwing tantrums when Anniston doesn’t see things my way. Or maybe I don’t want to clean up the mess I would make by throwing the bottle. Not only with the glass, but between Anniston and I. Something has embedded itself into our relationship, and frankly I’m curious and scared to see where it takes us.

My body, tight with anxiety, flexes when I fold over my knees and stand. Yes, I’m throwing the bottle away like a good boy. Someone should tell Anniston. I could use some praise right now. My mood sucks.

Passing by the table, I see my test glaring back at me, but one thing is different. My name, scrawled in blue ink, is smeared like someone spilled something on it or someone was… crying.

Fuck me.

He made me a memory book out of all the old photos. Dozens of photos scattered the pages in the most unorganized way. There weren’t any cute captions or sweet sentiments. Just photos. As many as he could fit on the pages.

It was a complete mess.

But it gutted my soul.

Because in the back, scrawled in his terrible writing, was a note.

Ans,

I know you don’t always like to celebrate your birthday. So I made you a book that celebrates something different instead.

This book marks every year that you’ve put up with my shit.

Every year when I was an asshole—which was a lot.

Every year when you made me laugh, and every year I held back tears because you needed me to be strong.

Yes, this book is about me.

I’m joking.

This book is to remind you of how truly wonderful you are. How truly amazing you really are.

You don’t give yourself enough credit, babe.

---