CURVEBALL

by Mariah Dietz

  While the anger visible in her eyes and shoulders recedes, it doesn’t go away.

  “Tell me what you did this weekend.” We’re still standing next to the door which neither one of us has closed. I’m hoping she will reach for it as a sign that she wants me to stay.

  “You already know what I did Saturday.” And thankfully, Ella does lean forward to close the door.

  I do because we texted throughout the night, the middle of the night, and into the morning. When I wasn’t on a call, I was messaging Ella. Trying to ignore that she was up at 3 a.m. messaging me back because it could mean something to either of us.

  “What about today?”

  Like I pictured her doing earlier, Ella’s gaze drops. But then she surprises me by glancing back at me, her blue eyes warm then harden, as though battling something. “Today kind of sucked,” she tells me. “I met a guy who was a total ass who Rachel set me up with, then I endured a movie with my ex, and now this guy who I thought was becoming a close friend goes off on me because I apparently ramble and had two sips of wine that a client sent me.”

  She’s giving me the opportunity to right this. To fix my mistake. To show and tell her that she can trust me.

  “You really should ditch all three of those bastards and just hang out with me, especially that last guy. Personally, I think people who ramble are awesome.”

  Ella chuckles and shakes her head, but her face warms and her shoulders soften.

  “I work very hard to surround myself with them because they tend to be honest, incredibly kind, and way funnier than you expect. Plus, something most people don’t know about ramblers is that they’re exceptionally—”

  The doorbell rings, followed by a rapid knock that interrupts my apology. It’s probably for the better because I was about to be one of those assholes who uses the opportunity to hit on her and tell her that she’s beautiful, and then she’d likely see me as a slimeball.

  “Who in the hell is that?” she asks.

  “I’ll get it,” I offer.

  “I don’t have any idea who it would be,” she says, following close behind.

  I unlock the deadbolt and pull it open to reveal Rachel standing on Ella’s doorstep wearing an accusing glare that she’s working to cover with a smile.

  “Hey, Coen. I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “I was just stopping by,” I say.

  Rachel nods, but her tight-lipped smile is screaming ‘bullshit.’ Likely mine is too since my truck is parked in the driveway she walked up.

  “Why’d you ring the doorbell?” Ella asks. “You should have just texted or something.”

  “I did,” Rachel says. “You didn’t respond.”

  “Sorry,” Ella says. “We were just talking.”

  Rachel looks between Ella and me, then her smile grows. “Well, is there room for one more at this party? I wanted to hear about your weekend. I heard through the grapevine you went to the movies with Patrick.” She takes a step inside, and Ella takes two back, her shoulders folding like Rachel’s words have added a weight to her.

  “Who told you?” Ella asks.

  “Everyone’s talking about it.”

  Ella wipes a hand down her face. “I didn’t go to the movies with him.”

  “Someone took pictures, Ella.”

  “Shit, shit, shit,” Ella chants.

  There are quiet footsteps upstairs, and then we all turn hearing “Mom?”

  “I’ll be right back,” Ella whispers, darting toward the stairs.

  Rachel eyes me. “I also learned you’re friends with Patrick.”

  “I barely know the guy.”

  “But you think he’s nice, right?” Rachel glares at me, not allowing me an opportunity to respond before continuing. “He’s nice to everyone. That’s the problem.”

  Confusion pushes my eyebrows lower.

  “Everyone thinks Patrick’s a great guy, even Ella. Do you know why? Because he is nice to her. He’s attentive, sweet, even thoughtful, and if you didn’t know them—know he is married—you’d think he and Ella were together. He leads her on. Plays with her emotions.”

  Rachel grits her teeth and purses her lips. “He doesn’t know what or who in the hell he wants, so he leaves all of his options open in case he changes his mind. And Ella still hasn’t learned that if she continues to allow him to do this—play family with her on whims that suit him—it’s her who this town is going to burn, not him.” Rachel’s eyes are wide, her jaw stiff, revealing how worked up she is about this.

  17

  Ella

  I check my phone again. It’s been four days, and all I’ve heard from Coen are responses to the messages I’ve sent him. They’ve all been brief, not inviting further conversation. The first couple of times he did it, I assumed he was busy with work or a project with his house. Yesterday, I pushed him by continuing to send him messages even though I could tell he didn’t want to talk. Today he hasn’t responded at all.

  I remind myself that I haven’t known him that long, and if he doesn’t respond to me again, I can get over him. I will get over him. After all, I’ve lived in this town for years with only one friend. I will be able to survive without him too.

  The thing is, I’ve been telling myself this exact same thing since Monday morning when he first started this vague absence. I’ve already deleted our text conversations twice so I wouldn’t be tempted to message him again.

  Twice I’ve failed.

  I’ve been able to complete even more work, and am now going through the proofs I’ve drawn up to send to my creative team who isn’t expecting the orders for another week.

  Mr. Hakes leans against the doorframe of my office, filling the small space with the scent of his aftershave. “You’ve been quiet,” he says.

  I smile. “Did you need something?”

  He gives me a pronounced frown and shakes his head. “I saw some of the correspondence between you and the creative department about your proofs being ready.”

  “Nearly,” I correct him.

  “I’m impressed, Ella. Everyone is. The angle you’ve gone with this account and the time and dedication you’ve applied have really set you apart. Keep up the good work.”

  His musky aftershave lingers in my office while I do a celebratory dance in my chair, appreciating that at least one thing in my life is on track and going well.

  I grab my phone and send a text to Rachel.

  Me: I think I’m going to ask Outdoorsyman out.

  Rachel: Finally! What about this Éclair guy? Did you see his response?

  I haven’t. Since replying to them both, I’ve avoided the site, my emotions and thoughts split between my evening with Patrick and Coen’s disappearing trick.

  Me: I’m logging in now.

  From: ÉclairMaestro

  To: Shakespearian

  Subject: Favorite Food

  Am I being presumptive to guess why you’ve told me breakfast foods are your favorite?

  Me: What an asshole. I can’t handle this. Not after Lance.

  Rachel: The security guy?

  Me: We haven’t talked about it yet, have we?

  Rachel: No. What happened?

  Me: It’s a long story. Want to come over for dinner tonight or this weekend, and we can talk about it once Hayden goes to bed?

  Rachel: How about tomorrow after Hayden’s baseball game?

  Me: Perfect! We’ll get pizza or something. I’ll talk to Hayden and send you details. In the meantime, don’t set me up with this asshole. I can’t take anymore jerks.

  Rachel: Message Outdoorsyman!!!

  Me: Done.

  There’s another message from him waiting.

  From: Outdoorsyman

  To: Shakespearian

  Subject: Criteria Schmiteria

  Honestly, I’ve learned it’s best to have none. My ex-wife taught me this. (Way to open my closet and reveal one of my biggest skeletons, I know.) You can’t expect people to fit any sort of mold, because then you’re j
ust setting yourself up for disappointment. I think it’s best to go into things with an open mind and see if the other person makes you want to fight to make this world better for their sake, and if they don’t motivate you to want to become the next Batman, then they’re not right for you.

  From: Shakespearian

  To: Outdoorsyman

  Subject: Re: Criteria Schmiteria

  I like your outlook. I’m wondering if you’d like to meet? Maybe get some coffee or something?

  I hit send before I can change my mind, then send a quick text to Rachel to confirm I did it.

  Rachel: YAY!!!! I’m so proud of you! This is exciting!

  She’s right. It is, and I’m proud of myself for taking this chance, though my thoughts veer to Coen again. I wonder if he heard something else about me or realized that the rumors that have been orchestrated and shared by so many in this town are just a small glimpse of their dislike for me.

  Rachel: Let me know when you hear from him!

  As if on cue, I receive an alert that I’ve received a new message, and it’s from Outdoorsyman.

  To: Shakespearian

  From: Outdoorsyman

  Subject: Bat Signal

  How soon is too soon?

  Beaming, I look over my calendar.

  To Outdoorsyman

  From: Shakespearian

  Subject: I prefer the Arrow

  How about lunch tomorrow? By the way, my name’s Ella.

  I wait with bated breath for several moments and nearly leap out of my chair when I receive a reply back, confirming the date along with a restaurant he suggests.

  Me: We’re going on a date TOMORROW!!!!

  Rachel: I know!!!!!!

  Rachel: I can’t wait to hear all about it!

  The rest of the day goes by too slowly, my concentration struggling with my growing anticipation. I debate what I’m going to wear and what I’ll say, then question things I haven’t for a very long time like, what if we fall in love? How will he take to Hayden? Would we have more children? Reality and fiction twine together into the most perfect of fairy tales and before long, it’s lunchtime, and rather than eating at my desk and finishing some more drafts, I grab my purse and head out to the parking lot without a destination in mind, and am completely fine with the fact.

  I wake up on Friday hours before I need to, my excitement too large to contain, let alone allow me to rest. Hayden’s beside me, his head on my pillow. We watched a movie in my bed last night and snuggled under the duvet, warm and giggling until he fell asleep.

  Carefully I slip out from under the covers and find my glasses and slippers before heading downstairs with Shakespeare on my heels. I flip on the lights because it’s barely dawn, and open the slider so she can mosey around the backyard. I go into the kitchen and start a fresh batch of coffee though I don’t need the jolt. As it goes through its motions, I continue with mine, heading over to the toaster and dropping in a piece of apple cinnamon bread and then continuing to where my laptop has taken up permanent residence at our kitchen table and booting it up while already scrolling through my received emails on my phone.

  Two cups of coffee, a piece of toast, twelve emails, and a finished set of mock-ups are completed before I have to wake Hayden up to get ready for school, and everything shifts to mom mode as I make waffles and pack his lunch and extra snacks for his game tonight before checking his duffel bag to ensure he has everything he’ll need, including his full uniform, hat, mitt, cleats, and socks.

  “Hey, Mom, where’s Coen?” Hayden asks on our drive to school.

  I glance at my son in the rearview mirror to read his expression of interest. “I don’t know. I haven’t heard from him. He must be busy with work.”

  “His truck’s been gone.”

  I hadn’t even noticed. I’ve refused to drive by his house because I didn’t want to make any more excuses for him.

  “I don’t know, baby. Maybe he’s on a trip or something?” The thought of Patrick and his “trips” filter into my thoughts like a low fog, thick with memories and difficult to navigate through until Hayden grunts with thought.

  “I wonder if he’s coming to my game tonight?”

  “I don’t know. If he’s out of town, he probably won’t be able to.”

  “Do you think Dad will be there this week?”

  “I haven’t heard anything from him, honey. But you know Aunt Rachel and I will be there. And we were talking about going for pizza afterward.”

  “I was thinking of trying to throw a curveball today.”

  I’m grateful he doesn’t focus back on his dad. Since Sunday, he hasn’t asked again about why we don’t live together, or mentioned anything else about him or Lindsay, but I know he doesn’t feel like our answers were good enough, and don’t expect him to table it for long. “Are we talking literally or figuratively?”

  “Literally.”

  “I think you should do it. You’re never going to know what will happen unless you try.”

  “Mom?”

  “Yeah?” I ask, waiting in the long line of cars for drop-off.

  “If Coen comes tonight, you think he can come have pizza with us?”

  “I’m sure if he’s able to come, he will.” The blanket statement is meant to appease him for more than just the pizza but also the game. I don’t owe Coen an excuse like the many I’ve provided for Patrick over the years, but I also hate that Hayden may believe them not coming is in any way a reflection of his worth.

  Hayden surprises me by sitting forward once his seat belt is unlatched and pressing a kiss to my cheek. “I love you, Mom,” he says. “I hope you have a good day.”

  “I love you too, baby. I hope you have a great day as well.”

  He flashes me a grin, then grabs his backpack and duffel and climbs out of the car, leaving me with the realization that regardless of what happens today on my lunch date, my world is going to continue spinning and I’ll be happy all because of the boy I’m lucky enough to call my son.

  I text another outfit to Rachel for approval and smooth a curl in my hair as I wait for a response.

  Rachel: That’s perfect!

  I look back over my red shorts and flouncy white T-shirt and hope Rachel’s right as I slide my black sandals on and rummage around for some matching accessories.

  It took both Rachel and me several hours after the news of the date to realize Outdoorsyman never told me his name, but I decided maybe it was a good thing to go into one of these dates with another difference, regardless of how trivial it might be.

  As I pull up to the restaurant he had suggested, I realize another distinctive difference between this date and the many others: I don’t have to scroll through his profile for pictures and facts while I wait for him to arrive. I already know he has spiked blond hair which he combs to the left, blue eyes that could more easily be called gray, and I know him better than all the others combined.

  “Shakespearian!”

  My smile grows when I recognize his face. “Outdoorsyman.”

  “Also known as Garret.” He smiles, exuding warmth and humor as he holds out his hand. He’s a little shorter than I expected and his shoulders narrower, but the friendliness that emanated from his pictures becomes more vivid.

  “Outdoorsyman has a certain ring to it,” I tell him as we hold each other’s gaze while shaking hands.

  His hand falls to his side, but his steel eyes continue to hold mine. “And my sister told me it would send women running.”

  We share a laugh that is easy and genuine before he takes a step closer and extends his hand toward the small podium like an invitation.

  “Have you been here before?” he asks.

  “Yes, several times actually. It’s my best friend’s favorite restaurant.”

  “So you have good friends too. That’s nice to hear.” His smile grows cocky. “I say that because my sister owns this place.”

  “Really?”

  Nodding, he moves his hand so it rests lightly on my bac
k, high enough to remain polite. “As much as I love the outdoors, she loves to cook. It’s been her passion since we were kids and she got one of those little pink ovens one year for Christmas.”

  A waitress greets him by name and then shows us to a table in the back that sits against a window.

  “Preferential seating—does this mean you also know exactly what to order?”

  Garret’s lips have remained upturned, reminding me of Coen and his constantly friendly demeanor, but with my question they curl into a sly smile. “Sometimes it’s not what you order, but how.”

  I wait for more that he doesn’t share because our waitress appears, and she too knows Garret on a first-name basis.

  “Do you mind?” he asks me, motioning to the menu. “Everything here is delicious, but I’ll order you my favorites and teach you how to order them.”

  “By all means,” I tell him, setting my menu down on the white linen tablecloth, working to not allow this moment to make me feel like Donna Reed.