Page 92 of An Unfinished Story
As the others sat, Jacky stood and excused herself. “I’ll help with dinner. I’m sure y’all have a lot to talk about.”
After she’d left, Claire asked, “Is Jacky married?”
“Yeah, Jerry. He’s at work.”
“What’s he do?”
“He’s a software developer. Works for a start-up downtown.”
“Cool guy?”
“Yeah, super cool. They’re both great.”
It made Claire happy to know he’d found a good home. Even if it was temporary.
Whitaker sat back and crossed his legs. “Not that you’re asking, but I tell you, Oliver, I spent most of my twenties and thirties thinking about myself. Then I meet someone like Jacky and realize what a selfish shit I’ve been.”
Claire eyed him.
Whitaker covered his mouth. “Sorry for the curse.”
Oliver smiled, and Claire realized it was the first time since they’d met. “You two are such boys.”
Claire watched Oliver and Whitaker share a knowing smile. Then Oliver flipped his hair off his eyes again and said, “Yeah, I’m really lucky.”
“I’m thinking about taking that bed that’s available,” Whitaker said. “I’d sit by this pool all day every day. Do you think you’ll be here until college? If you’re going to college, that is.”
Oliver nodded. “I want to go to Duke.”
“Duke? Wow.”
“All depends on how I do next year.”
“Do you have the grades Duke requires?”
Oliver was perking up, speaking with more assurance. “I didn’t in ninth grade, but this past year I was kicking ass.” He stopped himself. “Oops, sorry.”
Claire shook her head at them as Oliver and Whitaker smiled again.
“How about baseball?” Claire asked, moving on. “Could you play for them?”
“No, I’m not that good. I’ll keep playing in high school, but I doubt a college will want me. At least, not a big college.”
The thump from a car’s bass shook the ground as it drew near. Once it quieted, Claire asked, “What position do you play?” She knew very little about baseball but was suddenly much more interested.
Oliver punched his palm. “Pitcher.”
“Pitcher?” Whitaker said. “How fast is your fastball?”
Oliver raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “Why does everyone ask that?”
“I don’t know. I guess for those of us who don’t know a lot about baseball, it’s the logical question.”
“I’m high seventies at best. There’s a kid on our team throwing in the nineties sometimes. And he throws a mean slider, just buckles right-handers.”
Whitaker offered an encouraging smile. “I’d love to come see you pitch next year.”
“Cool,” Oliver said casually, as if he didn’t take Whitaker’s promise seriously. Perhaps wanting to steer away from talking about himself, he asked, “So what do you need to know for this book?”
