Page 166 of Challenge Me

He’d made it. I had a hundred questions, but they weren’t important right now.

I was pretty sure he was the one who got the crowd singing Sweet Caroline when I passed home, even though it was supposed to happen in the eighth inning. At least he was learning some things. Mal held on for dear life while he bounced around and scream-sang it. If I wasn’t aware of how he felt about drugs, I’d assume he was on them at all times. Then there was Trav, bobbing his head dramatically to the beat. It might’ve been a bit traitorous, but the rest of the Braves were similarly into it.

This was one of those moments that reminded me what it was all for. Even when life was something of a bitch, there was a strange sort of beauty to it. It might’ve been lunacy, but that was okay too.

*****

“Go ahead and have another,” Trav offered when I returned from the bathroom. With a devilish smile, he slid a full glass of whiskey toward me.

“Resorting to sabotage? I thought you were better than that.”

“The nice guy persona is just an act. Haven’t you figured that out?”

“We’ve clearly got you shaking in your boots. What was the score again?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

I snapped my fingers. “Oh, yeah. We led by six whole runs. Kind of embarrassing, man.”

He hummed his agreement. “It’s a celebratory drink, then.”

I poured half into his cup, then topped off my own. “To another Red Sox win, then.”

“Remind me to set the record straight. We are not best friends.”

“I’m with you there, buddy.”

Remi’s voice drew my attention to the other side of the bar. “Get the fuck out of here.” He pointed at the door, his pissed off gaze set on a man and woman who looked pretty average, except one of them was holding a little mic.

Tommy rushed past me with a purposeful gait. When they saw him coming, they muttered something, hopefully an apology, then left quickly. Remi waved him off and returned to the counter. As he filled a glass with soda, I thought his hand shook.

“What was that about?” I asked.

“Influencers,” he muttered. After draining the cup, he slammed it on the counter. “Why does everyone need a platform? Have we devolved so far as a society that the only way to feel fulfilled is to have some sort of relevance online? It’s fucking psychotic. Pretty sure it’s a new form of learned narcissism, actually.” He paused, cocking his head. “I’m gonna ask Oli.”

“You might be onto something,” Trav mused. “People do anything for clicks these days. God, that makes me sound old.”

“Most of it’s recycled content anyway.” Rubbing his temples, he let out a sigh. “That’s what I’ve become. My stupid ass got on Facebook earlier, and I saw my face half a dozen times. It’s disgusting.”

“There are worse things to see online than your face,” I said, though my heart was hardly in it.

“Yeah, I’m very aware of that. Someone made fan art of us fucking in the dugout. What sort of creep does that?”

“I saw. Actually, I thought you might like it.”

He shook his head. “The art itself was superb, but that isn’t the point. I feel . . .” He crossed his arms tightly. “Violated.”

“Maybe you should take some time off,” Trav suggested.

Remi’s expression made it clear he resented the idea. “This is my business. It’s my safe haven.” He glanced to the side. “It’s supposed to be my safe haven.”

“Things will calm down,” I assured him.

“Yeah, you keep saying that.” He took my glass and stared at it for a second before he knocked back the remaining whiskey. “I’m going to clear out those dishes. Holler at me if anyone needs something.”

“I will. Hey.” He looked back at me expectantly, and I offered him a smile. “I love you.”

It took him a moment to respond. “I love you too.”