“You’re lucky you pay me a lot.”
“Yeah, that’s lucky for you too. What’s up?”
“Lowe. You know what’s up. How could you not give me a heads-up or something so I could get in front of the story instead of them blasting photos of the two of you?”
“There was nothing to get in front of.”
“So, you don’t know her?”
“Nope.” And that really bugs me more than any of this shit. “Just met her yesterday.”
“Okay. Well, the good news is it’s not hurting your image, rather giving you a more human element.”
“Great.” I hate that word now. Thanks, Dad.
“Yeah. I’d usually say let’s send her a jersey or a fruit basket or something, but I doubt she’d care.” He can’t even get through the sentence without snickering.
“You too, huh?” Is there anyone who doesn’t plan on taking a few jabs about her not giving a shit about me or my return?
“Yeah. It is nice that one person in the world isn’t obsessed with Carter Barlowe. At least, as long as she doesn’t get others to follow along.”
“Well, I’m sure you two would get along great.” Send her something, huh? “Any clue on where we’d deliver our thanks-for-making-an-ass-out-of-Barlowe memorabilia?”
“Canaan Falls West High School. Ms. Avery Whitlock, history teacher.”
That doesn’t surprise me but rather fits her somehow. “You really did your research.”
“It’s my job to know everything and anything that affects you, and Avery Whitlock joined that list yesterday. But it wasn’t that hard to find out. There were a few comments on a social media post about her being their teacher. But that answers my other question of whether you knew if she’d attend more games.”
“I doubt it.”
“Good deal. Call me after the game. We need to schedule a few things.” Joe pauses before he says, “There’s a request for an interview with your father.”
“Never gonna happen.”
“That’s what I thought, but I had to double check before I told them no again.” Joe knows the drill because he’s one of the few people who knows the real Cash Barlowe. “Talk to you later. Seriously, call me tonight. We still have some stuff to go over.”
“Got it.” I disconnect the call and sit in a daze until it’s time to head to the dugout. The stadium isn’t as full as it was yesterday, but there’s still a good-sized crowd in attendance. So, why do my eyes search the same spot Avery sat yesterday? I hope to find hazel eyes staring back at me, but of course she isn’t there.
The few moments my dad hasn’t been in the forefront of my mind are the moments I’ve focused on her, and that’s what I plan to continue doing. Not that I have a choice, though. Because having a choice implies control, the making of a decision, and having a plan indicates thoughtful execution of achieving a specific result. Neither of those things describe the compulsive way my eyes automatically seek her out in the crowd, only to come up empty each time. Spotting only unfamiliar faces, I’m man enough to admit I crave the one that wants nothing to do with me. But maybe I can change that.
7
AVERY
“Good morning.”
My greeting is returned by most students as they arrive to class. Others give me a quick nod and slip into their seats. That’s fine; Mondays are hard for some, so I don’t take any of it personal. Plus, first period is usually the quietest, except for one student who is at full volume despite the early hour.
My phone vibrates on my desktop, and I know it’s from Bodie before I even look. He’s been apologizing nonstop. And even though I know he’s not directly responsible, I still want to forget all about it.
Bodie: Supper’s on me tonight. Your pick. What are we having?
Me: Doesn’t matter to me.
Bodie: Are you sure? I figured you’d choose something expensive as a means to make me pay restitution.
Me: I should, but you can just pick up something.
As I note the time, I drop my phone into the drawer and look around the classroom. A few sets of eyes watch me, and I’ve had my fingers crossed all morning that there’s not too many baseball fans among my students. That wishful thinking is instantly demolished as E.J. walks in and shouts, “Ms. W, how you gonna do my boy like that?”
“Have a seat, E.J.”
He grins, walking over to my desk. Flashing the picture of me sleeping at the game, he says, “Now you know how I feel about history.”