Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122219 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 611(@200wpm)___ 489(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122219 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 611(@200wpm)___ 489(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Did it seem like a setup that Avery asked me to hang out with her on the field? One hundred percent. Was I willing to overlook it since all I wanted to do with my time lately was hang out with her? One million percent.
I showed up to find her already standing on home plate with a bag of baseballs beside her. She wore black leggings, an oversized sweatshirt, and a baseball cap as she held a bat in her hands. The second she saw me, she said, “You’re late.”
“By two minutes.”
“Late is late.”
“I like to make an entrance,” I joked, walking toward her. “So what’s the catch here?” I asked.
“The catch?”
“Don’t play dumb, Avery. That’s my role. I know you didn’t just invite me out to hit some balls for a casual conversation. So out with it.”
She placed the head of her bat against the ground and held it around the neck. “You didn’t want to talk about your mom worrying about you at brunch.”
“True.”
“I figured it would be easier to talk about it on the field. This is my favorite place to talk about hard things. Or at least, think about hard things. I’m not big on conversation when it comes to my feelings.”
“I guess we have something in common.”
“Who would’ve thought?” she quipped. She held the bat out toward me. “So you want to talk while we hit balls around?”
“Since when do you care about my feelings?”
“Since I decided that I don’t hate you as much anymore.”
I arched an eyebrow. “No full-core hatred?”
“Trust me, I’m as shocked as you are,” she stated. “Don’t get me wrong, there’s still hate. But the more time I’ve spent around you, the more I realized something major.”
“And what’s that?”
“We aren’t that different, you and I.”
I moved in toward her. “Is that so?”
“Yeah. We both suffer from the same disorder.”
“And what disorder is that?”
“Oldest Sibling Syndrome.”
I snickered. “Is that the official medical term?”
“Sure is. Look it up on WedMD. It’s called OSS for short, though.”
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my cell phone to search it. Avery held her hand out toward me and stopped me. “Later. Look it up later.”
I slid the phone back into my pocket and crossed my arms over my chest. “All right, I’ll play. What are some of the symptoms of OSS?”
“Oh, there are plenty. Especially when a parental figure is missing from the equation.”
“Enlighten me.”
She swirled the bat back and forth between the palms of her hands. “Well, for starters, you are extremely reliable and find yourself responsible for your siblings. Almost as if they are your own kids, seeing how you helped raise them.”
I narrowed my brows. “Go on.”
“You are overly protective over your family and go out of your way to make sure everyone’s okay. You’re a workaholic. You put your own wants and needs on the back burner in order to make sure everyone else is good. You let your dreams sit on the sidelines if it makes sure others are happier.”
My mouth twitched a little.
She was hitting a little too close to home.
I took the bat from her and grabbed a ball from the bag. I tossed it up and swung, hitting the ball into the distance. “Go on,” I said.
She took the bat from me and stepped onto the plate. “You suffer from a hyper-independence, which seems like a good thing, but it’s not.” She tossed a ball up and knocked it out. “It’s actually a trauma response because you feel like you can’t rely on others, seeing how it was always your job to be the reliable source.”
“Too loud, Coach.”
She handed the bat back to me. We switched positions.
“You also worry about messing up and letting people down. Which is why you are so achievement-oriented,” she explained.
I hit the next ball.
She whistled low. “Nice hit.”
“Thanks.” I flicked my thumb against the bridge of my nose. “So with this OSS, what’s the treatment plan?”
She shrugged. “Don’t know. Still trying to figure that out myself. Because as someone suffering with OSS, I know that we hate all eyes on us, and we hate the thought of people worrying about us because it shows that we aren’t as strong as we should be, and we should always be strong.” She took the bat from me and performed another hit. “But I think it helps to struggle in numbers. Makes it a little easier to breathe.”
“Are you suggesting we start an OSS club?”
“A secret society where we share our struggles with each other since only us eldest children can truly understand.”
I put a hand against my chest. “Did we just become best friends?” I asked, quoting the movie Step Brothers.
She laughed. “No. Absolutely not. We aren’t even friends. We are just two people who come to the field once a week to vent, to talk, and to feel better with one another.”