Page 102 of The Maverick
"You okay?"
"I will be."
He was quiet for a moment. "Was it the crowd?"
"Yeah."
"You've always been fine with smaller crowds."
"I know."
"I saw you play at the fair that one year," he said. "You were—" He stopped. Started again. "You were really good, Rebecca. I remember that."
I stood at the seawall and looked at the water and said nothing.
"I know I said something after," he said. "That night on the tailgate." His voice had gone to a place I hadn't heard in it before. Careful. Like he was handling something he understood was fragile. "I was fourteen and I was—I don't know. Jealous. Everybody was looking at you the whole time and I didn't—" He stopped. "It was a shitty thing to say. I've thought about it."
I pressed my lips together.
"Clayton," I said.
"I mean it. It was a shitty thing. You were good and I knew it and I said it, anyway, and—" He exhaled. "I'm sorry. Okay? I've been wanting to say that for a long time and I never figured out how to bring it up."
The harbor went blurry.
I blinked.
"Okay," I said. My voice came out smaller than I intended.
"You're really good,” he said. "You know that, right? You're—you're the most talented person in our whole family by a long shot. You know that."
"Sometimes, I forget."
"Yeah." A pause. "I know. I think maybe I helped you forget. And I'm sorry about that."
I stood at the seawall with the wind coming off the harbor and my brother's voice in my ear and I let myself cry, finally,because I was outside and it was dark and the harbor was indifferent and sometimes you needed to cry at a seawall at midnight and that was just what it was.
Not loud. Not dramatic. Just the quiet kind that came when something that had been held a long time was finally let go.
"You still there?" Clayton said.
"I'm here."
"You going to be okay?"
"Yeah."
"Good." A pause. "Call me when you play next time. I want to hear about it."
"Okay."
"And Rebecca?"
"Yeah."
"Go inside. It's cold."
I laughed. It came out wet and real. "Yeah."
