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I want more than anything for her apologies and promises to not fall under an expiration date. Not only for my siblings, but for her.
There’s so much more to her than alcohol and chasing worthless men.
“Wanna know what I think?”
I soak in her attention and nod. “I do.”
“I think one day your mom will look back on all the ways you’ve helped her and your siblings, and she’ll feel gratitude. Sometimes, it’s hard to see the silver lining in things, the positive in a struggle, when we’re in the trenches of our own mess. You know?” I close my eyes, soaking in her encouragement. “Your mom loves you, August. I feel that without even knowing her. She’s just lost right now. But everything you’re doing for those little babies will be worth it in the end. The positive in all of this is that they have you. Thank God they have you.”
There are hundreds of different things Tenley could have said to help me. Hell, she could have just listened, andI wouldn’t have complained one bit. But to hear those heartfelt words come from her, the woman who, eight months ago, I would have laughed in your face had you told me she said that, means more than I can properly express.
It means someone sees me in this world. Sees me as someone other than August Graves, starting third baseman for the Atlanta Strikers.
Tenley sees me for…me. Flawed and broken. But also, the guy the world likes to categorize as something entirely different. A playboy without a serious bone in his body.
She sees beyond the facade.
Without asking, I stand and pull her mouth to mine. The kiss is slow and really fucking intentional. She doesn’t need time to catch up, falling into me with her whole self. My tongue slips between her soft lips, and a muffled whimper escapes her. I’m not looking to take things further. I just want her to feel my thankfulness.
Feel how important her encouraging words are to me.
“Thank you,” I whisper against her lips. “Thank you for seeing me.”
With her eyes closed, Tenley whispers back, “I’ve always seen you.”
Yeah, I’m starting to believe that.
34
TENLEY
Seeing as how it took me longer than necessary to no longer feel like hurling up my next meal, I want to eat any and everything in sight.
August included.
I also never imagined my freaking vagina to be this…hungry…thirsty? Hell if I know. Whatever it is…girlfriend is fiending for some mustached bad boy.
Although lately, I’m seriously questioning the bad boy part. Maybe in the sheets, but in the streets…the assumed bad boy is very much a…gentleman? Who would have ever known?
It still doesn’t stop me from overthinking everything when it comes to him. The talk with my mom definitely painted things in a new light, but I can’t fight off this lingering insecurity.
I’m not an insecure person either. I practically invented strong and independent, but for some god-awful reason, August brings out the side of me that I claimed I would never be.
Right now, however, it’s as if any off-the-wall thoughtI’ve ever had ceases to exist because the only thing my brain can focus on is the way August’s thighs look in his white baseball pants.
Baseball pants that hug every line of muscle along the length of his legs, making what I’m sure was designed to be a sturdy fabric, practically translucent with the strain.
God, they must be suffocating in this heat.He should take them off.But lordy, Miss Pearl, am I grateful for the challenge they’re put against.
It’s a home game and I’ve been assigned by Coach Leggins to post on our team socials a snapshot into what the players do to prepare for games and rituals leading to their turn at bat. It’s actually really interesting to pay attention to something so detailed and from the outside looking in, small. But to the Strikers, it’s a matter of win or lose, a home run to a strikeout, a moment of self-affliction or praise.
August Graves, cocky motherfucker and all, lives by routine, and there’s no hiding it. My eyes scan his giant frame, taking up the entire on-deck circle, waiting for Kingston to finish his turn at bat. Most players use their time on deck to make practice swings as the pitcher pitches to the current batter, but not August.
It’s like he was born to go against the grain. Go off-roading and let the new course speak for itself. I low-key love that about him.
With the entire right side of his cheek stuffed with what I know to be his favorite, dill pickle sunflower seeds, he pulls a wad of blue raspberry bubble gum from his pocket and shoves it into his left cheek—double-stuffing. Without a practice swing in sight, August shuffles his wooden bat between his palms and twists his bat in front of him, almost like a spinning top.
Just like him, I fixate on the way the bat rotateseffortlessly as he tosses it in front of him, only to catch it and repeat the process. He must feel me watching him because just before Kingston hits a triple, August, now up to bat, swings his head in my direction and sends me a freakishly boyish grin full of seeds and blue bubble gum.
