31
“These are the best seats we’ve ever had!” Noah’s excitement was contagious, and it had both her dad and her brother smiling.
He’d been glowing since he and Corey talked yesterday. It was a huge step for Corey to admit anything about his dyslexia to Noah. Even more so that he was willing to consider talking about it publicly.
Taran wondered if an article about thriving with dyslexia might be something Corey would be willing to do for the September feature. A story about overcoming something and being successful would do wonders for so many kids struggling with all kinds of things.
“These seats are definitely not something to sneeze at, that’s for sure,” her father said.
They were two rows back from the corner of the dugout, close enough to home plate that they’d probably hear the umpire’s calls.
Tristan smirked. “Seems like they were chosen for a reason.”
“What do you mean?” Noah asked his father.
“Corey’s right-handed.” Her brother adjusted his Astros hat and moved into the seat next to his son. “Watch where he looks between pitches.”
Noah still looked lost, but Taran got what Tristan was saying. The seats were in Corey’s line of sight.
“Shut up,” she mumbled as she moved to the seat in front of him.
“You’re really going to sit next to me wearing that shirt?” Her dad frowned.
“I’m surprised you even walked next to her, Pops.”
“It’s not like it’s a jersey. And I’m wearing an Astros hat.” Taran glanced down at the oversized white T-shirt. It had the Metros logo on it, but the words were the reason she’d bought it.
“I was told to check my attitude. I did. Still 100 percent New York badass.” Noah read the words slowly, but he was trying, and that spoke to just how much talking with Corey had helped his self-esteem.
“You’re fifteen, not forty. Watch your mouth, son,” Tristan chided.
Taran rolled her eyes. At fifteen, her brother’s mouth was a million times worse. When her phone buzzed, she glanced down at it, then stood and headed away from the seats.
“Text me if you want anything to drink,” she called over her shoulder.
Once she was in the large open area near the concession stands, she answered the call.
“Hey, Seb.”
“T-cup, just calling to see where we’re meeting tonight.”
Her eyes widened and she pulled the phone away from her ear to look at the date. Uh-oh. It was the fifteenth. For the last two years, they’d had monthly check-in dinners. And she’d canceled on him the last four times. Not the day of the plans though.
“You forgot?” he asked. There was no judgment in his tone, but he sounded concerned.
“Uh, yeah, I’m sorry. I’m down in Katy.”
“Oh, tell your parents hello.” He paused. “You forgetting a lot or just this one thing?”
Taran’s jaw clenched; she knew where he was going with this. It wasn’t a lot. Yeah, she’d missed a couple of things, and showed up at the wrong time for events once in a while. She’d messed up and sent the contracts to her boss. And losing track of time like this meant it was going to be really tight getting this month’s article done, but she was fine.
“I get that you and the rest of the team have to fight through PTSD every day. I do. The nightmares, the flashbacks, the triggers, the mood swings. But I’m fine.” Her tone was a bit too biting.
He sighed. “PTSD looks different for everyone. Have you been back to your therapist—”
“Look.” He might mean well, and she knew, he felt, as Jeremy’s best friend, it was his job to watch out for her now that Jeremey was gone, but she was tired of this. “I don’t need a therapist. I don’t need to hash this out with you all the time. I’m busy, and life has been stressful for a few weeks.” Her voice raised, and her tone cut hard as the tight knot that always sat inside her burned. “I’m fine, and I need you to just back off.” She slammed her hand into the garbage can lid beside her, sending it crashing into the wall, paper and cups flying.
Heads turned, and a security guard moved toward her as someone called.