Page 11 of The Boyfriend Boycott
“Okay, I have a new rule,” I say as a response. One open admission is enough for tonight. I don’t need Grady caring about me or what I choose to do with my life. “No personal questions.”
“Personal questions can just be friendly, no?”
“Not when you’re hooking up with the asker of said questions. Personal questions lead to connection, and connection leads to feelings, and feelings are never good for either party involved.”
“Noted. No more personal questions.” Grady gives a curt nod, his mouth forming a tight line. “You can live in my mind as Spencer Sinclair, perfect stranger.”
“Good.” I look back at him, his eyes lingering on my mouth.
“Good.” There’s a pause between us that stretches on longer than is comfortable.
“Don’t go falling in love with me, Landry.” I point a warning finger at him. “This”—I gesture between us—“is just to get whatever attraction we have for one another out of our systems.”
“Cross my heart.” Grady makes anXacross his impossibly firm peck.
“Promise that after tonight, we’ll keep our distance from each other?” I ask. Tonight needs to stay limited to tonight. Feelings are easier to shut down when you don’t keep revisiting them. I can’t promise that I’ll have any restraint if we’re constantly around one another.Grady makes me feel like I want to throw caution to the wind, like I want to make bad decisions.
“Jeez. For someone so free-spirited, you sure have a lot of rules.” Grady shoves my shoulder lightly.
“I do like to think of myself as a free spirit. But rules are good for me. They keep me in check.” My mother could have used more rules when it came to men. I’ve witnessed first-hand what having a “free spirit” can do if you don’t reign it in every now and again. Chaos. Utter chaos and avoidable pain.
I twirl the end of my hair around my finger, a nervous habit. Grady doesn’t push it any further, thankfully.
Instead, he says, “I can respect that. But can I make one request?”
“Shoot.”
“If tonight is our last night together”—Grady shifts so he’s on his knees, crawling towards me, closing the distance between us—“I want to make you scream my name until the sun comes up.”
CHAPTER 5
GRADY
The sun is shiningover the baseball diamond, and there’s a very disruptive group of seven-year-old boys tittering away with each other in the dugout in anticipation of the game starting, but I can’t stop thinking about my night with Spencer Sinclair. In fact, it’s all I’ve thought about since it happened, and now I’m trying to beat my thoughts into submission to focus on this Little League game I agreed to coach.
I signed up for the year when a couple of dads in town approached me about it. The guy who used to do it moved to the city with his family for work, and none of the other parents know the difference between a foul ball and a strike, so I agreed. I may have missed my own opportunity to play for the major leagues, but these kids need someone who genuinely loves the game. And I do. I used to eat, sleep, and breathe it in high school.
I feel a gentle tug on my T-shirt, causing me to glance down to my right where I find Miles, looking down to where he’s scuffing his feet in the dirt. He’s timid and quiet, and when his Uncle Finn took guardianship of him he clammed up even more. I suggested that Finn enroll him in baseball, and here he is, looking out of his element and, frankly, terrified.
“What’s going on, buddy?” I stoop a bit so I’m closer to eye level with him, but it takes a bit more encouragement to get him to speak. When he finally does, it comes out so soft I can barely hear it over the other kids whooping and hollering to start the game already.
“Why do I have to bat first?” Miles says, not wanting to look up at me.
“Because you can’t face your fears unless you get out there and do it,” I explain, crouching down low so he’s forced to look at me. “You’ll do great, Miles.”
“You don’t know that,” he says, wringing his hands. “Did you see the first guy up to pitch? He’s like twice my size. We’re going to lose because of me.”
“Listen, if we lose, so what?” I place a comforting hand on his shoulder, and I feel it relax slightly. “You want to know a trick from when I used to play?” I ask him and it earns me a curious look, so I continue. “Right when the pitcher gets up on the mound and is ready to throw, right when he winds up and his foot lifts off the ground …” I bring my hand back to demonstrate the exact moment I’m describing. “Make a real loud fart noise with your mouth.”
Miles’s cheeks go red and he bursts out in a laugh, covering his mouth with his palm.
“You didn’t really do that,” he chides.
“No, you’re right, I never had to use it,” I admit. “But only because I practiced batting until I was so good, no pitcher intimidated me. I won’t tell anyone if you want to, though.”
I stand up from where I’m crouched and Miles smiles up at me now. If anything, the joke helped to ease some of his tension, so I’ve done my job. I give him a nudge to get out there, and he leaves the dugout, grabbing his bat along the way.
I watch the beginning of the game unfold, arms crossed over my chest, when the rattling of the chain link fence behind mecatches my attention. A parent I recognize from pick-up and drop-off at practice is leaning against it, looking at me. He clicks his tongue once, twice.
