Page 95 of Tagging Bases

He launches into Savage Garden’s “I Want You”with the intensity of a man who has something to prove, rapidly firing through the lyrics without any visible signs of oxygen intake.

“He’s really going for it,” Harrison says, eyes glued to Charlie.

“His stubborn streak is showing,” I reply, watching as Roy cheers him on with a half-empty beer bottle in hand.

As impressive as Charlie’s commitment is, I become distracted by how much Roy has been drinking tonight. He’s laughing at Charlie now, but his demeanor shifts when he catches me watching him. His smile fades too quickly for my liking, and there’s a coldness in his eyes that wasn’t there before.

It’s not the first time I’ve felt the chill from him tonight. He’s been giving me the silent treatment ever since we came down here. It started subtly—short answers and minimal eye contact—but now it’s as obvious as a slap in the face.

Charlie’s voice cracks on a particularly high note, and Harrison winces in sympathy. “Think he’ll make it?”

“Physically? Maybe,” I say, trying to keep my focus on anything other than Roy’s increasingly aloof behavior.

“Emotionally?” Harrison presses.

“He’s scarred for life,” I assure him with a grin.

Roy stands suddenly, swaying slightly before regaining his balance. He glances around the room as if he’s forgotten where he put something important, then staggers toward the stairs without another word.

As I watch him, a thought hits me. What if it’s not alcohol that has him acting this way? What if it’s something else entirely?

“You okay if I leave for a second?” I ask Harrison quietly.

He nods, eyes still on Charlie and his flexing throat muscles.

Reluctantly, I release my hold on Harrison and get up from our beanbag throne. I’ve never been one to back down from a challenge or confrontation, but this is different—more personal, more important.

I follow Roy through the kitchen, past the piles of dirty dishes and leftover food. The farther he gets from the basement, the more I act like an overgrown stalker.

He rounds a corner and ducks into a room, shutting the door with force. It’s been ages since I was last here, and my brain’s not entirely sure what room that is. A bedroom? Maybe an office?

Fearlessly—or maybe recklessly—I open the door.

“Shit!” I exclaim at the same time that Roy hollers at me to get out.

He’s in the middle of squatting down to take care of business, and I’m frozen for a second too long, mouth hanging open like an idiot. He chucks his empty beer bottle at my head, and I jump back into the hall, slamming the door shut as it shatters against the wall where my face had been moments before.God, that could have ended badly in so many ways.

I lean against the wall and breathe out slowly. Not only have I probably scarred Roy for life by barging in on him, but there’s also a very real chance he’s going to murder me once he’s done taking a dump.

I decide it’s best to wait for him in the living room, where there are plenty of potential witnesses who can come to my rescue.

The living room is dimly lit. The sounds of laughter and off-key singing echo up through the floorboards, reminding me of all the fun I’m missing out on while waiting for my impending death. But the longer I sit here, the more I second-guess everything about tonight.

Perhaps Roy’s silent treatment has nothing to do with me. Maybe he’s simply annoyed about work. Charlie mentioned that he has an employee who always calls out and another who only works nights because he’s in high school. Or maybe—and this is probably closer to reality—hedoeshate my guts and can’t stand being around me for more than five minutes before needing another drink.

After what feels like forever but is probably only five minutes, I hear heavy footsteps coming down the hall. My heart kicks into high gear as Roy enters the room, looking decidedly lessmurderous than I’d expected but still wearing a scowl that could freeze hell over.

“Nice aim,” I say in the hopes of breaking whatever tension looms between us.

“Next time, I’ll aim lower,” he replies flatly, without missing a beat.

Nice. This is good. We’re communicating now, even if it does involve threats of bodily harm.

“So, do you want to tell me why you’re avoiding me like I’ve got some kind of contagious disease?”

He sits down across from me with all the grace of someone who’s already decided how little he cares about this conversation.

“It’s complicated,” he mutters.

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