In Her Defense

by Julianna Keyes

  Welcome to stage four, I think as I reluctantly meet his eyes. If this isn’t depressing, I don’t know what is.

  Chapter Twelve

  When I wake up Wednesday, I am the picture of calmness and serenity. No one darts out of my way when I walk to my office, no one flinches when we make eye contact. They look confused by my newly placid demeanor, but I don’t care. After prying myself off the stairwell floor last night, I learned something: I have been fighting the wrong battle. I don’t need to show the partners how wrong they are, I need to show them how good I am. They want me to take a break? I’ll take a break. Pass off my cases now instead of later? Absolutely. And if Eli’s mad at me for calling him a creepy pervert and doesn’t want to see me anymore? That’s fine, too. This is stage five, acceptance, and I am going to kick its ass.

  Five hours later I’m forced to admit that acceptance is actually quite a bit easier said than done. I spend the morning in court with Arthur, sitting silently as he does his best to argue two different cases in front of two different judges. He asked me to come along to “offer support,” which really means offering kind critiquing later, and since I have nothing else to do, I agree. In fact, I think this is kind of the perfect opportunity to show just how accepting I’ve become in the hours since my epiphany.

  Unfortunately, being accepting is really dull. I don’t even need to see him in action to know all the things Arthur’s doing wrong, so after the first twenty minutes I have my list of kind critiques. Well, it’s not so much kind as it is critical, so I spend the next hour softening the blows, and another hour doodling. It’s almost impossible to restrain myself from leaping to my feet, pushing Arthur down and arguing his cases for him.

  I join Arthur for his Petra Moreno deposition at three, under very strict orders from Joseph Morgan not to speak. Arthur’s much better than I expected, and actually manages not to touch his hair or wave his arms like he’s drowning, and only apologizes twice. The deposition is predictably boring, so I tune out and fiddle with my phone, checking the news and hastily skipping over the recap of last night’s baseball game.

  My phone buzzes with a new text. It’s from Susan’s number, but the first message says: Yo, Caitlin. This is Dorrie.

  Ordinarily I’d never text my ten-year-old niece in the middle of a deposition, but it’s either text or fall asleep, so I opt for the former. Plus this way I can shoot Martina Novak sly looks that imply I’m working on the case and am about to take her down.

  What’s up? I write back.

  Can you take me to softball tonight?

  My heart kicks up a notch. No, I type quickly. Sorry. But my thumb hovers over the send key, unwilling to make it official.

  I can’t go to the game, can I? I’ll look like a stalker.

  Or a loving aunt.

  Or, a tiny, sly voice pipes up, you can go to the game with your newly accepting attitude, and show Eli you’re completely over things. And be a great aunt at the same time.

  Win-win.

  * * *

  “Are you going to get out?” Dorrie asks, lifting up her heart-shaped sunglasses as she frowns at me.

  “You go ahead,” I tell her. “I’m going to sit in here for a bit and take advantage of the air conditioning.”

  She climbs out. “Okay. See you.”

  I watch her shrink in the rearview, then take a deep breath. I’ve convinced myself I will be the paragon of acceptance and maturity at tonight’s game. After all, I occasionally run into men I’ve slept with, and it’s never been strained or uncomfortable. Sex is sex, work is work. Sex is sex, softball is softball. And since his little “read the recap” trick, baseball is an aphrodisiac. Or maybe it has nothing to do with baseball at all, I fret, watching in the side mirror as Eli, parked behind us, stands next to his truck and talks with parents.

  I know he saw me pull in, and though he’s trying to concentrate on the conversation, I see his head turn slightly to glance my way every few seconds. I check my watch. Still twenty minutes until the game begins. My plan is to sit in the bleachers, sunglasses firmly in place, and avoid Eli. If we do make eye contact, I’ll smile politely, like any parent or guardian, and be supportive and accepting.

  I squint curiously when two of the men in the group reach into the truck bed and pull out the gear bag to bring to the field. The group disperses until only Eli remains, ostensibly checking something on his phone. Then he shoots one more inscrutable look my way and follows them to the diamond.

  I kill ten more minutes texting with Arthur, assuring him he’d done well in the Moreno deposition, then finally get out of the car, grabbing Dorrie’s backpack from the footwell where she’d forgotten it. The sun is scorching as I approach the field, grateful I’d worn a simple cotton dress and flats to accentuate my accepting, laid-back attitude. Said attitude hits a stumbling block as soon as I spot Winona leaning against the fence, chatting with Eli as he fills out the lineup. She’s got one hand on his bicep, the other tracing the smidgen of bare thigh visible at the top of her cast. My steps falter for a second, then resume, my polite smile more strained than it had been three seconds earlier.

  It doesn’t matter, I remind myself. You don’t care.

  I feel like I may care a little bit when I sit Dorrie’s bag on the bench two feet away from Eli and he doesn’t spare me a glance. Winona does, however, lips curling in a sly smile as she strokes—strokes—Eli’s arm in a way that has nothing to do with assisting him in his coaching duties.

  I’m about to return to the bleachers when Dorrie scampers up, kicking off her sandals and flinging herself onto the bench. “Can you help me put on my cleats?” she asks, scrambling to unzip her bag and yank out the shoes.

  “Why didn’t you take the bag in the first place?” My voice comes out a bit sharper than I’d intended, and I feel guilty when Dorrie looks uncertain. “Of course I’ll help you,” I amend, touching her shoulder. “Put on your socks.”

  She rolls on her little pink kneesocks and stuffs her feet in her shoes as I help her lace up. Winona talks to Eli overhead, but his answers are more grunts and shrugs than actual words. “Can I go to Layla’s for a sleepover tonight?” Dorrie asks.

  “I thought Layla was in Florida.”

  “She’s back now.”

  “Why didn’t you come to the game with her?”

  Dorrie falters. “I wanted you to watch me.” She’s still at that age where she doesn’t know how to lie so she just stares at you, her face open and trusting, and lays it all on the line. Even now she looks like she can’t understand why I would ask that question, why it wouldn’t be perfectly obvious that she’d like a fan.

  I smile and she grins back, relieved. “I do want to watch you,” I tell her. “I’m glad you asked me.”

  “I’m going to hit a home run.”

  I stand and kiss the top of her head. “Do your best.”

  I join the parents on the bleachers and pretend not to notice Eli studying me before he calls the girls in and tells them their positions. The game starts and Winona’s glued to Eli’s side at every opportunity, her broken leg no obstacle when it suits her. I grit my teeth when she leads shrill cheers, forcing myself to clap when everyone else claps, reminding myself that this is acceptance.

  I fucking hate it.

  Though I’ve dated athletes, I don’t have a particular fetish for them. And I don’t suppose a man in a pink jersey lobbing balls to little girls is an athlete in the traditional sense, but there’s no part of Eli I don’t find sexy. From the lines of his body as he walks to the mound, the way he smiles at his team, high-fives them, orders them around the bases. By the third inning it’s clear he’s not into Winona, no matter how obvious she is about her interest, and that makes me feel a bit better. It’s one thing to watch something you can’t have, it’s quite another to watch someone else have it.

  I
wait on the bleachers when the game is over—final score 24—9—and watch Dorrie change her shoes. Parents and players linger, and I watch closely when a woman I haven’t seen before approaches the team bench. Her strawberry-blond hair hangs loose to her shoulders, and her polka-dot print sundress makes her look both wholesome and trendy. Eli spots her and grins. “Hey, Stell,” I hear him say.

  Stell? As in, Stella? As in, Kent and Stella?

  “Hi, Mom!” one of Dorrie’s teammates calls from the outfield where she’s doing cartwheels. Stella waves at her.

  “Hi, Layla! Did you win?”

  “No!”

  Stella shrugs and Eli looks at her like, “What can you do?”

  For the first time, Winona and I have something in common. We both watch with distaste as Stella stands too close to Eli, laughing and smiling. He props himself against the fence and looks down at her, his expression indulgent. Apparently familiar with the sad show, Winona leaves with a curt wave, limping away to the parking lot.

  Dorrie and Layla run up and Stella hugs them both, and finally it dawns on me: this is the woman who’s been taking Dorrie to all her games. She’s been there when neither Susan nor I have.

  “Caitlin!” Dorrie bellows. “This is Layla’s mom! Can I sleep over at her house tonight?”

  I sit awkwardly as they all turn to stare at me. What the hell would Susan say? “Let me text your mom,” I tell her, pulling out my phone.

  “She always says okay.”

  “It’s true,” Stella adds, helping Dorrie pack her bag. “We normally have sleepovers after the games. If that’s all right with you.”

  Eli’s resting against the fence, arms folded, and that’s when I notice he’s cradling his right hand. I thought it looked odd when he was pitching, but chalked it up to some weird throwing technique. I forget about his hand, however, when my phone immediately vibrates with a reply from Susan: Fine.

  “Your mom says okay. Do you need anything from home?” I ask, approaching. “Pajamas?”

  “No. I have stuff in my bag.”

  “Well... Okay, then.”

  The girls cheer and Stella she tugs out her phone. “I’ll just call Kent and tell him to order a pizza.”

  “Extra cheese!” Layla squeals, running to the infield to continue practicing cartwheels. Dorrie joins her and Stella steps away to make her call, leaving Eli and me alone. He crouches down to stuff the scorebook back in the equipment bag, then zips it carefully.

  “What happened to your hand?” I ask. From up close I can see that it’s severely bruised, and the red mottling looks painful.

  “Nothing,” he says tersely. “Accident.”

  “Let’s go, guys!” Stella shouts, waving the girls over. “We have to get home before the pizza or Kent will eat it all.”

  “No!” they cry, dashing toward the parking lot.

  “Bye, Caitlin!” Dorrie calls as an afterthought. “Bye, Eli!”

  We watch them go, and soon we’re the only two people left at the diamond. I really want to ask Eli what the hell he’s doing smiling dotingly at Stella when she cheated on him, but before we came I told myself that if I got the chance to speak to Eli alone, I would say the thing that matters most: “I’m sorry.”

  He straightens and wipes his hands on his thighs. “Forget about it.”

  “I’ve tried,” I say. “I can’t.”

  “Try harder.”

  This is why I don’t apologize. Well, this and I’m rarely wrong.

  I plow ahead anyway. “I panicked,” I continue. “I didn’t know... I mean, I thought the pictures were from the weekend and—”

  “Why?” Eli interrupts suddenly. “Why would you think that? How could you think that? About me?”

  “I’m sorry!” I exclaim. “I just—I didn’t want to believe it, but it was the only thing that made sense...” I trail off, hating how lame it sounds when I say it out loud. How paranoid and delusional it makes me. My best weekend ever—and maybe in Eli’s top ten, as well—and I ruined it. I hurt his feelings. “I’m sorry,” I say again, for what I swear is the last time. “I don’t know what else to say.”

  He huffs out an agitated breath. “Whatever.”

  “And...” I swallow, willing my voice not to break. Maybe this is why I don’t apologize. “And worse than the idea that you had done this was the thought that the only person who seemed to like me...didn’t.” As I talk my eyes shift incrementally toward the ground, avoiding Eli’s stare. I can feel it now, burning into the top of my head as I develop a sudden interest in my shoes.

  An agonizing minute passes, then Eli sighs. “I have to go.”

  Disappointment settles over me. Maybe this is why I don’t apologize. What’s the point? Who gains anything by accepting their shitty circumstances? “Fine,” I say, intercepting his hand when he reaches for the equipment bag. “I’ll help you.”

  He halts, startled. “What?”

  I hoist up the bag, barely managing not to keel over from the effort. The only items I’ve ever seen him take out of this thing are a scorebook and a glove. Why the hell is it so heavy? “What’s in here?”

  He stares down at my hunched form, bemused. “Gear.”

  “Let’s go.” I think of the men helping him carry the bag earlier; I wish they were here now to take over, so at least my offer would stand, if not the actual execution.

  Eli slows his pace to match mine as we shuffle to the parking lot. I adjust the bag so its weight is more evenly distributed, and various items bump against my ass and the back of my legs. At least two bats, five balls and a hundred rocks, by my estimation.

  There are just a few cars left in the lot when we arrive, and though he normally heaves the bag over the side, Eli lowers the tailgate so I can shove the bag in, relieved to be rid of it.

  “Why don’t you just take the book and glove?” I gasp, rubbing my back.

  He watches me, mouth quirked at the corner, and slams the gate. “Never know when I’m going to need the rest.” He looks like he’s about to say something else when frigging Winona limps over.

  “Eli! There you are!”

  I roll my eyes. I thought she’d given up for the night.

  “Hey, Win,” Eli says. “What’s up?”

  “This is going to sound so stupid, but there’s a bee in my car.” She wince-smiles, like she can’t believe how silly the situation is. I can barely believe it.

  “Did you roll down the windows?” I inquire.

  She scowls. “Yes. Eli, could you help me?”

  There’s the slightest pause before he nods. “Yeah. Of course.”

  Winona looks at me triumphantly and I barely resist the urge to flip her off before turning to stalk back to Susan’s car. Dorrie and I had cleaned it out before coming today, so even though the interior is a sauna, at least it doesn’t smell like a dumping ground. I roll down the windows until the air conditioning kicks in, and check my phone when it beeps with another message from Susan: Did they win?

  What do you think?

  Frowny face. She actually types the words frowny face, because she’s firmly opposed to using emoticons.

  I almost have a heart attack when Eli raps on my half-open window. I jolt in my seat, phone flying into the back, and clutch my chest. “Jesus Christ!”

  “Always a lady,” he remarks.

  I run a hand over my face. “I thought you were helping Winona.”

  “All done.”

  I gaze over at him. He’s bent down to look in the window, fingers of his good hand curled over the glass as he studies me. Finally he asks, “Are you really sorry?”

  I nod and add, “Yes” for emphasis.

  “Good. Follow me.”

  My heart races foolishly as I trail Eli around the perimeter of the city. Nothing in his tone
or expression indicated he was happy when he told me to follow, but I still feel vaguely optimistic. Plus Dorrie ditched me and I have nothing else to do.

  My optimism falters when we arrive at a mini mall anchored by Carters, a huge grocery store. We find side by side parking and I meet Eli next to his truck. “C’mon,” he says, with a nod of his head.

  “What are we doing here?”

  “What do you think?”

  “You need groceries?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” But he heads to the adjoining ice cream parlor, holding the door for me to enter first.

  “Do you really need groceries?” I demand as he carefully studies the multitude of flavors.

  “Yep. But I can’t shop on an empty stomach.”

  “Can I help you?” the attendant asks.

  “Yes.” Eli taps the glass. “Two scoops of the kitchen sink swirl, please.”

  “Sure.” She looks at me. “For you?”

  “I’ll pay separately.”

  Eli rolls his eyes. “I’ll pay. Just order.”

  I want to argue but instead say, “One scoop of vanilla.”

  “Vanilla?” Eli echoes as she scoops our orders. “Boring.”

  I ignore the jibe. “What the hell is the kitchen sink?”

  “Anything and everything,” he replies. “Chocolate, vanilla, caramel, peanut butter cups, nuts, cookie dough...”

  I grimace. I have a sweet tooth, but that sounds awful. We accept our cones and stroll outside to sit at one of the empty tables next to the store. A few people mill around, mostly coming and going from Carters, and for a while we eat without speaking. Eli crunches on something and meets my eyes. “What was that?” I ask.

  He thinks. “Almond?”

  “You don’t know? Doesn’t that bother you?”