Page 39 of Home Sweet Home

He held up his hands, fingers spread wide as he waggled them in the air. “You know, I’ve always wanted to try. Magic fingers and all.”

As Evie imagined what those magic fingers could do, she thumbed a set of leaves on one of the sprouts. “Where’s Dick? Haven’t seen him around in a hot second.”

When West understood who she was talking about, he gave a reluctant smile. “You know, he’s a good guy once you get to know him. He’ll be back for the Bend game.”

“Why’s he need to come back?” Evie had hoped his appearances in town would be infrequent after theLA Timesarticle had come out, and she would have bet all the money she had Rich preferred to stay in Los Angeles.

West sighed. “He called me earlier. Apparently, our plan isn’t working as well as he hoped.”

She wanted to still be angry at him, but as she looked at him, she felt something more like pity and resisted the urge to reach out a hand and comfort him.

“Aren’t you suspended?” Evie asked. “Why do you need the PR? Can’t you just say ‘fuck it’ and go back and play, no matter what everyone else thinks?”

West shook his head. “Fans are the ones that buy the tickets. They don’t do that, and management won’t be too precious about keeping me around.” He shifted his stance and inhaled sharply, wincing.

Evie’s heart jumped. “Your knee?” Without thinking, she placed her palm on it.

West looked at her, head tipping to the side, and she whipped her hand away like she’d touched lava and cleared her throat. “How did it happen? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“I don’t,” West said. “Mind, that is. I wasn’t doing anything fancy. Just running a base. Worst pain I’ve ever felt. It was like my body just gave out on me.”

“Must have been running hard.”

West laughed. “I wasn’t. Not really. Turns out I’m just a dinosaur.”

“You’re not even thirty. That’s not old.”

“Dr. Kavanaugh would disagree,” West said. “She said it isn’t uncommon for athletes of an advanced age to start to experience more wear and tear on their bodies the older they got. She said the surgery would help, but it was possible it wouldn’t totally fix me.”

“That must have been hard,” Evie said. “The surgery.”

West shifted into a more comfortable position, his hurt knee resting in the dirt. “Took me out for nine months. She warned me it might be longer if things didn’t go well.” West looked out toward the horizon, squinting like he was searching for something.

All Evie saw was trees, and the only movement was one very chubby squirrel clambering up a trunk.

“Want to know what I felt when she told me that?” West’s gaze shifted back to Evie. “Relief.”

It was like the world had flipped, the sky where the ground should be and green grass up where the clouds once hung. What he’d said made almost as much sense, and a thousand questions swirled through Evie’s mind. “You didn’t want to play?”

“I hadn’t wanted to long before my knee gave out.”

Evie blinked, wondering if she was hallucinating. He might as well have said he didn’t want to breathe. West Hawthorne played baseball. It was an unchangeable fact, like the capital of Monaco or how thunderstorms worked. “But… you’re incredible at it.”

“Being good at something and liking it are different things. How do you feel when you bake?”

She’d never thought about it, not actively, but as she considered the question, the answer came to her. “Baking is all about precision. Overwork your crust, and it won’t be flaky. Whisk your egg whites too much, and they go flat. Do one tiny thing wrong, you ruin the whole thing.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“I’m making it sound like the opposite of fun.” She tried to organize her thoughts. “The whisk or the rolling pin. It’s in my hand. It makes me feel in control, I guess.”

“You? Like control? Never.” With one eyebrow ticking up toward the sky, he had his eyes trained on hers.

She had the overwhelming urge to look somewhere, anywhere, other than at him. She changed the subject instead. “How about you? When you play, how do you feel?”

He looked into his house. Nothing was there, just the light glowing in the window. “That no matter how many games I win, no matter how hard I work, I’m not good enough.” He shook his head, sighing softly. “You’re only the second person I ever told this. I don’t know why I did.”

His face was in shadow, the evening light fading behind him. His mouth was drawn tight like a fitted sheet. He took a deep breath, filling up his lungs, before pushing the air out. Evie hovered her hand over West’s, and she lowered it on top. His fingers clenched under the weight of her hand, digging into the dirt, and when he looked over at Evie, something like a question playing at his lips, she realized what she’d done and pulled her hand away.

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