The Natural History of Us (20 page)

A few feet away, his gaze sharpens as if he can read my thoughts.

What he wants now is me.

“Thank God this project's almost over,” Cade mutters, and I blink and look away, breaking eye contact with Justin. “The sooner we get that loser away from you, the better.”

My tongue is going to be sore tomorrow from all the biting. “Uh huh.”

Usually, Cade is the least jealous guy I know. He doesn't act like a caveman or like those possessive jerks I read about in some of my books. He's actually really chill. It's just that Justin Carter has always been his kryptonite. To this, I can relate.

A pop fly is caught for the second out and Justin heads to the plate. I loop my arm through Cade's, feeling guilty for making him insecure, and lay my head on his shoulder.

A few minutes pass, enough for Justin to hit a double, and I think the subject is dropped. But then Cade says, “The whole thing is stupid anyway. If anything, I should be the one doing this project with you, not him. I'm the one you're gonna be with in the end.”

Cade has our whole future planned. After we're married, we'll continue working both ranches, my family's and his, until the day we take over and merge the two together. Most of the horses will then relocate to his land, along with the future riding school, while my family's land will host all the birthday parties, scout events, and, of course, the dog boarding business.

Where exactly running my own veterinary practice fits in the middle of all that, I'm not really sure, but I'm sure we'll figure it out. This is Cade, after all. He's a problem solver.

“What sort of things do the two of you talk about anyway?”

I tear my gaze away from the field. “Huh?”

Cade gives me a patient smile, the one that drives me just the tiniest bit batty, and says, “For the project. You said it's
mostly answering a bunch of questions and writing the paper. What sort of things do they want to know?”

Hmm. This sounds like the beginning of a slippery slope if I've heard of one. Warning signs practically blind me with their flashes. But answering does seem like the better of two evils, the other option being to say nothing or change the subject, and let Cade imagine the worst. That would not end well at all. So, I give him an example.

“Okay, here's one of the questions we went over in class yesterday.” I turn slightly to face him on the bleachers. “If we only had $1,000 and three days for a honeymoon, where would we go, and what would we do?”

Cade makes a scoffing sound in his throat and I withhold a sigh. “It's about learning how to live on a budget and compromise,” I explain, wishing we'd never started this to begin with. “You said you wanted to know.”

“Yeah, well what's he know about living on a budget anyway?” He motions to Justin who is taking the field with the team and my hackles rise. Cade's family is loaded too, almost as much as the Carters, so his attitude is completely ridiculous. But I say nothing.

“Do you want to answer the question or not?”

Cade exhales, shaking off whatever he'd been thinking, and sits up straight. “Three-day honeymoon and only a grand, huh?”

I nod in confirmation, more than slightly annoyed, but also extremely curious to hear his answer.

“Easy,” he says. “Stay home.”

He shrugs as if this is the most obvious choice, and my mouth parts in confusion. “We'd throw most of it towards your student loans,” he explains. “It wouldn't make a huge dent or anything, but every little bit helps, right? Besides, we don't need a big, fancy vacation. We've got each other. If anything, maybe we'd take a couple hundred and go down to Galveston,
invite Faith and whoever she's stringing along at the time, and make a party out of it.”

Right
. A party with my bestie at the beach. Because nothing spells romance like a group date and smart financial planning.

I school my expression as best I can because, I mean, I get it. Thanks to those medical bills, it's pretty much a given that my college experience will be funded by the good old folks at Sallie Mae. But must Cade always be so stinking practical?

Unfortunately, my acting job apparently sucks because he catches my reaction and says, “All right then, what did Mr. Baseball suggest?”

Something a lot closer to my answer
. “Well, he suggested a small weekend getaway to the mountains,” I say, trying to ignore the couple to our left hanging on our every word. “Rent a cabin, hike a few trails, sit by the fire, that sort of thing.”

Actually, Justin's exact words were that money didn't equal happiness, but if ever there was a time to be frivolous, a wedding would be it. Then he spun his romantic version of a honeymoon which seemed to be plucked right out of my own head. It was almost eerie.

Justin didn't know about my cousin's recent vacation to Tennessee. He didn't see the pictures of the big roaring fireplace, the cute little chalet, or the gorgeous waterfalls nearby. He didn't hear me say that I'd love to go there some day, too. But Cade did.

“Of course he said that.” He huffs with laugher and removes his glasses, closing his eyes as he squeezes the bridge of his nose. “Peyton, why can't you see—?”

If there is an end to that question, I don't hear it.

Along with most of the crowd, my attention turns to the ball field. Specifically, to the runner rounding third and sprinting for home.

I've never believed in female intuition. To me, sixth sense is merely a weird Bruce Willis movie. But as I watch the runner
drop his head and charge ahead like some sort of enraged bull, every hair on my body stands on end. Justin moves into position on homeplate, prepared to catch the ball and tag him out, and a scream builds from somewhere deep within my belly.

The
smack
of the hit as they collide. The roar from the crowd as we surge to our feet. The cry that rips from my throat. It feels like it takes an eternity.

In reality, it all happens way too fast.

Justin
swings the driver's side door closed with his right hand, his left one hanging limply from a sling. It's been several days since the accident, and I've seen him at school, but I can't stop staring at his arm. Remembering my mad dash to the field when he didn't immediately get up. The confusion on Dad's face when he gently pulled me away, assuring me that Justin would be fine. The hurt simmering in Cade's eyes.

“Looking good,” I tease, wanting to break the tension. Only, it works against me when that slow, confident smirk forms and I flush to my toes. “How ya feeling?”

He lets out a sigh. “Useless.” Resting his hip against the hood of his Jeep, he gazes out at the paddock. “Your dad's ban from practice is slowly driving me insane, Sunshine. I can't even think about them playing the semi-finals without me.”

I know how hard this is for him. Justin lives and breathes baseball. He's a damn good player, and he's a leader on the team. Dad only wants to protect him, keep him safe—a concussion and shoulder sprain are nothing to joke about, and
it could've been so much worse. When he finally sat up, dazed and confused as to what happened, and later threw up after staggering off the field, I thought it was.

Waiting to hear how bad the injury was had been terrifying. I know how much the sport means to Justin. If he'd torn a ligament and couldn't play again, it would crush him. In the end, he got lucky. The shoulder was sprained, not dislocated or torn, and the concussion mild. Scouts making their final decisions have already seen Justin play. They know these types of injuries and, more importantly, they understand the need to be smart. Missing one game, even the semi-finals, is nothing compared to his future. We're expected to win anyway, and pushing now could lead to a much greater injury. With adequate rest, combined with cold therapy and eventual light stretching on his shoulder, Justin will be healthy and set to play in next week's Championship when it counts.

Unfortunately, knowing that doesn't make sitting out now any easier.

Walking down the porch steps, I smile and say, “So, what, you decided to come by and drive me crazy instead?”

“I thought we could work on our project,” he replies with a smile. A real one this time, not one of his player ones. “We have a few questions left to answer and the next section of our paper to nail down. Besides, I couldn't spend another second in that empty house.”

I nod because I get it. I've heard how quiet that huge place gets when no one else is there. Plus, if I'm being honest, I'm going a little stir-crazy, too. Cade is at his own ranch today—he's been giving me some space since the game this weekend. Faith has dance practice and Dad, well, he's at school doing the very thing Justin wishes he was right now. It's only me, Trevor, and Mama here today.

As if my thoughts summoned her, Mama comes flying out of the house, arms out for a hug. Luckily for Justin, she slows before she reaches him.

“Oh, I'm so glad you're all right,” she says, eyes misty, hands looking for a place to settle. Like he's made of glass. She finally decides on his face, cupping it between her palms and shaking his chin a little as she says, “I was so worried when they told me what happened, that boy slamming into you like that. I can't imagine. If I'd been there…” She takes a breath and moves her hands to his shoulders. “How do you feel? Does your shoulder hurt? You want some cookies?”

I hide my laugh behind a smile. That's Mama for you. Never lets you get a word in, but never leaves you guessing how much she cares. Cookies are her love language.

As I watch Justin stare back at my mom, pressure builds behind my eyes. Our childhoods were so vastly different. He didn't get chocolate chip cookies when he fell and hurt himself. Didn't have a parent coddle him when he was sick. I wonder if his parents even know he was injured. Or, if they do, if they worried about him at all.

“Thank you, Mrs. Grace,” he finally says, though his voice is husky. “Cookies sound amazing.”

Mama, the old softie, clamps her lips together as her eyes fill with tears. She nods, pats the side of his face, and gives a close-mouthed, trembling smile. “I'll be right back.”

Justin watches her walk away, inhaling deeply through his nose. I both love and hate that his only real moments of parenting seem to come from my family. Did he have anyone filling that role since we broke up?

The screen door closes and he turns back to me.

“Let me go grab my binder,” I say cheerily… perhaps a little
too
cheerily.

He nods. “I'll be waiting at the table.” He heads toward the large picnic table we have set up near the barn, and I dash
inside for my schoolbag, trying desperately to hold onto my previous anger.

Three years is a long time to hold on to hurt. To convince yourself you hate someone, never want to see them again, wish they'd suffer a disgusting ailment. You'd think it would take a lot more than a few conversations over the course of a few weeks to make it all disappear. But that's exactly what's happened, because when I try and dredge up the old feelings of resentment and pain I've clung to over Justin, all that remains are smoldering embers of sadness.

What did Justin mean when he said there were things I didn't know about that day? I knew plenty, witnessed it with my own eyes, and let my imagination fill in the rest. If you'd asked me a month ago, I'd have said I was content never learning specifics. But his words continue to poke me.

Would knowing the full truth really make a difference?

“Got it,” I announce when I appear back at the table, slightly out of breath and more confused than ever. I take a seat across from him and follow his gaze to the barrel course.

Justin motions toward it. “How's it going?”

“Ah, well, it's going,” I say before exhaling in frustration. “I got out there with Oakley last Saturday actually.” His eyes widen with curiosity and pride, and I douse it. “Couldn't even make it past the first barrel.”