It’s killing me that he didn’t even bother to say hello or even acknowledge my presence. And maybe it’s selfish of me, but that pisses me off.
How many nights did we dream of being in the World Series. Of the crowd and the fireworks?
Fuck this.
I call Waylon and beg him to call in a really big favor by securing Ryan’s home address, and before I can overthink it—not really a problem for me—-I’m at his gate, ringing the buzzer.
The odds of him actually being home two hours after winning the biggest game of his career are slim, but I’ll wait for as long as I have to. While I wait, I look up at the bigass Kansas City mansion secured by an iron gate and smile to myself.
“Damn, Bailey,” I whisper.
He’s definitely made it. “Hello?”
Well, holy shit. He’s home. What if he’s not alone?
I shake that off. Why the hell do I care? “Bailey, let me in.”
His voice is off, kind of shaky when I hear, “Grady? What the fuck are you doing at my house?”
“Just buzz me in. We need to talk.”
There’s a pause, and I know he can see me on the security feed he no doubt has. But for me, it’s just a voice coming out of a speaker. “No. We don’t.”
“Yes. We do.” I wait a beat. “Are you seriously not going to let me in?”
“Yes.”
“Jesus, that’s rude. I should call your mother.” Nothing. I roll my eyes. “Fine, buzz me in or I will sit out here for as long as it takes and give TMZ a call.”
I can see his jaw ticking with anger even though I can’t actually see him. I feel it. I know him better than I’ve ever known anyone. Which is why it really fucking sucks that he disappeared, and I still can’t pinpoint the reason why.
“Fine.”
With that, the lock clicks and the gate opens, allowing me to drive my rental car through the gate. When I park in front, I’m greeted by a pissed-off Ryan, who’s flying out his front door in a pair of dark gray joggers and sporting messy bedhead. “Were you seriously asleep at ten o’clock the night after you won the World Series?”
He ignores my question, folding his muscular arms over his chest in a pissed-off stance. “What are you doing here?”
“I want to talk. You gonna let me in?” I look around, knowing there isn’t a neighbor close by but also knowing how private Ryan has always been. So, I raise my hands out to my side and say in a loud voice, “Or would you prefer to talk about how you left me without any explanation, all because of one fucking kiss outside on your lawn?”
“Jesus,” he hisses, running his fingers through his hair and growling low, “get inside.”
He moves out of the way and allows me to shove past him into the wide expanse of a grand foyer. I let out a low whistle. “Sure have come far, haven’t you, Bailey?”
I turn to see him glowering at me as he closes the front door. “You’re one to talk.” Again, he folds his arms over his stomach I can’t help but notice is fucking chiseled. He was always pretty built once we started working out in junior high, but now the fucker is solid. No doubt, he spends most of his life in a gym.
I grin. “Yeah, all our dreams came true, huh?”
“Why are you here, Grady?”
“Why did you leave?” It’s abrupt and probably not what he was expecting me to ask, but I don’t care anymore. I’m tired of wondering.
He scoffs and walks away from me down the foyer, but I grab his bicep. He pulls away, acting like my touch scalded him.
“Jesus Christ, Bailey. I get it, okay? We were drunk off our asses and partying, and it led to a fucking dumbass kiss. You didn’t have to fucking bail on me.”
He stares at me, his blue eyes threatening to burn through me. “What?”
“What?” I grip the back of my neck, feeling oddly vulnerable. I’ve never talked about that kiss, but it has to be the reason he left. “It wasn’t a big deal. And you kissed me back, FYI, fucker. It’s not like it was all me.”
He blinks twice and then shakes his head in confusion. “You think I left because a guy kissed me?”
I let out a huff. “And you kissed a guy.” I walk closer to him, hating the cold distance he’s putting between us. The distance he put there seven years ago. “It’s okay. It’s not a big deal, but you didn’t have to fucking bail.”
“I didn’t leave because of that.”
I stare at him, uncertain and searching my mind for anything else it could have been. “Then why?”
“I thought you were going to freak the fuck out.”
I stare at him, me being the confused one now. “Why would I freak out? It wasn’t that big of a deal. It was a kiss, man. You didn’t have to throw away a longtime friendship over it. I definitely wouldn’t have.”
“And how did I know that, huh? You aren’t gay.”
“So.” I shrug. “Neither are you.”
His eyes flicker with something I almost miss, and then he straightens his back. The fucker is massive. He’s broad and made to withstand a grown-ass man barreling toward home plate. “I am.”
“You are what?” I cock my head to the side, trying to figure out what the hell is going on. None of the pieces are fitting together.
“I’m gay.”
He’s what?
This is just fucking great. Exactly what I wanted to deal with tonight.
An angry, confused Grady Bell in my house, demanding answers.
“You can go now,” I say to him, hoping for this moment to be over. I can’t take him being disgusted or disappointed or whatever the fuck.
I just can’t.
I couldn’t seven years ago, and I can’t today.
“Hold on a second.” He holds up his hand, and his face doesn’t really say grossed-out, more stunned. “You’re gay?”
“Yes.” I’m not going to lie. Not to him. Not to the people who are actually in my life. At least not if they ask me outright.
“But . . .” He looks like he’s going to be sick now.
That’s just great. “I’m not ashamed of it. You can let yourself out.”
I try to walk away again, but the asshole reaches out and grips my arm.
Again.
My eyes slice to where he’s gripping my bare flesh but then roam to his face. He looks pale. “I’ve seen you with girls.”
I roll my eyes and push his hand away. “Who?”
“Maggie. I saw you two at that party our junior year.”
I cringe, thinking about that night. How drunk I was and trying to suppress the feelings that were still raging from seeing Grady in the locker room shower earlier that day. “She was a good kisser but a little soft for me.”
“So wait . . .” He’s processing, and I’m growing tired of it. But I also let him ask, “If you’re gay, why the hell did you freak out about kissing a guy?”
I scoff at that, the sound leaving my lips before I could reel it in. “Not a guy. You. My best friend.”
“That’s fucking worse, asshole. You could have told me.” Now he’s angry. Seriously? “You know I’m not some homophobic asshole. I would have been fine with it.”