The Natural History of Us (32 page)

Justin draws a deep breath and lowers his gaze to his hands. The sling is off now, not needed anymore, but he's on strict orders not to overdo it. As reckless as he can be, I know he won't risk it. Baseball means everything to him.

“No. Not really.” Justin flips his hand over and stares at the grooves in his palm. “Coach says the injury won't be a problem. As long as I'm a hundred percent for the next game, and I will be, then I still have a good shot.”

“That's not what I asked.” I match his body posture, shifting on my hip to face him. “I asked what you
want
to do. The choice will be yours, I have no doubt about that. But at the end of the day, what path will make you the most happy—college or pro?”

He huffs a laugh. “What'll make me the most happy has nothing to do with baseball.”

My breath catches at his meaning, and Justin's eyes burn into mine. An emotion stirs in my chest, a feeling akin to hope and happiness, and I lock it down quick. This isn't about me.

I quirk an eyebrow, giving him a look, and Justin sighs.

“You know the rules, Sunshine. If I play for pay, I can't go back later. I can't change my mind and decide to try it in college. I mean, I can get a degree, but I can't play ball.” Frustrated, he rakes his fingers through his thick, dark hair. “But then, if I decide to let it ride and go to A&M, what happens if I get hurt? My career would be over before it even started.”

“Maybe,” I admit, knowing what he needs from me is honesty, not to be coddled. “But so what? If that happens, you'll do something else… You're more than just baseball, Justin. You know that, right?”

He doesn't say anything, which means
no
, he doesn't. Sadly, I'm not surprised. It's always come down to this. His family did a real number on him. I curse them for the millionth time in my head and pull my knees up onto the cushion.

Justin won't listen if I push. He'll clam up, stubbornly telling himself I'm being nice. Polite. Even flirtatious. But I want him to feel a real connection. Even after everything that went down between us, I feel an overwhelming need to protect him. Shifting closer, I hesitantly reach out and place my hand on his. He doesn't waste a second flipping his over.

Eyes on our joined hands, Justin says, “If I sign with a team, I'll be constantly traveling. Living on the road, practicing all the time. Eating crap and forgetting what city I'm even in. I'd barely ever see… the people I care about.” His hand squeezes mine, leaving no mistake who he means.

The thick knot in his throat bobs, and Justin raises his eyes.

Three years of questions and regrets pass between us. I want to run from the room every bit as much as I want to stay,
to confront them. For a moment, I think,
this is it
. He's finally going to tell me what really happened that day. What detail I supposedly missed.

Instead, Justin looks at the sleeping baby beside me and asks, “Do you ever wonder?”

One
thing I'd learned in my short life of being a secret boyfriend—you came when your girl called. When she called you in tears, you booked ass.

Practice ended not fifteen minutes ago, and I was already at the ranch, having begged an upperclassman for a ride. It would be my luck that today was the one day Rosalyn had to stay late at Chase's daycare, needing to help him rehearse for tomorrow's parent recital. I didn't begrudge my brother his moment of attention; I did, however, hate the curious look in Pete Langley's eyes when we pulled past Coach's gate. The senior was notorious for talking shit, but he'd been my only option for a ride. Hopefully, the twenty bucks I slipped him would shut those flapping lips.

I squinted against the abrupt light change inside the barn and called out, “Sunshine?”

Oakley stood in her stall, chomping happily on hay, but there was no sign of Peyton. I scratched my head and grabbed
my phone, checking to make sure she'd said to meet her here, and that's when I heard it. A broken sob.

Blood turned to ice in my veins, but I followed the sound, past every stall and Coach's ridiculously huge riding lawn mower, right through the back door. She was there, lying on the picnic table that had changed everything. It'd been seven weeks since the weekend she'd read my notebook and snuck into the doghouse. Seven weeks of perfection. Being with Peyton, earning her smiles, it gave me the peace I'd never had before. Being inside her made me feel invincible.

But, for some reason, I'd yet to tell her I loved her.

I didn't know why. She told me every chance she got, so it wasn't like I didn't have the opportunity. But something about those innocent eyes filled with hope, trust, and more love than I'd ever seen directed at me before always held me back. I was afraid to tip the scales.

Peyton's quiet, constant affection had healed every broken memory, every doubt, every fear that I was like my parents. Those insecurities vanished when I was with her. She deserved to know that.

Maybe today would be the day. Maybe knowing would fix whatever hurt her now.

Leaning down, I picked up her curled body and sat down on the bench with her in my arms. The smooth surface of the pond rippled, reflecting a distorted image of the cloudy sky.

“Tell me what's wrong.”

I pressed a kiss against her hair and, like always, it smelled like sunflowers. Peyton's body shook with silent tremors and I tightened my hold around her. “I can't fix it unless you tell me what's wrong. You're obviously upset. You called and told me to get down here, and now I'm here. Tell me what's going on. Whatever it is, we'll figure it out. Together.”

Tears splashed my neck as she buried her face in the crook near my shoulder. She mumbled something, half words, half
wails, but I couldn't make out anything that sounded like English. I pressed my back into the table, stroking her hair away from her wet cheeks so I could look into her red-rimmed eyes. My heart thudded in agony. “I'm sorry, baby, but I couldn't understand that. What's wrong?”

Fear and desperation flooded her gaze and the hair on the back of my neck stood on end. Whatever it was, it was bad, but I was here now. I would walk through fire if she asked me to.

Then Peyton's mouth formed two short words: “I'm late.”

I kept waiting for more.

Late for what, I wanted to ask. School was almost out for the year, her job was here at the ranch. I had no clue what she could possibly be late for…

Then, it clicked. And my body turned to stone.

“Justin? Did you hear me?”

Peyton climbed up my body and straddled my hips, grabbing my face so she could stare into my eyes. My arms fell loose around her. “Say something.”

I couldn't. Speaking would've required brain power that I didn't possess at that moment. Every synapse I had misfired at the word “late.”

The faint scent of charred wood wafted through the air, and I imagined it was the scent of every dream or plan either of us had for our lives going up in smoke.

Was this how my father felt when he heard those words? Sixteen years old and soon to be a father? A malicious laugh echoed inside my head. Be careful what you wish for. I'd vowed to never become like him, and look at that, I succeeded—I was worse. Hell, I beat him by a whole year.

“Tell me what you're thinking.”

Peyton grabbed my shoulders and shook them. I felt the bench beneath me, her soft weight on my lap, and the sun beating down on my head. But I wasn't at the ranch, not really.
I was back in my childhood home, overhearing a conversation I never should have.

Gramps and Gran raised me as their own. They protected me from the truth as best as they could, but I was a curious boy. When the man who I normally only saw in pictures, the man they said was my father, came home late one day, of course I had to sneak downstairs. What I overheard that night gave me a stomach ache.

Gran had refused to talk about it when I asked the next morning, but Gramps, he'd understood my need for answers. That afternoon over two fly fishing rods, he'd done his best to give them, putting the truth in words a seven-year-old could grasp.

“My mom had me when she was sixteen.”

My voice came out robotic, and Peyton's eyes widened with surprise. Tears still clung to her lashes, but the sight no longer affected me. It was like a wall had fallen, shutting me off from the world, sealing me away from feeling anything painful.

“Turns out, being a teen mom wasn't high on her to-do list. Put a crimp in her perfect pageant world, but I guess I should be grateful she had me at all. I guarantee my dad pressed for an abortion. Mom's parents kicked her out—evidently, having a pregnant teenage daughter didn't look good to voters, either—but Gramps and Gran took her in, took care of her, and after I was born, took care of me.”

A bird dove down and snatched an unsuspecting fish from the pond. Peyton's gaze stayed steady on me, waiting for me to continue, but I couldn't look at her. It hurt too much.

“My dad was pissed. He wanted a kid about as much as good old mom, and she at least got free after signing the papers. But dad… he was stuck. Gramps used to say, ‘A Carter owns up to his mistakes,' and I'm my father's biggest.”

I flashed her a grin. “After graduation, Dad joined the family business, earning his degree at night, learning how to be
a man in his father's eyes. Of course, that meant he had no time to see me, and that was just fine by him. I saw him maybe three or four times before Gran got sick. She died when I was seven, Gramps when I was nine. After that, Dad's luck ran out.”

Peyton's cool hands cradled my face, forcing me to look at her. “Justin, I… I don't know what to say. I'm so sorry you went through that.”

I shrugged a shoulder. “It is what it is,” I said. “You know the rest. Dad hired Rosalyn, and she's pretty much raised me from then on. Eventually, he married Annabeth, and Chase was born. Effectively replacing me. Hey, it sucks, but it's my life. What are ya gonna do?”

I exhaled a breath and felt the fight leaving me. Damn, I was pathetic. Throwing my head back, I stared at the gathering clouds.

“A long time ago, I made myself a promise. If I ever had kids, I'd be different. I'd do it right. I'd let them know they were loved, I'd take care of them.” I laughed at the sky. “I swore I'd never become like my father.”

“But you're not!” Sunshine's response was so immediate, so forceful, it was almost funny. “You're nothing like him. You'd never do the things he does or act the way he did.”

I lowered my head and sighed as I glanced at her flat stomach. “I just did. History is repeating itself right now.”

Self-loathing coated my skin like a thick layer of sweat.

We'd been so careful. The day I went back home from Easter, I stopped at the drug store and bought out an entire row of condoms. I'd pulled out that first night and it almost killed me. Peyton hadn't yet figured out how to ask her mom for birth control, but once she did, we'd do that, too. But we were smart. We were safe, every time.

Every time but the first.

“We don't know that,” she said, and I raised my eyes. Hurt was evident on her face, yet she still tried to comfort me. It
somehow made it worse. “I'm late, and it freaks me out, but we don't know I'm pregnant for sure. I'll take a test in the morning, before school, and then we'll figure it out, okay? This is probably just a false alarm.”

She looked away and I sighed, knowing better than to let hope win out. This was me we were talking about.

“Can you get it?” she asked, squirming on my lap. “I'd ask my parents, but…”

“No, I'll get it.” No way did I want Coach hearing about this until we knew for sure. “I'll get it tonight and bring it with me tomorrow. We can use the bathrooms on the second-floor,” I suggested. “Detention kids are the only ones around before seven-thirty, but it's better to be safe than sorry. Upstairs, no one will even know we're there.”