Sure Bet (Out of Left Field #1)

29. Liam

Chapter 29

Liam

O n the day of the gala, Brooke went out to lunch with her mom. My sister was off with Sergio, and my best friend was with his wife.

That was the extent of my social circle.

Maybe Shana was right that I needed more friends, but even though I was alone, I didn’t feel lonely.

I listened to the last chapter of Forbidden Fruit in the Orchard in my bedroom, finally catching up with Brooke, who sped ahead once her presentation passed.

Brooke: Lunch moved to the hospital cafeteria. Vending machine sandwiches. Now, here’s an example of engineering that changed the world as we know it.

I smiled at the text, uncaring that it interrupted the penultimate moment of emotion in the story.

Me: Take that, agrobots.

I swear, I heard her excited squeal across the city.

Brooke: Shut. Up. That’s the sexiest thing you’ve ever said to me.

Me: SLAM dunk.

Me: Simultaneous localization and mapping, I mean.

Brooke: Stop it. I’m blushing. Save the dirty talk for when I get home.

Four years ago, three, two, hell, a year ago… I hadn’t cared about looking forward. Now, that’s all I wanted.

Me: Sorry, I’ll be too busy getting gussied up for your big night. Tell your mom hello.

The black suit hung on my closet door, a pressed white dress shirt behind it. I wanted to look my best, but I had at least an hour before Brooke returned and I needed to primp. I hit play on my book and settled against the headboard.

“Beneath the sprawling branches of the thick oak tree, Murphy stole a moment of solitude amidst the splendor of the gardens he tended with care. His heart, heavy with the burden of unspoken words and forbidden desire, ached for the presence of Penelope, the princess whose radiance had captured his soul.

“As if called by his thoughts, she emerged from the rose garden in the distance. Sunlight danced over her long hair, shining in a delicate glow. A tall, imposing figure appeared at her back and plucked a single flower, handing it to the princess.

“Sir Arrick Baldwin.

“Murphy watched from afar with the sting of longing, knowing that he could never call her his own. His hands were calloused from the toil of hard labor, and his clothes bore the marks of his humble station. Even as his heart cried out for her, Murphy understood the futility of his dreams.

“Princess Penelope was destined for a life of luxury and privilege, a world far removed from the simple existence he led. To dare dream of more would be akin to courting disaster, dragging her down into the depths of poverty and despair.

“Murphy resigned himself to the truth of their situation, his hopes scattering in the wind like the petals plucked from a rose. Though he desperately yearned to hold her close once more, he knew that such love could only lead to ruin. The groundskeeper knew their love could never be, and he loved her enough to let her go.

“And so, with a silent goodbye upon his lips, he watched as Princess Penelope strolled toward the grand castle with her nobleman.”

“Oh, my fucking god.” I sucked in a breath, fanning my face. “Oh, my god. No, he can’t!”

My fingers flew over the keyboard of my phone.

Me: Please, PLEASE tell me there’s a sequel to Forbidden Fruit in the Orchard.

That couldn’t be it. That couldn’t be the end. Groundskeeper Murphy was Penelope’s endgame. I was sure of it. Four hundred and fifty-fucking-seven pages sure of it.

Brooke: I’m so sorry. I’ll grab ice cream and tissues on my way home.

Christ. I rubbed my face. I was going to need a minute to process this.

I assumed the alert on my phone was a wellness check from Brooke, but it was an email notification.

Wiping a hand over my face, I stared until it faded into nothing more than an envelope icon beside useless social media alerts. A new message from the university admissions office.

They couldn’t have reviewed my application already. Acceptance letters went out by the end of June. There was no way…

My confusion was interrupted by the creak of the front door and keys tossed on the counter with an echoing jangle. Heavy footsteps stomped down the hall, and Shana’s bedroom door closed. Her music kicked on.

I exhaled and opened my email.

Dear Mr. Porter,

Congratulations on taking the next step in your academic future! I wish to confirm that your application to the University of Washington Foster School of Business has been successfully submitted. I will forward the transcripts and letters of recommendation to the general admissions department. Admissions for the winter term will be posted no later than December 15th. Applications for financial aid will be available as of October 1st.

Best of luck.

Milton Markle

Admissions Advisor

I blinked. Then blinked again.

Applications for financial aid will be available as of October 1st.

But classes started in September.

Admissions for the winter term will be posted no later than December 15th.

But I’d applied for the fall quarter. All notifications should be posted by the end of June.

“Yo, bro.” My sister knocked on the bedroom door, peeking inside. “Did you—” She halted. “Are you okay?”

Sweat beaded along my forehead. I quickly wiped it away, tugging at the collar of my shirt. “I’m fine,” I croaked.

“You don’t look fine. You’re in a flop sweat.” She crossed her arms and leaned against the wall. Dark circles rested heavy beneath her eyes, and her frizzy blonde hair was piled in a tangled mess atop her head.

Shana didn’t exactly look fine herself, but I couldn’t put it together enough to ask. I could hardly form a complete sentence.

“Hot.” I cleared my throat. “It’s hot. That’s all.” With a weak smile, I prayed she’d leave it alone, leave me alone. It wasn’t the room that was too hot; it was the hell that was my life. What the fuck happened?

She frowned and entered without an invitation, fiddling with the radiator by the window. “Can’t get it to shut off? I swear to god, Grandma’s condo costs more to maintain than whatever she bought it for in the first place.”

I nodded along, my ears buzzing and a sense of dread coiling in my gut. I fucked up. Somehow, somewhere, I fucked up. Of course. But god. I tried. This time, I tried to do better.

The cast iron echoed when she kicked at the old heater. “I can’t afford to update it. Shit.” She dropped her head back with a groan.

Kneading the heel of my palm against my eyes, I blew out a hard exhale. “What?”

“Forget it.” Her exasperated tears matched mine, but she didn’t linger long enough to catch it. Shana rushed out of the room, cursing and huffing as she slammed the door behind her. The walls rattled with her fury.

My sister’s fiery temper finally benefited me. When that angry tunnel vision took hold, she saw nothing else. Which meant she hadn’t registered my panic.

With a deep breath, I reread the email. After some investigative work and a call to the admissions office, where a patient registrar walked me through what a fucking idiot I was, I confirmed that, yes, I had fucked up.

“Fall admission applications were due on February twelfth. It appears you submitted yours on the fifteenth.”

“No.” I paced across the bedroom, frantic enough to burn a hole in the carpet. “No. No, no, no. They were due the twenty-first.”

Fuck. Fuck . Even as I said it, I knew I was wrong—I’d mixed up the dates. And if I’d not been such a jackass about delaying the entire process, it wouldn’t have mattered, anyway.

“We can add you to the waitlist for fall enrollment. Depending on the number of applicants that are accepted, there can occasionally be openings for transfer students.”

I missed the deadline. Worse, I missed it for no good reason. Heat blistered my skin, intensifying the sting of humiliation. So stupid, so careless, and reckless and dumb.

The weight of failure pressed down on me. The air was thick, and it was impossible to draw in a breath. I tried so hard. I really did.

My vision blurred as I struggled to push back against the onslaught of self-loathing, but I couldn’t escape the suffocating grip of defeat. Not in this room, not like this.

Dragging myself off the bed, I stumbled into the hall, banging my shoulder on the doorframe. Heavy and uncoordinated, my limbs hung limply, each shuffle like wading through molasses.

Finally reaching the bathroom, I collapsed onto the cold tile floor and started counting.