CURVEBALL

by Mariah Dietz

  Deserve.

  The word floats through my mind again and again, making me question the existence of nearly everything in my life. I have the greatest, sweetest, and most intelligent son on this earth and a job that makes me feel accomplished and happy and a house I can comfortably furnish. Maybe I’ve met my quota of what I deserve.

  “Go log in. We’ll make a top-ten list and set up some dates!”

  While I’m feeling discouraged with my realization that I’ve likely met my allowance of the universe’s infinite tally system of what I deserve, the need to be over my ex once and for all has me doing exactly what Rachel told me to. Sitting at my dining room table, I open my laptop and log in to the dating site to see I have multiple alerts and click on my inbox.

  “Is that a…” I click on the first message, and my eyes widen with shock. “Someone sent me a dick pic!” My words border on being a shout, and I have to be silent for a few seconds to ensure I didn’t wake Hayden.

  “You get those a lot.” Rachel’s tone is completely impassive.

  I switch my cell phone to my other ear again. “You don’t set me up with any of them, do you?” I whisper-shout. Shocked that she’s so blasé about this.

  “Not yet. I’m waiting though for you to tell me when you just need a—”

  “No,” I say, cutting her off. “Not a chance.”

  Rachel’s laughter fills my ear as I look to the next message.

  “I thought you said you added age limits?” I ask.

  “I did.”

  “Then why is Grandpa interested in taking me out to the buffet?”

  Rachel laughs again, louder this time as I shake my head and delete another message.

  “Number three looks nice,” she says as I scroll through his pictures.

  “Isn’t it weird though that he obviously was in these with someone else? Like, did he just cut his ex-girlfriend out?”

  “Don’t get too hung up on that, because you’ll see it a lot.”

  “I guess that’s better than guys with millions of selfies, right?”

  “Look at you finding the silver lining!” Rachel says. “Now what do you think about number three?”

  “He seems fine.”

  “We aren’t looking for fine here, babe. Let’s delete and move on.”

  “Rach, what do you think of number nine?”

  “Outdoorsyman?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You might have to go camping,” she warns. “And fishing.”

  “Hayden would love that.” I continue going through his pictures. “And he has a dog.”

  “Don’t get too caught up by that either. Lots of people have dogs.”

  “I thought we were supposed to be looking for silver linings?”

  “Touché,” Rachel says.

  “He owns a construction company,” I read aloud. “And has kids.”

  “He owns a boat!” Rachel cries. “Maybe he has friends.”

  “I have a good feeling about this guy.” I scroll through his pictures again, finding his golden hair and light blue eyes even more attractive than I had with the first pass. “He has kind eyes.”

  “He does, doesn’t he? And he’s clearly motivated if he owns his own company.”

  “Anyone can own their own company,” I tell her.

  “Silver. Lining.” She enunciates both words, making me laugh.

  “Okay, so how do I set up a date?”

  “Easy. Since he’s already shown interest in you, all you have to do now is reply.”

  “His message is so vague! All he said was hi. What do I say?”

  “Just think of it as an interview for a date.”

  “That doesn’t help,” I tell her.

  “Start with hello.”

  “I can’t just send hello to him.”

  “Why not? He did.”

  “Because then I’m allowing him to lead the conversation.”

  “You could start with ‘hi, my name’s Ella, and I’m a control freak,’ if you’d like. It might be more accurate.”

  “I’m going to ask him about his dog,” I say, ignoring her.

  “Ella,” Rachel says my name in the whiniest of voices, one that only she can achieve.

  “It’s a safe, mutual topic,” I explain. “Conversation is supposed to start on middle ground and segue into other topics, and if it does and feels comfortable, I think I’ll ask him out.”

  I wait for Rachel to disagree and argue about my intention.

  “You should have been doing this a while ago,” she admits. “I just ask a series of questions to make sure they don’t sound like psychos and then ask them out.”

  “Do they think they’re talking to me when you do that?”

  “Do you think they’d think it was normal if they knew it was your mother and me doing it?”

  “My mother helps you?”

  “She loves it.”

  “She’s seen the dick pics?” I ask, horrified.

  “She’s even asked me if I think some of them are real.”

  “Oh. My. God.”

  “It’s good for her.”

  “But really bad for our relationship. I can’t believe she’s been pushing online dating when she’s seen what people send.”

  “She’s been suggesting speed dating a lot lately.”

  “I’m mortified,” I admit, my cheeks heated with the fact.

  “Why? Your mother’s been married for over thirty years. I’m sure she’s seen the one-eyed snake a time or two. After all, you are here.”

  “Stop!” I cry. “Stop. Stop. Stop.”

  Rachel laughs, enjoying my discomfort. “Maybe it helps her—”

  “I will hang up on you,” I warn.

  “You’re such a baby. It’s just sex.”

  “It’s my mother! Talking to you about a guy’s weenis is much different than knowing my mother is looking at them.”

  Rachel’s laughter grows again. “Weenis. God, I forgot about that word.”

  Smiling, I minimize Outdoorsyman and look through the rest of my messages.

  “After this, I’ll give you the info so you can log on to the other site. You need to be on your phone though. It’s kind of fun. You get to swipe if you like someone.”

  “Baby steps,” I warn her.

  “You’re diving in, babe,” she counters.

  “Yeah, but I don’t want to belly flop on my first attempt.”

  “You won’t,” she assures me. “If you apply even a small fraction of the effort you do toward your work, you’ll find someone. Then you’ll finally learn what a good, strong, healthy relationship is.”

  A bitter part of me wants to remind her that she is a recent divorcée, but I know that’s my ego talking and manage to swallow the words before I click on the next message. “Number thirteen is hot, but does the man own a shirt?”

  “Oh, let me look!”

  We’re silent for a few minutes, each scrolling through the same images. “You should message him. Eye candy is never a bad thing.”

  “We haven’t even read his profile.”

  “You’re the one that’s going through their pictures first,” Rachel teases. “What did his message say?”

  Although she can see it as easily as I can, I close the pictures so I can read it to her. “Hey, Ella. You probably get this a lot, but you’re really hot. I don’t do relationships, but if you’re interested in hooking up, message me.” Reading the message a second time to myself makes it even more baffling. I shake my head and release a humorless laugh. “That’s it. I’m telling my mom I want a cat for my next birthday. I’m done.”

  8

  Coen

  Sometimes I wish I had applied for fire stations that were way out in the boondocks. Somewhere I can’t see my nearest neighbor without getting into my truck and driving for thirty minutes. Suburbia really isn’t everything it’s cracked up to be. People mow their lawns before the sun has even decided if it’s going to shine, and too many sit on their front porches waiting
for any poor bastard to pass by so they can ask a million questions about their day and the weather. And there are dogs barking, kids yelling, parents yelling, couples yelling—there’s a lot of yelling, and the cars … dear God, the cars. But the worst part of living in a neighborhood is people can knock on my door without warning any damn time they please.

  Taking a deep breath, I kick another box, which is filled with more crap from my childhood. Things that at some point I either thought would hold sentimental value or was just too lazy to sort and throw away at the time, likely the latter. The person on the other side of the door knocks three more times before I make it downstairs to answer it, my patience running low.

  “Hi!” Rachel is on the other side with a smile so wide it feels like it’s challenging my current frown. She thrusts a basket with a large blue bow tied around the handle into my chest, diverting my attention. It’s filled with muffins, bagels, cupcakes, cookies, and loaves of bread. “I didn’t know what you like, so I went with a little of everything.”

  I look up from the basket to Rachel and shake my head with confusion.

  “For Friday night…” she begins, her smile faltering. “For saving Hayden.”

  The memory of her appearing at my doorway flashes. Her bright eyes that are so carefully made over now were smudged and dark from tears, and her skin was blotchy and red. She clearly doesn’t wear a lot of makeup, because hers was definitely worn off that night, and even with worry and guilt etched across her features, she was still beautiful.

  My smile is easy, an expression and reaction I have been known for since I was young. Mostly it’s sincere. I like to be happy. I like to smile. I like when my smile makes others smile. I even like when it makes a pessimist frown deeper. Rachel’s reaction is to smile her toothy grin again, the one that reveals the thin strip of metal behind her bottom teeth from previous orthodontics. “Thank you. I really appreciate the gesture, but you really didn’t have to. I was just doing my job.”

  “I didn’t call the fire department; I went to my neighbor’s. You weren’t doing your job.”

  “What do you do for work?” I ask.

  “I own a small boutique with my mom and sister.”

  “And do you ever go an entire day without doing something for your store?”

  Her eyebrows dive low and then spring high. “No, I guess I don’t.”

  I shrug. “Me either.”

  “Still, what you did was huge. I can’t thank you enough, really. Hayden is … well, I love him. He’s like my nephew. I still can’t believe things got as bad as they did.”

  “You did the right thing by getting me, but next time, you should call it in first.” I don’t have to voice the rest, that if I hadn’t been home, she would have wasted precious time. I can tell by her pursed lips she’s already realizing her error.

  “Well, it’s a thank you and also a prelude to asking you to take a look at my chimney. I’ve been worried about it since Justin mentioned it.”

  Spring here in North Carolina is unpredictable. We range from eighty to snow in the span of two days, but it’s been too warm to warrant a fire. I had hoped the chimney “issue” would be dropped. One of the warning signs that a woman might be interested is when they bring up a topic that was previously discussed. It’s supposed to create the façade of a past and bring familiarity and comfort—things I want to avoid.

  “Yeah, sure. I’d be glad to take a look for you.” Rather than inviting her inside, I set the large basket on a dining room chair that I had been standing on to hang a picture of my grandparents and join her on my porch. “My ladders are in my garage.”

  Rachel follows me to where I enter my pin number and waits while I retrieve my tallest ladder so I can access her roof.

  We cross my yard and her driveway in silence. My southern roots are waging war against my Yankee side which is suggesting I tell her this is a waste of my time and that I have better things to be doing.

  “I can’t believe you just climbed up there so quickly! If I were to try that, I’d have been shakin’ like a leaf.”

  “Not with some practice you wouldn’t,” I assure her.

  I set to work, inspecting and testing each detail carefully and with precision. If there’s one thing firemen are good at, it’s safety. Not always with ourselves. After all, anyone willing to go in and fight with what many consider the devil has to be crazy, right? At least that’s what my mother says.

  The chimney is fine, as I assumed it would be. I have Justin to thank for slicing my thumb open on an exposed nail, but aside from that small issue, I climb down from the roof and face Rachel. “It looks great up there. Your chimney is in perfect condition. You probably want to have it serviced and cleaned before winter, but you’ve got plenty of time. And if we get a one-off chilly night and you want to start a fire, you’ll be perfectly safe using it.”

  “Are you sure?” she asks. This question was once the bane of my existence. When someone orders food at a restaurant, they don’t ask the chef if they’re sure they won’t get salmonella poisoning. They don’t ask a pilot if they’re sure they will safely get them to their destination. But for some reason, the question is often directed toward firefighters, and I have to remind myself it’s because we’re easily accessible, as well as responsible for their safety. A plane is a few-hour trip; a meal at a restaurant is an hour long affair—sometimes less; I’m responsible for their homes. Their families. Their pets. Their lives.

  “Absolutely,” I assure her. “You won’t have any problems. However, I’ll make sure Justin goes in to get an eye exam so he stops scaring people.”

  She flashes a nervous grin that grows into a full smile as she laughs. “Well, thank you so much for climbing up there and making sure it was safe.”

  I nod. “Anytime.”

  Rachel’s smile returns, but this time it’s laced with something I recognize, and has me quickly moving to my ladder so I can fold it up. “You probably want to mark it on your calendar or something to have it cleaned. I would do it in early October before they get flooded with calls. And thanks for the basket. You really didn’t need to do that. I hope you have a nice night,” I say, hoping to end the conversation and cut off the possibility of additional exchanges, or an invitation for drinks or dinner, or whatever it is I recognized in the way she took a step closer to me and laughed when I hadn’t said anything funny.

  I tip my chin in her direction and then carry my aluminum ladder back to my house, where I re-hang it on the wall, and notice a lone baseball resting against the back tire of my truck. I scoop it off the ground, knowing from it still being a bright white shade that it’s one of the balls I bought for Hayden.

  Grabbing my phone from my back pocket, I quickly type out a text to Ella. We had exchanged numbers after I made it really awkward by reminding her that she was single and therefore could reach out to me if she ever needed anything. She had looked at me with raised eyebrows, and I’d expected her to laugh in my face for a second before she slid a pad of sticky notes and a pen toward me. She didn’t give me hers. I didn’t receive it until she texted me, asking if I was sure about teaching Hayden how to pitch a curveball.

  Me: Is Hayden feeling ready for his game on Thursday?

  I wander inside and pull open my fridge to get a bottle of water, all the while holding my phone tightly in my palm, waiting for a response I’m not sure I’ll receive.

  My phone beeps within seconds, making me stand taller.

  Ella/Hayden Hot Neighbor: …Maybe? I think so … I hope so…

  I laugh.

  Me: He’ll do great.

  Ella/Hayden Hot Neighbor: That’s what I keep telling him, but he’s nervous. We’ve been practicing the curve though. He’s determined to master it.

  Me: Does he want some help?

  I should be taking a nap or getting ready for an early night. We received non-stop calls last night, and I was dragging when I got home. Likely, that’s how I managed to catch myself on that damn nail. The thought brin
gs my attention to my thumb to see where the blood has dried around the wound still in need of cleaning. It’s difficult for me to focus on washing it or pay attention to see if I should put some glue in the cut because I’m staring at my phone, waiting again.

  Was I too forward?

  Is she in the same role I was moments ago, preparing to make an excuse or planning not to make one at all?

  Shit.

  I begin typing, erasing, and rewriting several words before a new text comes in from her, and I delete the entire thing I was preparing to send.

  Ella/Hayden Hot Neighbor: Are you sure? I don’t want you to feel obligated.

  I sigh with relief and rest both of my elbows on the granite counter as I balance my phone between my fingers while trying to think of a casual response.

  Me: I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t sure. It’s a great excuse for me to play more of the game I love. I can be over in fifteen, does that work for you?

  Ella/Hayden Hot Neighbor: Sounds great.

  I finish my water and head to my master bathroom where I keep another pack of medical supplies. The cut is going to be sore, but I have to get a tetanus booster every couple of years, and since that’s the biggest worry with a wound like this, I simply squeeze some antiseptic on it and wrap it with a small bandage.

  It would be faster to drive, but if I do, I’ll be there sooner than the fifteen-minute window I established, and that would likely confuse me more than her, so I set off on foot with my bag of baseball gear swung over my shoulder.

  When I arrive at Ella’s house, I’m five minutes late. I hate being late to anything, but it beats having arrived ten minutes early. The glass storm door is closed, but the metal door is open, revealing the short hallway that leads into the formal living room. It looks like a home: friendly and tastefully decorated with pictures of Hayden alone and together with Ella, lining the walls and various surfaces.

  I knew Ella was single as soon as I met her. Or at least had a good assumption she was. Aside from her not wearing a ring on her finger, the more obvious reason was the way her friend had continued to glance in her direction, looking for cues and reactions to see if Ella was interested in either of us. She wasn’t. Not at all and that was obvious from her yelling down the stairs in hopes that we’d left. It’s difficult to gauge her age, but I’m guessing she has to be at least twenty-eight since she has a nine-year-old son.