Page 61 of The Hang Up

And who was I kidding? I’d been keeping secrets from Sean since I realized I had a crush on his dad.

“Brock,” he said, startling me. I almost zested my fingers. “I think you’ve tortured that lemon enough.”

The lemon was almost bald. I set it aside and turned to wash my hands. “I just needed a break.”

“Is your guy pissing you off?”

“Yes. Yes, he is.” And that felt good to say. I sighed. “But he’s just a guy, Sean. You and Ben are happy, great. That doesn’t mean every relationship is going to turn out that way.”

“Adam Wainwright.”

“Oh God. Go away so I can wallow and cook in peace.”

“Cooking in a busy kitchen takes the ability of not getting distracted. This is my way of helping prepare you—training you.”

I didn’t mention I was distracted enough without him. “What about Adam Wainwright?”

“Dad took us to a St. Louis Cardinal ball game—I think we were ten?”

I mixed the ingredients together, starting with the milk, lemon zest, and juice. And then added the dry ingredients. I didn’t want to remember St. Louis. Being around Joshua—Mr. Miller back then—had been terrifying and exhilarating. He’d talk to me, and I’d freeze up. But he was good at coaxing me out of my shell. That ability to charm people was his superpower. It had helped him become the CEO of his own tech company. But back then, it had felt like his entire focus was on me. Heady for a ten-year-old. It hadn’t been a crush then. Not yet. That had come later when puberty smacked me upside the head. My thoughts had been a confusing mess of needing that validation—of being seen—and wanting him to kiss me. Touch me. I shook my head, trying to dislodge those memories.

“Yeah…we were ten.”

“Why are we talking about St. Louis?” He shrugged, and I focused on him. My best friend. “Sean?”

“Now that Dad and I are trying to get along, I’m remembering more of the good times. Things we did together. I was so focused on—” He waved his hand. “All that other stuff that I’d forgotten the things we did together.”

“Oh.”

“That’s it? No—I’ve been telling you all along, Sean, that your dad isn’t the asshole you make him out to be.”

“That doesn’t sound like me.” God. I’d been blatantly obvious this whole time. And selfish. Because thinking about it now, I realized how much of that had been about me and my crush and had nothing to do with Sean and the way Joshua had hurt him. I was a terrible friend.

“I was obsessed with Albert Pujols. And Dad had taken us after the game to get a signed ball. And you moped and whined—”

“I didn’t whine. And I need to mix this.” I said, turning on the mixer and trying not to think about where he was going with this. Because I thought I knew. But I could only mix for so long and have my lemon-blueberry pound cake turn out. As soon as I finished, he carried on as if he hadn’t been interrupted.

“Dad finally sat you down and forced you to tell him—”

“He didn’t force me.” And for some stupid reason, I blushed. Stupid Joshua-holding-me-down-and-fucking-me reasons. I turned away from Sean and prepared the baking pan that was already prepared.

“—and that’s when you admitted you liked Adam Wainwright, but you were too embarrassed to tell us.”

When I could face him again without my skin imitating a tomato, I poured the batter into the pan. “And your dad made it happen. We both got the balls we wanted.” Oh Jesus. I willed away the blush. “The autographed baseballs we wanted.”

“Exactly.” He imitated a mic drop. “Boom.”

I was shaking the pan to even out the batter, and I stopped and stared at him. “What?”

He frowned and shook his head. “We used to be so in tune. Now, I don’t know what we are.”

I didn’t know either, and it scared the hell out of me. “It’s Ben.” It wasn’t Ben—not just Ben. “You guys share that connection now. Which is totally chill. So maybe just tell me your point.”

“Remember what Dad told you?”

“That was a long time ago.”

“Dude, come on. You hung on my dad’s every word. Stared at him like he was Jesus himself.”

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