CURVEBALL

by Mariah Dietz

  Hayden’s wave becomes bigger, wider when he sees Coen is beside me. I can’t help but laugh because it’s so outside of his Mr. Cool façade that he often portrays in front of his teammates and friends.

  “I think he’s excited you’re here,” I tell Coen, glancing over to steal a fry.

  My hand freezes midair, noticing Coen’s matching expression of excitement as he waves both his arms in a windmill motion to ensure Hayden sees him. That same spot in my heart that warmed when Coen complimented me doesn’t just heat up, it expands. Somehow growing bigger and stronger like it does when I watch Hayden do something driven by kindness and courage.

  Coen’s arms drop to his sides and he turns to me, his smile still enormously wide, which triggers my own smile to broaden.

  10

  Coen

  Ella watches the game with every bit of her enthusiasm. I know because the times I’ve glanced over at her, Ella’s eyes are glued to the field except for the times when a kid does something that warrants a laugh, like when two boys collided trying to reach the same ground ball or when the pitcher from the opposing team began to hold himself and jumped up and down before announcing he had to use the restroom. On those too-rare occasions, Ella’s lips curled into a slow smile, and she turned to face me, and when she did, I grinned, and her lips would tip higher so those bright blue eyes of hers became even more like the inside of the fire where it teases you into believing it’s warm and inviting and beautiful, and before you understand the magnification, you’re mesmerized.

  “Hey!”

  When Ella’s head snaps, so does mine to see whose caught her attention, and I see Rachel approaching us, carrying a small bag. She’s walking funny because she has heels on that she’s clearly trying not to get dirty, and her clothes make her look like she’s ready to go to a night club rather than sit in this crazy heat that has me sweating so badly, I don’t doubt I’ll leave a puddle behind.

  “Hey,” Ella greets her, standing up so she can wrap her arms around her friend. “I didn’t think you were coming. You didn’t mention it.”

  “I didn’t think I could, but the store has been slow today, and my mom offered to stay.”

  “Coen!” she cries. “I didn’t even see you there!” Rachel wraps her arms around my neck and has to bend to do so because I’m still sitting, watching the game. “What are you doing here?” She glances to Ella, and then her focus is back on me.

  I extend an arm to the field. “I’ve been helping Hayden with his pitching and wanted to cheer him on.”

  Rachel looks back at Ella. I can tell it’s making Ella uncomfortable because her cheeks flush in the heat before she tilts her head to the side, as though pleading with her friend to understand or maybe to drop it—or maybe something else entirely.

  “Hayden’s really excited for him to be here. You should have seen him before the game started,” Ella explains.

  “I bet he was,” Rachel says, her voice edging toward defensive.

  “I’m so glad you were able to come!” Ella says, reaching forward and taking Rachel’s hand and squeezing it. “Hayden will be ecstatic!”

  Rachel smiles and I don’t know her well enough to tell if it’s genuine, but somehow I do know by Ella’s reaction that she isn’t sure either. She takes her seat beside me again, and I notice that our thighs no longer touch as she sits so close to the edge she must be half-cheeking it. Rachel sits on my other side, her short black shorts riding high on her tanned and toned thighs. I feel like I should explain to her now that I have rules against dating anyone that lives within fifteen miles of me. Perhaps then it would clear the air and make everything seem more normal and comfortable. Then again, it could make them both see me as a conceited asshole and never want to spend any time with me again.

  “I brought some cupcakes from that new shop in town. You want to try one?”

  I look over to Rachel with my eyebrows raised, not certain I heard her correctly since I was watching Hayden make his way to the pitcher’s mound. Before she can respond, I’m on my feet, cheering Hayden for throwing a solid pitch right over home plate and delivering a perfect strike that the ump announces.

  “Two more, Hayden! Two more! You’ve got this!” I yell, clapping my hands as anticipation races through my veins. It’s so much harder to watch a sport than to be out there participating, especially when sitting this close.

  Hayden looks up at the stands, and while it’s tough to tell if he can see me clearly, or is even looking at me or his mom, I nod a couple of times in an attempt to encourage him. He puts the ball in his mitt and takes a step back.

  “Throw a curve,” I murmur under my breath, knowing it will be the unexpected key for him to get another strike. “Throw a curve, buddy. You can do it.”

  Hayden winds up and lets the ball fly. It again goes over home plate without meeting the bat, and though it wasn’t a curveball, I’m cheering again, yelling my praise to this kid that I barely even know.

  “One more!” I yell.

  “Go, Hayden!” Ella calls from where she’s standing beside me. She’s jumping up and down on her toes, unable to remain still with all the anticipation of this moment. “You can do it!”

  Hayden pulls back again, looking far older than he is with his cool and calm demeanor. He delivers another strike, and I can’t hear any of the other reactions because I’m jumping up and down yelling, and Ella is jumping up and down yelling, and Rachel is jumping up and down yelling, and we’re celebrating Hayden’s win because it is just that: his win.

  “Wow!” Rachel says once we’ve sat back down and another batter steps up to the plate. “That definitely deserves a cupcake.”

  “That was awesome,” I agree, keeping my focus on the field. Hayden was so excited to learn the curveball that I was expecting to see him throw it. But his fast pitch is so strong I bet he’s easily the best in his league.

  “…chocolate, and lemon meringue, and strawberries ‘n cream…” Rachel continues from beside me.

  When I’m at the station and one of the guys won’t stop yapping, I’ll flip him the bird or tell him to shut it so I can focus, but a thin veil of sensibility and manners has me tearing my attention from Hayden to look to where Rachel is digging through her bag of cupcakes. She realizes I’m looking at her and smiles. “What would you like, Coen?”

  “I’m good, actually,” I tell her, returning my attention to where Hayden’s preparing his next pitch. “Maybe after the game.”

  “Ella?” Rachel asks.

  I glance to my left and see that Ella keeps her eyes trained on the field. “Yeah?”

  “Do you want a cupcake?”

  Hayden pitches, and the kid at bat swings. The top of the wooden bat connects with the ball, and I know from the sound that it’s going to fly up and be a foul ball. I’m already on my feet with my arms raised high in the air when the ump announces the fact.

  Ella and I scream in chorus while the rest of the stand cheers, but still Hayden’s face remains stoic.

  “When’s he going to smile?” I ask, rubbing my palms on my thighs before I reach for another chicken strip.

  “That’s his game face,” Rachel explains, looking over to me. “Hayden’s a perfectionist, like his mom.” She looks to Ella, who looks nearly pained as she smiles at her friend.

  “He just got two outs,” I say as the third batter steps up to the plate. When she doesn’t reply, I look to her, feeling her stare.

  “You really don’t know Ella very well,” Rachel says, and with a smirk, averts her attention to the field.

  I don’t know what implication was meant by that, but for some reason it becomes an itch that I want so badly to scratch, causing me to completely miss Hayden’s first strike. I don’t allow it to further occupy my attention though, because I fully plan to discuss this game with Hayden later and be able to discuss every player and every hit and every single strike he pitches.

  Hayden’s team is clearly better, and for a while I find myself rooting for the
other team just so they don’t walk out of here feeling like they’ve embarrassed themselves. Hayden’s a solid player on both offense and defense, and while I admire the kid for asking me to help him, I still don’t fully understand why when he’s noticeably one of their strongest players.

  “You did it!” I cry as Hayden approaches us with his head about to hang.

  He looks up at me and gives a dimmed version of his smile. “Thanks for coming out to our game,” Hayden says. “Sorry I didn’t throw a curveball.”

  “Buddy, you threw some awesome pitches today. You have nothing to apologize for. We’ll keep practicing so you’re confident and ready. There’s no need to rush it.”

  He shrugs but his shoulders are slumped, and I can tell he’s bothered. I look to Ella for help. His team just beat the pants off the other team. He should be thrilled, at least midlevel happy, not solemn and depressed.

  Ella isn’t looking at me, though. She’s looking at Hayden, and painted across her face are the same hues of sadness and disappointment. Furrowing my brow, I think of what Rachel said about me really not knowing Ella. I don’t. I’ve only met her a couple of times. Things about her may feel familiar, but in all reality, she is a complete stranger to me.

  When Ella offers for us to all go out for pizza to celebrate the win, I have to decline because I already have an obligation to go see Justin. I paste the largest smile I can muster on my face and tell Hayden what a great job he did.

  He mumbles a thank you and then turns and gets into Ella’s car.

  “Sorry,” Ella says quietly. “He’s really excited you came, even though he’s not showing it very well.” Her gaze is on the backseat of her car where Hayden sits.

  “Did you want a cupcake to go?” Rachel asks from behind Ella before I can ask why Hayden is visibly upset.

  “No. Thanks though,” I tell her and then dip my chin. “I’ll see you guys around. Have a good night.”

  The drive to Justin’s seems longer as I consider why both Ella and Hayden were bothered. Ella was excited the whole game, cheering Hayden on, all the while wearing a smile that showed pride and excitement.

  When I arrive, he’s on the front porch. “Hey, man. Get in here. You’re late.”

  “You’re in trouble again?” I ask as he turns to look behind us.

  “No. I’m not in trouble. Kristy isn’t my mother.”

  “What are you in trouble for? Didn’t take out the garbage? Played too many video games again? Not enough bedroom action?”

  “I wish I got in trouble for not enough bedroom action. Sometimes I feel like I live the life of a monk.” He opens the door, waiting for me to go in first.

  “Hi, Coen! How are you?” Kristy breezes into the room, her eyes narrowed with calculation. I give all of my married friends a hard time about being tied down, but Justin deserves every scoff, insult, and joke because his wife drives me to madness every time I’m around her. She’s likely not a terrible person, she just has this way about her that makes me feel like my skin is being peeled.

  “Same ol’, same ol’. You know me.”

  “I do, and I heard you now live in the same neighborhood as Ella Chapman.”

  My chin tilts at the sight of her eyes focusing on me with an intention that has Justin shuffling us toward the kitchen that isn’t emitting a single trace of the dinner I was invited over for. “Yup.” I pop the P with satisfaction and accept the cold bottle of beer Justin passes to me.

  “So, have you spoken to her?”

  “Did you see who the Hawks traded?” Justin asks, earning a glare from his wife.

  “Aren’t you a nosey little thing?” Using my keychain, I remove the bottle cap and take a long swig. “What do you have against Ella, Kristy?” There’s little point in trying to avoid this. I know she’ll redirect every conversation back to it until she uncovers whatever it is she’s looking for, though I’d prefer to talk about sports, things at the station, the last movie I watched—anything but Ella with Kristy.

  “Oh, nothing,” she lies.

  Shrugging, I turn my attention back to Justin. I’m not going to play her ridiculous games.

  “Isn’t she weird though?” Kristy continues instantly.

  “Weird?” Knitting my eyebrows together like my beer has turned, I stare at her for a second, working to process the word. Ella is a bit different. Stubborn. Sensitive to things I don’t think most even notice. But she’s also hilarious, genuine, and intriguing. Weird isn’t a word that I’d use to describe her though, especially not with the negative connotation I can tell Kristy is implying.

  “You know…” She lifts her hands. “Just the way she is with her son and things. And you know why she moved here right? It was to steal Patrick from Lindsay.”

  Drawing my head back, I look at Kristy with narrowed eyes, trying to make sense of the shit she’s spouting. “Patrick Webb?”

  “The one and only.” Kristy’s eyebrows rise as her lips curl in satisfaction. I’ve clearly exposed way more shock than intended.

  “What are you talking about?” The question bursts through my lips before sense can stop them.

  “She moved here to try and seduce him and get him to leave his wife.”

  A sharp twinge pierces the back of my scalp and shoots down through my arm. It’s caused from a back injury that transformed into a neck injury when I didn’t give it adequate time to heal, that Ella and all things surrounding her apparently have a direct pressure point to.

  Why do I feel both defensive and anxious to learn more? How is this even possible?

  “And I’ve heard she’s a raging alcoholic.”

  Kristy knows she’s caught my attention. My sensitivity to alcohol and those that abuse it isn’t a secret to anyone. “Alcoholic?” We both note the surprise that coats the single word.

  “Apparently, she’s been banned from several local bars because she can’t control herself.”

  Jutting my chin forward, I stare at her for several long seconds, praying her look of sincerity and concern transforms into malice or something that will help dislodge this as a possibility.

  “Seriously, Coen. I don’t understand how no one told you about her. She’s bad news. You don’t want to be around her.”

  I barely participate in the conversation that occurs while we wait for our takeout to arrive. Nothing is making sense, and my mind is struggling to comprehend whether Ella is who she appears to be or who Kristy, and apparently the town, believes she is.

  When dinner is finished, I head to Ella’s. I know it isn’t my business to confront her and I don’t know her well enough to do so, but I have to know.

  It’s already after 9 PM. I really should have called, or maybe sent a text, but I know if I do that now, it will give her the opportunity to either avoid me or I will talk myself out of this and possibly always wonder if Hayden lives with an alcoholic.

  I stand on her doorstep and knock. The window into her house shows there’s a light on in the family room, so I know she’s awake. Ella’s head pops around the wall, her short hair pulled back at her neck. Even with her glasses on, I can tell she’s squinting, working to recognize me. I wave as if that will help her place me, but she doesn’t until she’s halfway to the door. Her shoulders fall, and a smile replaces her frown that had been created by concern.

  “Hey,” she says, opening the door.

  She’s wearing a pair of pajama shorts and an oversized sweatshirt and socks, and with her glasses on and her hair pulled back, she looks like she could pass for being in college, maybe even high school.

  “Sorry, are your parents home?” I ask.

  “Shut up,” she mumbles, tucking a loose strand of dark hair behind her ear and taking a step back to invite me inside.

  “Seriously though, how old are you?”

  She eyes me, tilting her chin and narrowing her eyes like she does when she’s debating how to respond. “How old do you think I am?”

  “I may not look very bright, but I do know better than to ans
wer that question.”

  “Are you sure?” she asks. “’Cause you did just ask me how old I am and I’m pretty certain there’s a golden rule about asking a woman that question.”

  “Golden rule?”

  “Unspoken rule. Common sense…”

  “I’m thirty,” I volunteer.

  “Twenty-seven,” she says.

  “I bet you still get carded.”

  “I bet you don’t.” Ella smiles as I cry out with feigned offense at her insult.

  “What are you doing tonight?” I ask.

  “Making a mess of my living room.” Ella’s shoulders sag with her response. She leads me into the family room where the built-in shelves that line each side of her fireplace are sitting bare, the contents scattered around her living room.

  “You prefer that just-robbed look?”

  “I was rearranging some things,” she says.

  “Why? It looked good before.” I look around, realizing it wasn’t just those shelves she cleared. The couches have been moved, and the bookshelf on the far wall has been cleared. “If you were bored, you should have come over. I have lots of stuff that needs organized.”

  She laughs. “That’s because you just moved. I was just tired of looking at the same stuff.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “I’m tired of looking at boxes and random crap in my house since moving, but I can’t think of a time that I’ve gotten tired of looking at things when they’ve been put away.”

  Ella laughs, but it’s too high, and her eyes flit across the space, revealing it isn’t genuine but out of nerves. “Sometimes I just need change,” she admits.

  “What else do you get tired of?” I ask.

  The same nervous laugh clears her lips before she licks them. “Everything … I guess…” She scoffs, shocked she just admitted this to me. “I mean, don’t you ever just get tired of people and things?”