Nothing Like the Movies

Liz

I want to go home.

I watched Wes go back to playing catch, and my stomach was so full of nerves that I was pretty sure I could vomit on command. Because the way he’d looked at me from the field, after everything he’d said to me in the office, was just too overwhelming.

“Perfect day,” the guy behind me said, and he wasn’t wrong. It was sunny and warm, without a cloud in the sky, and since it was the last scrimmage before fall ball ended, the place was packed.

I didn’t care, though, because I couldn’t think about anything but the pitcher.

I will feel this way about you for the rest of my life.

Dear God, who said things like that?

Clark had been extraordinarily nice to me on the way over, mostly because I’d burst into tears after Wes left the office, but that somehow made it worse. I needed to forget everything and work, so when we got to the field and Lilith was waiting for us, I was relieved. She was in producer mode, all geared-up, and immediately asked for a favor.

“What’s up?” I’d asked, reaching into the pocket of my bag to pull out my sunglasses.

“Do you think you can sit in the stands and get some shots of the fans?” She turned and pointed her arm in the direction of home plate. “And I want some stills from the stands, like a fan’s-eye view of the game. Can you do that?”

Could I do that? Could I put myself in a position to not have to engage with Wes—or the entire team?

She couldn’t have asked for a more wonderful favor that day.

“Of course,” I’d said, nodding. “Tell me everything you need.”

Instead of being near the dugout, she wanted me with the crowd. So I wandered around before the game, taking photos of fans as they bought concessions and basically looked like walking advertisements for UCLA baseball.

It was escapism from the stress of figuring out what to do about Wes, thank God.

The only problem was that once he took the field for warm-ups, he was my focal point. If I looked straight ahead, there he was.

The center point of my sight line.

And it was impossible for me to tear my eyes away.

I’d always been obsessed with the way he looked when he was playing baseball, but that afternoon, after everything he’d just said to me, I couldn’t stop looking at him.

I exist to exist alongside of you.

But then he saw me.

I gasped and looked away, but not before meeting stormy brown eyes that felt like they could read my very soul.

The game started, and I sat in my seat behind home plate about eight rows back, capturing the action from the center of the stands. My peripheral vision was always aware of where the tall pitcher in the number 32 jersey was, but I refused to focus on him.

Until he took the mound.

It was a laid-back scrimmage where everyone played, and apparently the fourth inning was his. I watched as he came out, and the sight of his intense face brought back memories of him kissing me against the dugout wall.

Of him knowing exactly how many 12:13s we’d been apart.

Seven hundred and nineteen.

Of him saying, I exist to exist alongside of you.

His eyes found mine through the long lens, and he swallowed and clenched that hard jaw. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I had no idea what that look was—anger? sadness?—but I felt it in my belly as we watched each other.

And then it was gone because he was throwing the ball.

The first pitch was a fastball that the hitter didn’t even swing at.

Damn, he was good.

He caught the ball when Mick threw it back, gave it a flip, trailed his fingers over the seam before bringing it in for the next windup. He took a deep breath, kicked his front leg, and threw what looked like a slider. (I still wasn’t good at identifying pitches.)

The batter got a piece of that one, sending a line drive into the infield.

Only it came straight back at Wes.

The ball hit him in the center of his chest before it bounced onto the field. The first baseman ran over and grabbed it, sprinting back to base to get the out, and it happened so fast that it almost seemed like it didn’t bother Wes.

But then he put his hand on his chest and grimaced, took a few steps like he was going to walk it off, and collapsed onto the grass.

“Wes!”

I leapt to my feet, my heart in my throat as I watched him roll onto his side. A collective gasp went up from the stands as coaches ran over—and players—but it was hard to see as they crowded around him.

And he was facing the other way.

Move! I wanted to scream to every single person who was blocking my view. I couldn’t see Wes, and I needed to know if his eyes were open.

Are his eyes open??

“Is he conscious?” I yelled to no one and everyone, staring at his legs, looking for any sign of movement.

But… there wasn’t any. His long legs—white baseball pants and tall blue socks—were still.

As he lay on the ground.

Please, God, let him be okay. Please, please, please, please.

Fear clutched at my chest, and I stood on my tiptoes, trying to see, but I couldn’t see anything because everyone in front of me was on their feet.

“Excuse me,” I said loudly, grabbing my stuff. “I need out!”

I pushed past the people in my row, blinded by tears as I scrambled to get free. I bumped off of everyone with my arms full of gear, rushing to get closer to Wes. He has to be okay. Please, please be okay. When I finally reached the end of the row, I ran down the steps to get closer to the field, watching from behind the net as Coach Ross crouched beside him, saying something I couldn’t hear.

Please sit up, Wes.

God, please, sit up.

The seconds ticked by like hours as the only boy I’d ever loved lay on his side in the middle of the baseball field.

I wanted to tell him.

I wanted to shout the words I should’ve already said so badly as I gripped the net and waited to see any sign that he was going to be fine. I needed to see his face, to see his smile, because my brain was only showing me the unhappy look we’d exchanged a few minutes ago.

There will never be anyone for me but you, Wes, so you need to be okay.

“Liz.”

I looked to my right and Clark was jogging toward me, and when he reached my side, he wrapped his huge arms around me. “He’s gonna be okay, Lizard.”

“Is he?” I said, crying into his shirt before quickly pulling away to go back to watching the field. “Because he still hasn’t moved.”

“At least he’s awake, though,” Clark said. “That’s the—”

“He is?” I put my hand over my heart, scared to believe him. “Are you sure?”

“Positive,” he said, nodding. “I think they’re being super careful with him in case he’s got broken ribs or something.”

Broken ribs.

Just as Clark said that, Wes slowly sat up.

“Oh, thank God,” I whispered, wiping at the tears that were obstructing my view. Relief flooded me as Ross and another coach helped Wes to his feet, but his face didn’t look right. He looked out of it, and he looked like he was in pain as the coaches helped him off the field.

I stood there in shock for a few minutes, as the fans clapped for him and the scrimmage started up again, but then I couldn’t wait anymore.

I needed to get to him.

“Come on,” I said, pointing in Wes’s direction. “He’s not okay.”

“Liz!”

Lilith grabbed my sleeve—I hadn’t even registered she was standing next to me.

“Listen,” she said, leaning closer and lowering her voice, looking around to make sure no one else could hear. “They’re taking Wes by ambulance to Ronald Reagan. Ross thinks he’s okay, but they want to get some X-rays and stuff to rule out broken ribs or a punctured lung.”

“Is that a possibility?” I asked, feeling a little lightheaded. By ambulance.

Punctured lung.

I heard sirens in the distance and felt nauseous.

Dear God, please let him be okay.

“He throws ninety-mile-an-hour pitches, so it’s definitely possible,” she said, reaching out to take the camera from my hands. “Clark, I need you to drive Liz to the hospital. Can you do that for me?”

“Of course.” He looked down at me and smiled softly.

Lilith was giving me such a motherly stare that the tears were instantly back. I swallowed and said, “Thank you.”

Clark and I started jogging toward the car, but just before I opened the door, I heard Lilith yell, “Go get him, Buxbaum.”

When Clark finally pulled up in front of the ER entrance, I threw open the door and ran inside.

“I’m gonna go park,” he yelled out the window. “I’ll find you when I get inside.”

But when I went in, the woman at the desk wouldn’t tell me anything and wouldn’t let me go through the locked doors that led to Wes because I wasn’t family.

Even when I begged.

With tears and whining.

So I had no choice but to wait.

“Once he’s stabilized and the doctor has seen him, then I can call the nurse and see if someone can take you back.” The lady looked at me like I was the most annoying person on the planet. “For now, just take a seat.”

“I can’t sit,” I said to myself, stepping away from the desk.

There was a waiting room full of chairs, but I couldn’t just plop down in between strangers and sit still like everything was fine. Nothing is fine. I looked around, searching for a place to pace without driving the other waitees nuts, but then I heard, “Liz?”

I turned around, and Coach Ross was walking toward me.

I didn’t know the guy, and we’d never spoken, so it was a little jarring hearing him say my name. He had a reputation for being… well, hot, but I saw nothing but the crease between his eyebrows and the serious expression on his face.

“How is he?” I asked, running to meet him. “Is he okay?”

He looked past me, at the other people in the waiting room, before saying, “Why don’t you come back with me?”

My stomach clenched when he said that, because he said it like he didn’t want to have to tell me bad news in front of strangers. He put his hand on my lower back and led me through the locked doors—which the desk lady unlocked for him with a smile—and I wanted to scream.

As soon as we cleared the doors, he gestured toward a tiny waiting room. “Lilith called and told me you were on the way, so I thought you might prefer waiting back here.”

“We can’t go see him?” I asked, craning my neck to see down the hallway of exam rooms, not wanting to go into some empty little room where Wes wasn’t.

“They gave him some pain meds, so he’s resting while they wait on the blood-work results.”

“Blood work?” I pushed back my hair. “Why would they need to do blood work?”

He smiled at me, like he thought I was funny, and said, “Jesus, will you relax? He’s going to be fine.”

“He is?” I stared at him and couldn’t tell if he was messing with me or not. “Really?”

“He’s got some bruised ribs and doesn’t particularly enjoy taking deep breaths right now, but he’s okay,” Ross said, smirking like he’d been amused by Wes’s discomfort. “The blood work is just to make sure his heart is functioning properly, but everything looks good on the X-rays and CT scan. They’re just going to keep him overnight for observation.”

“Oh, thank God,” I said, feeling so relieved I was actually lightheaded. I blinked fast, not wanting to bawl anymore, and needed to sit even though there was no way in hell I was going to sit. “I have to see him. I promise not to wake him up or anything, but I really cannot wai—”

“Room eight,” he interrupted, tilting his head and looking at me like I was downright pathetic. “At the end of the hall.”