He looks up at me sharply. His eyes widen, then narrow. I can almost see the wheels turning inside his head, thoughts spinning round and round as he tries to compose a suitable response.
“See…” I murmur. “If you were the right man for me, you wouldn’t have to think nearly that hard about the answer, Ollie. If you truly wanted me — me, Josephine, not my family connections, or a permanent place in my parents’ good graces, or my last name — you wouldn’t have to weigh the pros and cons for more than a nanosecond. Because when you love someone, you choose them. No matter what. Above everything and everyone else.”
He blinks at me, like he doesn’t have a clue what I’m talking about.
“I can’t marry you,” I tell him softly. “I’m sorry, Oliver.”
“You— you’ve gone completely mad! That’s the only explanation for this change in your behavior!” His face is pale. He’s practically spluttering. He yanks at his tie, loosening it as he begins to pace behind the desk. “First you demonize your parents. Now, you’re lumping me in with them? Rejecting my proposal, like it’s nothing?!”
“It’s not nothing. I never said it was nothing. But it’s not right — not for me, not for you. This conversation has shown me, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that we would be miserable for all our days as husband and wife.”
“You cannot be serious!”
“How could I marry someone who can’t choose me over my parents?” I rise to my feet, locking my knees to keep them from collapsing beneath me. “How could I ever trust you to be my partner?”
“You talk about marriage like a child,” he snarls. “When it comes down to it, lifelong commitments aren’t about passion or desire; they’re about basic compatibility. Perhaps in a few years, when you’re capable of rational thought, you’ll see what I mean.”
“I may talk about marriage like a child, but you talk about it like a business acquisition!”
“Because it is! It is nothing but a merger between two families. The Beauforts and the Valentines are a good match. Cut from the same cloth. A seamless stitch.” His tone grows disdainful. “And you’re walking away from that… turning me down… for what? Some fleeting feelings of lust for an ex-boyfriend that will vanish after a few bouts between the sheets.”
I can’t quite swallow down my fury. “I think it’s time for you to leave, Oliver.”
“You’re going to regret this. You don’t belong with someone like him,” he says bluntly. His pacing stops as abruptly as it began. “He hurt you before. He’ll hurt you again. And when he does… I won’t be here to pick up the pieces.”
“You may be right. Archer may hurt me again. He may not be perfect. I’m certainly not. If we do have any sort of future together, it won’t be easy.” I suck in a breath. “But I’d rather fight every day to make it work with someone who loves me without question than live out my life as no more than a line-item on a business contract between our bloodlines. I deserve more than that. And so do you, Oliver. I hope you realize that, someday. I hope you meet someone who makes you realize that.”
He retrieves his briefcase from beside the desk and walks stiffly to the door. At the threshold, he pauses for only a brief moment.
“Have a good life, Josephine,” he says.
He leaves, then.
He does not look back.
THIRTY
archer
“Careful where you swing that, Ross,” I call across the field, halting the unruly first-grader where he stands. His small hands — still holding the wooden bat — freeze midair, poised to bring down a dizzying blow on the head of a ginger-haired kid with freckles and glasses, waiting for his turn at home plate.
The last thing we need is a concussion injury. It’s only our second practice.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I shake my head at Ross until he sighs, steps back, and drops the bat to the dirt. He huffs his way to the back of the batting line to wait for his turn — and, no doubt, find another unsuspecting victim to antagonize.
“Cocky little shits, aren’t they?” Chris mutters from beside me on the pitching mound.
I bark out a laugh. “The arrogance of youth.”
“That one isn’t just arrogant. He’s a troublemaker. All the makings of a class clown.” He pauses. “He’s also my little cousin, so I may be biased.”
“He reminds me a bit of you as a kid.”
“Oh, come on! I wasn’t that bad.”
“I seem to recall an incident involving spit-balls and the coach’s daughter—”
He smirks. “Fine. Maybe I was that bad. But we couldn’t all be you, Reyes. So calm, so focused. Early to every practice. Always offering to carry the equipment and help clean litter off the bleachers after our games. A coach’s dream.”
There’s a strong sense of irony, looking back — the devilish son of the police chief a constant source of trouble; the angelic boy from the wrong side of the tracks forever overcorrecting for his criminal connections. I don’t bother pointing out to Chris that not all of us have the privilege of acting out. Even in elementary school, I knew I had to work twice as hard to be seen as anything except just another Reyes kid. From my very first tee-ball team all the way through varsity, I bent over backwards to distinguish myself from Jaxon’s actions. In a way, I’m still doing it. Only this time, it’s not on a baseball field and the stakes are much higher.
“Any word from the DEA?” Chris asks, reading my mind.
“Not since the other day. They’re watching the harbor, waiting for the trawler to come back into port. Could be any minute, now. They said they’ll call as soon as that happens.”
“They want to raid the boat with a full hold.”
“Mhm.” My eyes follow the swing of the redheaded kid. He’s butchered three separate attempts at hitting the ball off the tee and his self-confidence is deflating faster than a week-old birthday balloon. At the back of the line, Ross sniggers something cruel that makes the whole line of kids laugh. I keep my eyes on the batter. “Jimmy, look at me.”
Beneath the brim of his plastic helmet, his eyes find mine. I see a double-dose of humiliation, lurking beneath the shimmer of impending tears. Poor kid can’t take much more taunting. “Hey — don’t give up. Adjust your grip — remember how we showed you earlier? Where are your hands supposed to go? Up a bit farther. Yep, that’s it.” I nod at him. “Now, try again. You’ve got this, buddy.”
He grins crazy-big when his next swing makes definitive contact, sending the ball across the infield with a sharp crack. Chris and I both cheer encouragingly, clapping our hands and stomping our feet. He won’t be the next David Ortiz, but at least he can hold his head up high as he walks to the back of the line to join Ross.
“Next up!” Chris calls. “That’s you, Matthew. Hey! What’s our rule? Put on your helmet before you step out of the dugout, remember?” My co-coach slides a glance at me as the next batter steps up to home plate. “Four hours with these kids, and I’m questioning if I’ll ever reproduce.”