CURVEBALL

by Mariah Dietz

  Patrick moves his hand to my back. “I’ll follow you guys.”

  Even when that spark of hope inside of me has been fueled and I think Patrick may still be in love with me, I’ve always wondered what he tells her—Lindsay—his wife when he randomly disappears with us. I watch him in my rearview mirror as he gets into his car, one that, had things gone the way I thought they would have ten years ago, I would be getting in beside him.

  “Did you have a good weekend?” I ask.

  “It was okay.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Not a lot. Played some video games, went swimming.”

  “That sounds nice.”

  “Dad was gone most of the time.”

  “Doing what?” I ask.

  Hayden shrugs. “Work and stuff.”

  “You should have called. I would have come and gotten you earlier.”

  “I wanted to, but Lindsay told me I needed to stay.”

  My grasp on the steering wheel tightens, though logic has me keeping my mouth shut. Lindsay isn’t a bad person, and she’s been in Hayden’s life since he was just a few months old, but the two have never built a relationship closer than sharing words while he’s staying with them. It’s one of my biggest points of contention with living here. I know she sees my son as a reminder of the nightmare her husband put her through. And since she can’t have children of her own, I’m sure it’s been hard on her at times, but for her to treat Hayden as the mistake makes my blood boil.

  “How is she?” I ask.

  Again Hayden shrugs. “She burnt the frozen pizza.”

  “That’s not really telling me how she is.”

  “She’s just … I don’t know. She’s just so weird.”

  “Babe, you know that’s not nice to say.”

  “You say I can tell you anything.”

  “And you can. It’s okay that you think she’s different, weird even, but…”

  “She doesn’t like me, Mom.”

  Guilt ricochets with my sadness, creating a wickedly intense anger.

  “That’s not possible, sweetheart,” I assure him. “It’s not possible for people to not love you.”

  He’s silent. I hate even considering what my son is thinking, but still ask him, “What are you thinking, dude? You can’t keep those thoughts inside because you’ll convince yourself that you’re right. You need to talk them out. They won’t seem nearly as scary once you’ve said them, I promise.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it right now.”

  Respecting his wishes and giving him space is another part of him getting older that I hate.

  The movie theater parking lot is empty. For being so hot out, I expected it to be filled, but people in the South often respect their Sundays and stay home, especially in this small town.

  We climb out of the car in silence. It’s a challenge for me to not fill the space with small talk that will help distract his thoughts and ebb away the sadness he’s feeling. It’s something I’ve always done and is natural for me, but with Patrick here, it doesn’t feel right, so I pull him closer in attempt to share the burden with him.

  “All right, Hayden, what movie are we going to see?” Patrick rubs his palms together, oblivious of Hayden’s mood.

  Surprisingly, Hayden perks up, rattling off the title of a movie and the numerous ads he saw over the weekend about it.

  We walk toward the ticket stand, and Patrick leans in close. “Sorry about all the screen time. I had to run into the station this weekend because the flu’s been going around.”

  If I turn my head, his lips will only be inches from mine, but if I don’t, I’ll feel like I’m not acknowledging him. So I twist my neck just enough that I can see him. “I heard.”

  Patrick silently pleads with me to understand, his blue eyes wreaking havoc on my heart and memories. He used to give me this same look after I wouldn’t hear from him for days, sometimes weeks at a time, giving me excuses about being swamped with work.

  At the ticket counter, Patrick steps forward and pays for our three tickets and then holds the door open for us.

  “What kind of snacks do you want, sweetheart?” I ask.

  “Popcorn with extra butter and Milk Duds!”

  “You are your mother’s child,” Patrick says with a grin, stepping up to the snack counter where he orders Hayden’s snacks along with an extra popcorn, red licorice, Whoppers, Rolos, and three Cokes that cost more than double what our tickets did.

  With our arms filled with peanut-free packaged snacks and the aroma of freshly popped popcorn, we head into the theater.

  Patrick sits beside me, like I knew he would, putting me in the middle with the excuse that it’s easier to share the Rolos and popcorn this way. I’m battling with my heart to remain annoyed with him, to recall that predatory look I saw today on a man’s face when he was looking at mere girls.

  It’s harder to do when I drown in the familiarity of Patrick. His cologne reminding me of stolen weekends we locked ourselves away in hotel rooms. His smile that elicits an entire bank of memories from all the times he would look at me in adoration and bestow that smile on me, just for me. I hear his voice whispering secrets and dark desires that he made sound like promises. The brush of his hand reminds me of the gentle caresses he used to bathe me in, and before I know it, I am lost in a sea of memories and should-have-beens and would-have-beens, and I get so tangled in them it creates a thick fog over what our reality is.

  “Why don’t you live with Dad?”

  My eyes round with alarm. Hayden and I have discussed this a few times over the years, usually when he misses a holiday with me or he goes on a trip with Patrick and Lindsay, but it’s never been a subject broached in front of Patrick.

  “You guys are happy together. Way happier than you and Lindsay are.” He looks to his dad. “And if we lived together, I wouldn’t have to leave every other weekend because I’d always just be home.”

  I want to look at Patrick and make him explain this. Explain it to me. But my heart constricts with fear and pain, refusing to hear the same excuses again. “Hayden, I know it’s confusing, and I know it’s hard for you to split your time, but we both love you very much, and…”

  “Your mom and I love each other, Hayden. But, Lindsay’s my wife.”

  My reaction to his words is so polarized I miss Hayden’s words entirely because I’m stuck trying to understand why he would say that. Why he would dare admit his feelings about me when our son is asking for us to be together. And to have his wife sound like an obligation rather than a choice, a passion, a necessity, makes me grateful he didn’t choose me.

  “…I just don’t understand,” Hayden says.

  “It’s confusing.” Patrick recycles the same words he used on me for years.

  I sit back in my seat, feeling exhausted and devastated and shameful, and my focus drifts from all the promises and tethered moments to all the times I heard Patrick tell me that things were ‘just confusing.’

  16

  Coen

  Every muscle in my body is fatigued. I knew I should have stopped, or at least slowed down, but I couldn’t. I needed to get every last ounce of energy out of me so I could stop Joey’s words from replaying in my head and replace them with exhaustion.

  Yet, I’m entering the neighborhood from the second entrance rather than the first, which is a faster route to my house, and when I pass Ella’s house and see lights are still on, I quietly mutter a handful of expletives before admitting having a thing for a woman who lives close might not be the end of the world.

  Stopping in my driveway, my thoughts come to a halt as I realize I’m assuming she is interested in me. Ella’s made it very clear she doesn’t date firefighters.

  “Hey, neighbor!”

  Rachel is sitting on her front porch with the lights ablaze, a magazine in her lap, an inviting smile on her lips.

  I wave, and the motion reminds me I need to be stretching my shoulders.

  Rachel says somethin
g, but I can’t hear her. “Sorry?” I call, taking a few steps to the edge of my driveway. She repeats herself, but still I can’t hear anything but the tone of her voice.

  Sighing, I walk closer. “Sorry, say it again,” I say, leaning on the railing of her porch.

  “How are you?” she asks.

  I came over here so you could ask how I am?

  “Good. Tired. It’s been a long weekend.”

  “Oh, yeah?” she asks, sitting forward. “Did you have any big plans?”

  “Work.”

  “Me too. I actually just got in about an hour ago. I was in Miami for the weekend at a conference. I haven’t been outside all weekend.”

  I smile, but only because I don’t have anything to say. “Well, I hope you had a good trip. I think I’m…”

  “It was great!” she says. “Have you been?”

  “To Miami?”

  She nods.

  “Once,” I tell her. “A lifetime ago.”

  Rachel laughs. “Are you really old enough to use a line like that?”

  “Depends on how you measure years.”

  “You don’t sparkle, do you?” she asks.

  “Sparkle?” My brow furrows with confusion as I look at my bare arm.

  “I’m just making sure you’re not a vampire,” she says, laughing harder. “You want to come in? I was thinking of getting something to eat.”

  “That sounds good, but I just got out of an open gym and am sweaty and need to shower and then pass out for a solid ten hours.”

  “Okay.” Rachel stands and walks to the top of the stairs. “Well, if you change your mind, I’ll be around.”

  I nod once, a tight smile keeping me from saying anything that could offend her.

  Once inside, I drop my gym bag and climb the stairs to my bedroom while entering a text to Ella.

  Me: Hayden home?

  Ella/Hayden Hot Neighbor: Finally!!!

  Me: You guys still on your date?

  Ella/Hayden Hot Neighbor: After I gave him a brownie, he passed out. I think this kid is in a sugar coma.

  Me: Sorry, all I read was brownies.

  Ella/Hayden Hot Neighbor: Ha!

  Me: I’m going to shower really fast. BRB.

  Once washed and wearing a pair of clean gym shorts and a T-shirt, I grab my phone and sit on the couch.

  I’ve never called Ella, only texted her, but I hate texting, so, feeling like an anxious twelve-year-old, I hit Send and wait to hear the ringing on the other side.

  “Hey.” Ella doesn’t sound surprised or weirded out by my call. In fact, she sounds like this is normal, common even.

  “How was your date?” I ask.

  “Awful. How was basketball?”

  “Liberating. I obliterated a twenty-year-old who thought he was God’s gift to this world.”

  “That’s all it takes for you to feel liberated? Kicking the ass of someone half your age?”

  “Ella Chapman!”

  “Coen DeLuca!” she mocks.

  Chuckling, I throw my feet on the coffee table. “I’m glad you get your fun at my expense.”

  “Well I’m glad you got your kicks.”

  “Tell me about your date. Did he smell? Not shave? Have horrible breath?”

  She sighs and I imagine if I were next to her, Ella’s eyes would be downcast, working to sidestep the subject like she often does with things she wishes to avoid. “He was … I don’t know. Regardless, it doesn’t matter because he definitely wasn’t interested in me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re going to think I’m nuts.”

  “Did you just say nuts?”

  “Ha ha,” she deadpans. “It was just … awkward. He was staring at other women, and it was just … bad. I left pretty quickly, but sadly forgot to bring my ice cream with me.”

  “Maybe he’s a cross-dresser and wanted to see their clothes?”

  “Yeah, no. I’m a big girl. I can take the rejection and admit he wasn’t interested.”

  “In you, my nutty friend? Never.”

  “Don’t be an asshole. I will hang up.”

  I’m debating whether it’s good I sounded sarcastic or really stupid because I had such a great opportunity to tell her how crazy this guy must have been. I choose the latter. “I’m being serious. If a guy was checking out other women while out with you, then he needs a lobotomy.”

  She’s silent, but my heart is beating loudly in my head as I wonder if I just freaked her out.

  “You want to pretend you’re thirteen again, and watch a show together? You watch it at your house, I watch it at mine, but we can talk to each other about it.”

  “I don’t watch TV at night…” Her voice drifts off, and I know it’s because she realizes I’m going to ask why.

  And I do.

  “You're going to laugh.”

  “Probably.”

  “It's because I can't hear things.”

  “What kinds of things are you trying to hear?”

  “I don't know. Strange noises and things…”

  “Strange noises?”

  “Do I need to spell it out for you?” She’s trying to sound annoyed, but I can hear the smile in her voice.

  “Apparently, because I have no idea what you're talking about. What kinds of strange noises are you going to hear? I usually turn my TV up to block out all the strange sounds like the neighbor’s kids and the lady behind me that sounds like Fran fucking Drescher.”

  “You know who Fran Drescher is?”

  “My mother was a big fan of that stupid show she was in. Stop changing the subject. What are you listening for? Hayden won’t sneak out.”

  “What if someone breaks in?”

  “You're not serious.”

  “Of course I'm serious!”

  “What do you do all night?” I ask.

  “Work,” she admits. “Well, usually I clean, and then I work.”

  “I’m coming over.”

  “You can’t.”

  The panic in her voice doesn’t make her sound upset about the idea, but afraid.

  Is it because she likes me?

  “Why not?” I ask.

  “It’s like nine o'clock.”

  “Are you about to turn orange and sprout a stem?”

  “That and I'm not wearing a bra, if you must know.”

  “So put it back on.”

  “You don't understand. That's like saying put your jeans back on.”

  “I am in jeans,” I lie just to get a reaction out of her.

  “What is wrong with you?” she cries.

  “What's wrong with jeans?”

  “They're stiff and uncomfortable. Wearing jeans all day is basically equivalent to walking on sandpaper. But at least you guys have pockets that will actually hold something larger than a thimble and don’t ride up your ass.”

  “If your bra is riding up your ass, we have bigger fish to fry than being afraid of the boogey man.”

  Several seconds pass, and I’m trying not to laugh because I know the expression she’s giving me. It’s the one with her chin out and her lips pursed, and those bright blue eyes of hers dancing like a real-life flame. “You're not funny,” she finally tells me.

  “You're right, I'm hilarious. And I'm coming over.”

  “You can't come over!”

  “I'm already on my way.” I stand from the couch and head over to my freezer, where I keep a few extra gallons of ice cream for when the damn local paper runs stories on me, and head out to my truck with the phone still at my ear.

  “You’re bluffing,” she challenges.

  “Babydoll, you clearly don’t know me.”

  She’s silent, and this time I don’t care if it’s because I made things weird with the term of endearment or if she’s nervous, because while this idea hasn’t fully materialized in my head of how things will progress, I’m ready to run with it and see where it leads us to.

  I park in her driveway, and because I know Hayden’s in bed, I walk
around to the back of her house and stand in front of the big slider. She’s sitting at her dining room table, and like she told me she was, she’s working. Her dark hair is curled like it had been the first day I saw her, and once again I feel the desire to run my fingers through it. I use a single knuckle to tap on the glass. “It sounds like someone’s at your door. You should probably get a bra on.”

  Ella turns, a glass in her hand. She smiles and my mind clears. Walking toward me, she shakes her head and laughs. “What are you doing?”

  “Making it possible for you to become normal.”

  She laughs again, and it’s then I notice her eyes are still bright with that fire, and I smell the alcohol on her breath. I look back at the glass she left by her computer with accusation as though willing it to show me what its contents are.

  “I’m pretty sure I have completely failed at being normal today.” Her face contorts with heavy thoughts. “Or maybe ever.” Her eyebrows soar up her forehead. “I’m pretty sure that’s a very accurate statement.”

  This is the first time I’ve ever heard her ramble. “Are you drunk?” The question surprises us both.

  She frowns deeply, her eyes hardening with offense. “No!”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “No. I’m not,” she argues, grinding the words between clenched teeth.

  “You’re rambling,” I tell her. “You don’t ramble.”

  “How would you know if I ramble or not? You don’t know me!” She moves so she’s standing in front of me, her shoulders rigid, creating a wall to her house like she does around her heart.

  I stare at her with a million words. Not one of them making a bit of sense because she’s right. There’s still so much about her I don’t know. Regardless of the refuting words my heart has strung together about knowing her and her character. How I know more about her than anyone else.

  I raise both of my palms and sigh. “I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I am really, really, really sorry. It’s just been a shitty day, and I’m tired, and I’m cranky, and I probably should’ve just stayed home and gone to bed, but I wanted to see you and hear how things went.”