CURVEBALL

by Mariah Dietz

  I murmur a dozen profanities followed by a deep sigh.

  “You know, I think we’re out of rocky road,” Peters says with a laugh.

  “This doesn’t count,” I exclaim. “This is a profile picture. No news stations were even there last night, and I wasn’t on duty.”

  “Probie will take care of the heads if you get rocky road and buttered pecan.”

  I don’t hesitate to accept the offer, though I think it’s a bunch of bullshit. “Deal.” Ten bucks to avoid cleaning a bathroom that ten guys and the public uses makes this a steal. Peters laughs, likely happier about giving Probie another task than getting his way. I’m pretty certain that the years Peters spent in the role as the newest member of a squad must have really sucked, because while the rest of us sling jokes and enjoy playing the occasional prank on whoever is our current probie, he often takes it so far one of us has to intervene.

  “Lance is cooking pulled pork tonight,” he says, peeling off his T-shirt to replace it with a navy blue one that has our station number, four, inside of our badge on his left shoulder. “You think we should get potato salad or coleslaw to go with it?”

  “Do you want me to help pick out your clothes or give you some hair advice next? Maybe share some waxing tips or paint your nails?”

  Peters winds his fist back. I don’t move to avoid his blow to the stomach, knowing I deserve it. With the contact, I laugh to hide my wince because even though Peters is on the shorter side, and we tease him relentlessly for his small hands, he can wind it up and deliver a pretty solid hit. “My vote’s for potato salad.”

  “Mine too,” Gaines says as he drops a duffel onto his bed. “Cabbage makes me gassy.”

  “Air makes you gassy, Gaines.” Peters isn’t lying, and the fact makes all three of us laugh.

  Once the captain wraps up our shift meeting, informing us what occurred with the previous shift, complete with another copy of the paper that has my picture plastered across the front page from last night’s incident with Hayden, and details our designated posts for the next twenty-four hours, we dive into our chores. Since my bathroom duty had been passed on to Probie, I move outside to help clean the trucks. It’s my favorite task, and with the weather turning nice, I’m glad to be outside before the humidity makes it uncomfortable.

  “Looks like you missed a spot.” Kane licks his thumb and rubs it against the shiny red paint, creating a gross film over the cleaned area.

  Frowning, I grab a cloth and wipe it clean again. We become part of a brotherhood when the commissioner reads our names and pins us with our official badges, but there are a few of my brothers in blue who I can barely tolerate. Kane often walks that line with a toe pointed toward the side that has me avoiding and ignoring him.

  “Did you like that portrait I drew of you?” Lance asks as he slides into the seat next to mine. Lance is our senior on shift. Retirement is less than a year away for him, and I don’t think anyone can tell if he’s growing anxious because of all the free time or fearing the fact—him included. Personally, I’m not ready for him to go. There are men on the squad like Gaines who have been on duty for over twenty years but refuse to take a leadership role, and then there are people like Lance who avoid conflict and confrontation and naturally take charge of situations. In addition to providing sanity at the station, Lance is the best cook we have and a wealth of knowledge, having completed more trainings than nearly all of us combined, and having responded to thousands of calls.

  “You didn’t get the eyebrow right.”

  “Eyebrow!” Lance slaps his knee and barks a laugh that makes his eyes close because it’s entirely genuine. It’s another thing about him I’ll miss.

  “Yeah, you drew it so it only hits the middle of my forehead. This thing nearly goes to my hairline. Give me some credit.”

  “You aren’t nearly as pretty as everyone thinks,” Muppet says with a grin that makes my teeth clench. Kane annoys me, but Muppet is the epitome of annoying, nosy, and useless, and that’s putting it mildly. Usually when I think of how to describe the man, I feel a little guilty because even for my Italian background, the words are colorful.

  7

  Ella

  “He came by your house?”

  I stop emptying the dishwasher, shifting my phone to the other ear, and focus on Rachel. Not on her words, but her tone. “Yeah, but it was just to check on Hayden,” I assure her. I don’t know why we’re even talking about Coen, or how he came up. Between me avoiding her to manage my feelings toward the situation, and her being busy with moving her store’s location, I haven’t spoken to her all weekend.

  “How’d he know where you live?”

  Is that defensiveness I hear?

  “I have no idea,” I admit, my thoughts too focused on why my best friend seems upset rather than wondering how he did find our house.

  “So he just came to say hi?”

  It’s envy.

  “No, no. Nothing like that. He just stopped by to see how Hayden was feeling, and while he was here I burned some bacon and set off the smoke alarms. Did you know you’re supposed to check your smoke alarms every week?” I resume emptying the dishwasher, placing the glasses into the cupboard as I share my newly learned fact.

  “What?”

  “Yes. Every. Week.”

  “Why?”

  “In case the batteries go out.”

  “But they start beeping when the batteries start dying.”

  “That’s what I said!” I cry, placing the final clean dish away and closing the dishwasher.

  “Was that all that happened?” Rachel’s tone has returned to nearly solemn, wiping clear the smile that had been forming on my face.

  “Yes. Just a Good Samaritan call.” Images of Coen filter through my mind like a collage, running in the order of the hours we spent together. His smile had grown by the time he offered to grill us dinner. I’d been reluctant, but Hayden agreed before I could consider making an excuse.

  “He likes you,” Rachel says, interrupting my mental recounts.

  Slumping to the couch, I kick my feet up onto the coffee table. “He’s a firefighter, Rach,” I remind her because that alone is enough to keep me away from any guy regardless of what he looks like, or if he can teach my son how to throw a curveball or check to make sure we’re safe, or even grill the best burger of my life and be attentive enough to get me a refill before my drink was half gone.

  Right?

  I shake my head swiftly and focus on the reality of the situation. “Plus, did you see his face when he first heard I had a son?” I ask, knowing she had. It was impossible to miss Coen’s rounded eyes. “He has zero interest.”

  “He didn’t make a face. You just expect everyone to make one so you imagined it.” Rachel’s rolling her eyes. I can hear it in her tone.

  Did I make it up? I work to recall the moment, but can only remember how quick and genuine his smile had been. How warm his palm had been against mine. How sincere he seemed.

  “Do you?”

  “Do I what?” I ask, sitting up to once again attempt to clear my thoughts.

  “Have interest in him.”

  I balk. “No!” I cry. “I don’t even know anything about him other than he’s a fireman. And you know that’s three strikes on its own,” I remind her.

  “Are you sure? I mean, maybe he could…”

  “Are you interested in him?” I cut her search off.

  There’s a long pause. “I … No. Maybe? …I don’t know.”

  “All I hear are lies.”

  “Ella!” she cries, and her tone reveals I’m right. She does have feelings for him. “I don’t like him. My divorce hasn’t even been final for a year. I’m not supposed to be dating yet.”

  “Says who?” I ask.

  “The entire South.”

  My laughter grows. “Well, I’m pretty sure you know where I stand on what everyone else thinks.”

  “Sure you’re a single mom, but you have a prestigious job, and live in a
house with a wraparound porch and a rose garden. And you have hanging baskets with ferns that you water and prune. In addition to all of that, you cook dinner every night, bake homemade cakes, are a member of the PTA, and you go to baseball games each week. You, Ella, are the epitome of what a Southern belle is supposed to be.”

  “I also got pregnant at seventeen, swear, refuse to get dressed or wear makeup on the days I work from home, and the cakes I bake are from a boxed mix, topped with store-bought frosting. And while I attend the baseball games, I still don’t know when I’m supposed to cheer other than when a ball is hit. I have to watch the other parents to know when I’m supposed to clap or start one of their ridiculous chants.”

  “You chant?”

  “Stop.” I clasp a hand to my forehead, laughing because saying it out loud sounds so silly.

  “You can’t tell me you chant and not do one for me.”

  “You’re being ridiculous.”

  “And you’re being mean.”

  It feels good to laugh with my best friend and share this banter. Some of the tension that had seemingly quadrupled in the past forty-eight hours releases, and I sit down because it almost makes me light-headed to feel the significance. Rachel isn’t just my best friend—she’s my only friend. I moved here with a background about myself that even after nine years, I haven’t been able to shake. I’ve never had the gumption to ask Rachel if she ever believed what she heard about me, or even if she still does. I prefer living in ignorance.

  “What are your plans for next weekend? The devil is taking Hayden, right?”

  “You have to stop calling him that. One day, Hayden’s going to hear you,” I tell Rachel, grabbing a magazine, filled with pages of summertime recipes from the table and flipping it open.

  “Good. Then maybe we can pull the entire sheet off so he can see the whole picture.”

  My attention shifts to the conversation. “It’s better this way. Kids are supposed to love and be loved by both of their parents.”

  “When their parents are both good people, absolutely.”

  I don’t know why I’m arguing with Rachel. A part of me feels resentful for having to defend Patrick. After all, it’s me who has been wronged by him. It is me who experiences anxiety attacks when my son is gone for entire weekends. It’s me who this town looks down upon.

  “Hayden deserves to have a father though.” And that alone is the reason I will continue to defend my ex.

  “Ella, you have to start hating him in order to get over him,” Rachel says. “It’s the only way.”

  “I am over him,” I reply automatically.

  She doesn’t argue. We both know I’m not. When you give your heart away, there’s no way to fully get it back. Pieces will be left behind, lies will drill holes, deceit will cause cracks, and the feeling of being unwanted will create a doubt your heart was ever whole. The only time I’ve ever felt as though my heart was entirely full was years ago when I thought a man loved and adored me more than anything or anyone. It’s a feeling I have missed for the past nine years—and one I find myself briefly waiting to experience on every blind date I go on. There have been moments where I’ve even wondered if I was possibly experiencing a small bit of it while out on a date. A private smile or a prolonged glance or finding something special in common like a shared love for French espresso have all had me believing and hoping I could feel that fullness I once felt. It was almost cruel to experience those dates at all because it didn’t feel fair to my feelings, let alone my heart.

  “You’re a better person than me,” Rachel says. “If I were you, I’d be keying his car and finding all sorts of creative ways to make his life miserable.”

  “No you wouldn’t.”

  She laughs. “I’d at least look for ideas on the internet to make myself feel better.”

  “I can imagine getting all sorts of strange texts from you.” I laugh. “I bet you’d even have organized folders for each subject of torture. Ways to destroy his car. Methods to ruin his house. Best rumors to spread about him. Ways to cause him endless diarrhea.”

  “You know it,” Rachel says.

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do next weekend.” I draw the conversation back to her original question. “Maybe paint the sunroom. I think it has the personality to be green or maybe yellow. What do you think?”

  “I don’t think walls have personalities,” she teases. “But if they did, I would say it would be a blue room.”

  “I feel like every room in my house is either blue or beige.”

  “That’s your fault for having a son.”

  “Want to come and paint with me?”

  “I can’t,” she says. “I’m leaving for Miami on Friday, remember? But why don’t you come with me?” Rachel’s voice rises. “You could come for just a night and we can hit the town, drink too much, eat carbs, stay up late, skinny-dip in the ocean…”

  “That sounds fun, but I can’t. If Hayden needs to come home or there’s a problem, I need to be here.”

  “Just one night,” she begs. “It would be so much fun!”

  “Maybe the next time he’s at his dad’s we can do the same here in town.”

  “Where are we going to go skinny-dipping?”

  “I have a sprinkler,” I say, smiling hugely.

  “Ella!” Rachel cries, giving me the response I had been hoping for. “Fine. I’m going to watch TV and then go to bed. You go work for the next eight hours so you can wake up and go back to work again.”

  “Ha ha ha,” I say dryly. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  “Ella?”

  “Yeah?” I ask, sweeping a pile of crumbs off the coffee table and into my palm.

  “I’m really sorry about Hayden. I swear it will never, ever, ever happen again.”

  “I know it wasn’t on purpose, and I’m not mad at you. You know how anxious I get when something like this happens.”

  “I do. And I’m really sorry that I was the one who caused it. I hope the devil doesn’t freak out on you when you tell him.”

  “It’ll be okay,” I lie. My ex—whom Rachel is referring to as the devil—will freak out. I dread having the discussion with him, yet strangely appreciate that he will be upset because it shows he cares.

  “If you need me to kick him in the nuts, or look up some methods of torture, just say the word.”

  “Word,” I tease.

  “What do you think of trying to sell him on Craigslist?”

  “Aside from that tiny detail of human trafficking being illegal, how would we ever get him to go anywhere?”

  “Ella!” Rachel shrieks, warning me that her idea has snowballed. “We can make an ad for him. A handyman ad.” She pauses, and I know she’s already working through the details. “Imagine it! Him, Mr. I-can’t-do-anything-except-lift-my-finger-to call-someone-to-hire, being called for random jobs?”

  “He’d hate that,” I say with a laugh, tossing the crumbs into the garbage can in the kitchen, unable to sit in one spot for any length of time.

  “Exactly.” She draws out the single word as we both think far too long about it. “He wouldn’t actually go, but just having him get a bunch of random calls to help with jobs he can’t do would be hilarious.”

  “I’ll see how big of an asshole he acts like when I drop him off on Friday and let you know. Until then, the light is red.”

  “Ella!” Rachel cries. “You have to be proactive. You know my dad’s favorite line that a good defense is a great offense.”

  “I think you have that one backward, but regardless, I’m not going to do anything now. I haven’t heard from him or his perfect Stepford wife in weeks. There’s no need to go looking for a fight, especially with this new project I have going for work.”

  “Okay. Well, if you get tired and lonely from staring at numbers too long, give me a call again, and we can look over some of your new dating matches.”

  “You added veterinarians to my blacklist, right?” I add before she can hang up.


  “No! Ella, your blacklist is so long it could likely reach the sun. You need to stop finding what you don’t like and start focusing on what you like so we can work on that list.”

  I slump my shoulders in defeat and reach for my fridge in hopes that a thick slab of chocolate cake will magically appear.

  “You know Patrick’s not for you. He doesn’t deserve you and never did.” Her words crash against the pretty dreams I keep locked in my subconscious of my ex, Hayden, and me all together, happy and right, making my lack of cake, or any sort of dessert, even more disappointing. It surprises me to hear her use my ex’s name since she never does. Even when she goes with me to pick up or drop off Hayden and she comes face to face with him, she calls him anything but his name or doesn’t address him at all.

  “I just felt like he understood me. Like he knew what made me who I am and what I wanted and needed and feared.”

  “Master manipulators have a way of making themselves look like gods. It’s part of their spell.”

  “Do you ever wonder if we just hate him because he didn’t choose to love me back?”

  “Ella!” Rachel’s voice turns to steel, cold and harsh. “Honestly, I hate talking about him with you more than anything. I find myself getting so irrationally angry. I want to shake you and force you to remember every horrible thing that asshole did just so you’ll stop worshipping the selfish, worthless … self-absorbed … manipulating jackass that he is.” Rachel breathes loudly, worked up.

  “I’m not trying to cause a fight. I’m over him. I am. Sometimes it’s just harder.”

  “Harder than what?”

  “Other nights.”

  “That’s not over him, Ella.”

  “I don’t cry anymore. I don’t hate him anymore. I don’t even look him up on social media anymore.”

  “God, you know how to be a masochist.”

  “You’re right. I need to get out there. Maybe I won’t find my husband with online dating, but at least this will allow me to realize what I want.”

  “Not just what you want, but what you deserve,” Rachel corrects me.