Her Best Catch

by Lindi Peterson

  Isn’t that the first thing he said when he showed up Friday? Maybe the line is an automatic greeting for him. I can see him walking up to one of his baseball player friends.

  “Hey, Joe. Man, you look great.”

  Joe probably says back “You too, buddy.”

  I don’t know who this imaginary Joe is or if this is how the situation really works, but I do know it might be nice to hear another adjective. A positive one, of course.

  As I come closer to Ashton I notice a wan look about him. Okay. Don’t take that the wrong way. The man still looks hot, but there’s something different about him today. His eyes are darker, more soulful looking. His look makes me want to give him a huge hug and tell him everything’s going to be okay.

  But of course I don’t. I don’t ream him about the article right away either, which was the scenario that ran around in my head, oh, about one hundred times yesterday morning.

  In fact, I don’t do anything right away. We just stand in the parking lot staring at each other. But I guess it’s my turn.

  “Thanks,” I say in response to the automatic compliment he probably already forgot he gave me.

  Silence.

  “We missed you in Sunday school yesterday,” I continue, throwing half the battle out in the open right away.

  “I missed being able to go. My grandmother is really sick.”

  I know my eyes widen to the size of the dinner plates in my mother’s china cabinet. My grandmother is sick? Does he, who lives in his celebrity world, not realize that’s the oldest line in the book? But wait, that’s only the oldest line if you’re dating someone and you want to stand them up but you don’t want them to know you are standing them up.

  And remember. Ashton and I are not dating.

  Could he be telling the truth?

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “What’s wrong with her?”

  Should I have put him on the spot with the question?

  “I was driving to church yesterday morning when my Grandfather called and said she was on her way to the hospital in an ambulance. Apparently she had aspirated and they weren’t sure if she would make it.”

  His voice holds genuine concern. He’s wearing a pair of khaki’s and a dark green polo shirt, (I bet he never wears pink). His slacks and shirt do have somewhat of a wrinkled look, like he might have been wearing them a while.

  “So we stayed at the hospital all day waiting,” he adds. “Man, just waiting.” He shoves his hands in his pockets.

  I really need that celebrity handbook about now. I want to comfort him. I have to hold my feet to the ground so they don’t run to him. But I don’t really know him well enough, do I?

  How well do you have to know someone before you physically comfort them? Is it governed by time? There is the saying love at first sight. Well, what about friends at first sight?

  And speaking of friends, where are his? I mean, why has he chosen to come see me and tell me this story? Certainly he has friends he’s known longer than me.

  “I’m sorry. Is she okay, now?” I ask.

  “They were finally able to take the breathing equipment off late last night. Grandpa and I didn’t want to leave, so we hung around taking turns sitting by her bed all night. We didn’t want her to think she was alone.”

  Oh, my heart be still. This man drives a classic Jag, is cuter than anything, and loves his grandmother! How much better can it get?

  “That was really great of you. You must be close to her.”

  “Oh, I am. Today she’s doing better, but they still want to keep her for a couple of days. Grandpa went home earlier and took a shower. He’s staying again tonight, but he told me to hit the road.”

  So he hit the road and drove to see me? What gives? Oh, I forgot. I’m his girl, remember?

  “He knew you probably needed a break.”

  There is no way I can ask him about the article right now. He’s obviously not seen it, nor would he care.

  He pulls his hand out of his pocket and gently takes my wrist, pulling me closer to him.

  “Have dinner with me? I haven’t eaten since Saturday night. Grandpa tried to shove a couple of those cafeteria sandwiches down me, but they were awful.”

  Dinner? How can I think about food while we’re standing so incredibly close? He may have spent the last two days in the hospital but he still has that clean, fresh scent that he must have the patent on. Plus, I really want to smooth his hair. Feel the silkiness of it.

  I make my move, which consists of stepping back and pointing to my car.

  “Dinner it is,” I say. “But I’m driving. You need fresh air and I’ve got the convertible.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” he says, and an incredible smile lights up his face. It’s not a glow, mind you, not like Trent had, but maybe someday …

  We head down the road and I realize I probably need the fresh air more than he does. It’s clearing my head, making me rational again. I’m no longer thinking like some Christian girl gone wild.

  I work in the area known as Perimeter. There’s a mall. Perimeter Mall. The area is congested with countless hotels, shopping, restaurants and traffic. I decide since I’m driving I’m choosing where we eat.

  It’s going to be casual. Somewhere we can eat outside on a patio and relax. And we won’t have to worry about photographers.

  He needs it.

  My ‘Awakening’ Passion CD is tuned to the title track. Ashton and I don’t speak, we just listen to the music as I wind my way to Perry’s. Slightly upscale, but not too much. Casual atmosphere and great food.

  We have no problem procuring a table on the patio. Within minutes we’ve ordered. Ashton really looks tired. Lost. The lost little boy look always affects me. I mean always.

  “Mr. Boyd, can I have your autograph? I have your baseball card.”

  I must have been daydreaming because I didn’t see the young boy come to our table. But there he is, card and pen in hand. He looks to be about eight or nine. He has blonde hair and freckles sprinkled across his cheeks and nose.

  Ashton smiles. “Sure. What’s your name?”

  “Stoney,” the boy answers.

  “Stoney? Man, that’s a cool name. You know if I have a kid and it’s a boy, maybe I’ll name him Stoney.”

  Oh, no. No child of mine will ever have the name Stoney. The word association-visual thing is happening. I think Stoney and my mind immediately veers to Rocky, which produces visual images of Sly Stallone all battered and bloody, dancing around in a boxing ring.

  Maybe I should break the news to Ashton now.

  “Here you go, Stoney,” Ashton says as he hands the card and pen back to the boy.

  “Thanks, Mr. Boyd. Are you going to pitch again?”

  Ashton takes a drink of his soda, then sets the glass down. “I don’t know. I’ve got some things in the works. You never know.”

  “I hope you do. I like watching you. You’re really cool. Thanks, again.”

  Stoney starts to walk away.

  “Stoney,” Ashton calls. “Come back here a minute, please. Allison, do you have some scratch paper in your purse?”

  “I think so.”

  I dig through my purse for my pocket calendar which has that notepad at the back you’re supposed to use to make lists. And since only organized people make lists all my sheets are still in place. I tear one off and hand it to Ashton.

  He slides the paper to Stoney.

  “You know what? I’m not sure what’s happening in the future. But if you write your address down on this paper, and if I ever pitch again, you’ll be one of the first to know. How about that? Deal?”

  “Wow. Thanks, Mr. Boyd.”

  Stoney grabs the paper. He writes slowly. My heart trips as his little tongue pokes out of his mouth, a sign of his effort. His blonde hair swings over his eyes, which sparkle when he finally looks up.

  Maybe Stoney isn’t a bad name after all. In fact, now I think it’s very cute.

  Ashton puts the paper in his wallet a
nd gives Stoney a high-five.

  “You take care, Bud,” Ashton says.

  “I will, Mr. Boyd.”

  A little bit of Ashton slips into my heart. He’s great with kids. But there is that bit about the address.

  “Are you really going to let him know if you play ball again?” I ask. Are you going to play ball again is what I want to ask.

  “You think I would lie to a kid?”

  He has a hurt look on his face.

  Fair enough. That’s basically what I asked him.

  “No. I’m sorry. I just didn’t know. I better not say anymore. My bigger other foot may end up in my mouth.”

  God is very good, for at that moment our waiter brings our food.

  “Do you want to say a blessing?” I ask after the waiter has disappeared.

  Ashton has this almost scared look about him.

  “I mean, I’ll actually say it if you want to bow your head.”

  “Sure,” he says, bowing his head.

  I lower my head and quickly praise God then thank Him for our food.

  We’re both quiet while we eat. I can tell Ashton is drained. Stoney had perked him up for a minute, but maybe the thought of never pitching again brings him down.

  Then again I don’t know if he’ll pitch or not.

  Although it would be good for me to know.

  Because even though the paper said I was his girl, I know I’m really not. And I don’t know where this friendship is leading, but it won’t be leading anywhere if he goes off to pitch.

  All the good looks, fancy cars and lunches when he’s around can’t make up for the fact that he’s not around eighty percent of the time. Luxury can’t be traded for time.

  At least not in my life.

  After dinner, I drive him back to his classic Jaguar. I pull up next to the gleaming silver machine in the parking lot which is deserted by now.

  “Allison,” he says. “Thanks for tonight. Thanks for going to dinner with me and just being there. You’re awesome.”

  Awesome. There it is. Another positive adjective. But what does he mean? Like guy-friend awesome, or beautiful awesome? Awesome. I’ll have to look that up in the dictionary when I get home to learn the exact definition.

  “I’m glad I could go,” I say, really meaning it.

  My heart speeds up as he leans toward me. Is he going to kiss me?

  He wraps his arms around me, so I do the same, (around him, of course).

  He hugs me pretty tightly until I think the feel of him, the scent of him will do me in.

  Then he kisses me on the top of my head.

  “Bye. And Allison,” he says as he glides out of my car.

  “What?”

  “Remember. You’re awesome.” He gives me a thumbs up then disappears into his car.

  “Bye,” I respond. But he doesn’t hear me because my reflexes are so slow his door is already shut before I can utter the word.

  Unlike when my mother kissed me, my head now feels like it’s on fire. I have never experienced this sensation before.

  I have to get a move on because his classic Jag isn’t moving and it takes me a minute to realize he isn’t going to leave me sitting in the parking lot alone.

  I put my car into gear, and head out, his headlights following me.

  After I turn right onto the main road, he turns left. It’s only then I realize I still have no way of contacting Ashton Boyd.

  I am truly a girl-in-waiting.

  I’m just not sure what I’m really waiting for.

  CHAPTER 6

  “You’re doing what?” I ask, not believing what I’m hearing.

  Velvet covers her face with her hands. When she removes them she’s got this please-don’t-kill-me look written all over her face.

  We’re camped out in two lawn chairs on Trent’s driveway waiting for him to come home.

  “I knew you were going to kill me,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

  Those two words have been in our conversations a lot lately. Maybe they were there before Trelvet, too, but I never noticed. A coincidence? I think not.

  All things considered, Velvet is trying her hardest to keep things the same. As if Trelvet hasn’t changed anything.

  But mixing up the cookie dough gives it an entirely different texture. Get my drift?

  So if our cookie dough is a little thicker, a little more complicated, I’ll have to deal with it. After all, I’m a big girl, now. And I can’t forget that I’m his girl. Whatever that means. Which, from what I can tell, doesn’t mean much since I couldn’t call him if I wanted to.

  And I really don’t want to.

  It’s been three days since he showed up in my parking lot. I hope his grandma is doing well.

  I like to pray for people by name, and I don’t even know hers. But God knows who I’m talking about when I say Ashton’s grandma.

  Anyway, I can’t think about Ashton right now. Velvet has dropped a bomb on me. She is bowing out of the mission trip. As in not going. As in she has this really huge project at work which could mean a great promotion. Not that Velvet routinely puts work before God. She doesn’t. But chances like this don’t come along every day. I totally understand her point.

  But I was looking forward to us spending quality time together. Girl time.

  “I’m not going to kill you,” I say. “I love you. I’m going to miss you, that’s all.” I already miss a part of her she doesn’t even know she’s given away.

  “I’m going to miss you, too.”

  “And,” I say, narrowing my eyes on purpose so she can grasp the full meaning of my next sentence. “You’ve left me totally alone to battle Braedyn.”

  She laughs. “Braedyn’s harmless. Besides. You can handle her without even trying. You’re cool like that.”

  Obviously not too cool, as Braedyn and I still haven’t patched things up from Sunday and our weekly prayer meetings are starting one week from tonight.

  If Braedyn only knew what wasn’t going on between Ashton and me, she’d be fine.

  “Braedyn and I will be okay,” I say. “Have you told Randy?”

  Randy Hawthorne is our mission trip leader. He had assembled our group a few months ago.

  “I did. I called him last night. He said he didn’t know if he would replace me. After he evaluates the work load he might just try to shift things around. He seemed to think that would be easier than adding a new person at this point.”

  “I see what he means. He’s so organized. He’s probably had our schedule planned for months. Those planning, detailed people love doing that. So you’ve probably made his day. Now he needs to do it all over again.”

  Velvet laughs. “Good observation. I pretty much felt inconsequential after he told me I didn’t need to be replaced.”

  “You’re irreplaceable. And don’t you forget it.”

  There is way more meaning behind those words than she will grasp right now, but that’s okay. She is irreplaceable as my best friend. No matter what happens.

  A new level of comfort washes over me. Maybe I’m having a hard time handling the Trelvet aspect, but the Velvet aspect is becoming clearer. I will always be able to count on her.

  “So, between this big job and redecorating Trent’s house, we’ve still got this party for my mother under control. Right?”

  “Yeah. Sure. The party will be a breeze. What about the invitations? Do you need help?”

  “Nope. They’re handled. So as long as you’ve figured out a way to incorporate a beach theme into a barbecue atmosphere, we’re fine.”

  “It’s all under control.” She swats at a mosquito. “We’re going to need lots of Citronella the night of the party.”

  “No doubt,” I respond.

  Trent taps his horn as he pulls into the driveway. I stand, fold the lawn chair and lean it against his garage.

  “You don’t need to leave,” Velvet says. “We’re probably gonna grab a couple of burgers for dinner. Come with us.”

  The question sou
nds the same as it would have a month ago, and a month ago I probably would have said yes. But today the question has new meaning. I believe Velvet is sincere in asking. No doubt. But I’ve already determined I’m not ready to Trelvet yet. (Trelvet in this case is a verb.) It’s one thing to be in a group setting where I can lose myself in other people, it’s another thing entirely to go it alone.

  “No. Thanks, anyway. I think Grandma is cooking something.” Surely Grandma is cooking something.

  Besides, I need to be my own girl.

  Not the girl that hangs out with Trelvet. Not his-Ashton’s—girl. Especially since I’m still unsure of exactly what that entails. Currently the position seems to be extremely low maintenance.

  And being my own girl is becoming more challenging every day.

  I’m by no means a fair-weather church goer. I go, no matter what. Unless I’m out of town. Or have a headache the size of the Grand Canyon, which is the case today. I had crawled out of bed at seven o’clock with the sole purpose of downing a couple of Advil.

  My mother was downstairs and insisted on rubbing my temples with some menthol stuff she had recently bought. The smell instantly made me want to throw up the orange juice I’d just downed the Advil with.

  She called me unappreciative and I crawled back up the stairs. I don’t get headaches like this very often, but when I do there seems to be no hope.

  And no, I haven’t seen a doctor. When I have the headaches I don’t want to leave my bed. And when I’m not having the headaches they don’t seem so bad.

  I had fallen back to sleep and woke at ten feeling better. Not one hundred percent, but better. After a shower I felt even more alert and decided even though I’d missed Sunday school I could still catch church. It didn’t start until eleven.

  So I rode with Mother and Grandma to church. Mother took total credit for the headache leaving in time for me to attend service. I on the other hand gave all the credit to God. After all, God gave people the knowledge to create the Advil. Right?

  I’m thankful the day is cloudy. It means less squinting. My headache is still around, but it’s dulled. A couple more Advil after church and I should be cured.

  Couple. Why does that word come up so often.

  We’re going to grab a couple of burgers for dinner.