He shut the door behind me and waited while I locked it. And then surprisingly, he took my hand and led me downstairs to his truck.
"Where are you taking me?" I repeated.
"Thought we'd go hit some baseballs."
"Baseball?" Finn had played wide receiver and first base in high school. I'd gone to many a game with Ivy.
"You once said you wished you could learn how to hit a fastball. I'm going to teach you tonight."
The last sentence was not meant to be sexual, but it came off that way, and I squirmed in my seat. He tilted his head to look at me and then smiled knowingly. Maybe the last sentence was supposed to be an innuendo. Or maybe I was just gooey mush inside because he'd remembered some comment I'd made years ago.
Sports West was a complex on the northwest side of town that housed an indoor soccer arena as well as indoor and outdoor batting and pitching cages. After Finn parked and opened the door for me, he pulled two wooden bats out of the bed of his truck.
I raised my eyebrows. “You bring your own bats?"
He hefted a bat in his hand and then flicked it into the air, catching it easily by the handle after a full rotation. "You want to learn how to hit with a real bat or a shitty one that's been abused by hundreds of people?"
"Why is it when comparisons are offered, it's never two good choices, but one good choice and one terrible choice?"
He gave a minute shrug. "Maybe because there's only ever one good choice."
"I don't believe that. I think there is more than one good choice anyone can make."
"Are you saying you want me to rent you a bat?"
I grabbed the extra bat from his hands. "No. I don't want a shitty bat hundreds of people have abused."
His laughter followed me into the cage. I took a few practice swings while Finn studied the helmets behind us. After knocking a few on the head and squeezing the plastic between his hands, he settled on one that he brought into the cage.
“This is really ugly.” I turned it over in my hands. The inside had a plastic adjustable frame.
“You could wear a bag, and you’d still be beautiful,” he replied and took the hat out of my hands. Caught off guard by his compliment, I didn’t resist as he dropped the helmet onto my head and then dialed the adjuster knob so the brim didn’t fall over my eyes.
Then he set his bat against the net and walked down the alley to the pitching unit. He did something and then returned. "I dialed it down to sixty miles per hour."
"Sixty?" I reared back. "I'm supposed to hit something hurtling toward me at highway speed?"
"Any slower and it won't get to the plate." He moved behind me, and I thought he'd do the classic arms around the girl, hips snug against her move, but he didn't—to my surprise… and regret.
He placed his hands on my hips and kicked my feet apart. "Line up your hips with the pitcher's mound and balance on the balls of your feet, resting slightly on the back leg. In fact, lift your left leg and kind of shake it, and then put it back down."
I did as he told me but felt foolish. "Are we doing the hokey pokey?"
"We can do any kind of dancing that you want…later."
His breath was hot on my neck, and I had to bite my tongue to keep from moaning. I steeled myself against the full body hug, but he surprised me again by stepping back and rearranging my arms so my right elbow was bent and my left arm was almost fully extended. "This feels weird."
"Because you've never hit before," he replied patiently.
I gave a few practice swings and then nodded that I was ready. I vowed not to duck, but when he pressed a button and the ball came flying out of the machine, it took a lot for me to stand there and swing the bat. And even at sixty miles per hour (which was not slow), I struck out. I struck out for the next ten balls until I finally hit the top of the ball with the bottom of my bat. Sadly the ball did not fly way out to the end of the alley, nor did I hear that satisfying smack. Instead, it dribbled about two feet away from me.
I pulled off the helmet and handed it to him. "I think hitting a baseball is overrated. I'll just sit on the table and have a drink."
He reached to his back pocket for his wallet, and I stopped him. "I'm paying for my own drink tonight."
He looked like he wanted to argue but wisely did not. As I went to the concession stand, he walked down the alley toward the machine. Probably to turn it up to five hundred miles per hour or something.
I sat with my soda and bag of candy and proceeded to watch him crush the ball ten times out of ten.
"Were you disappointed you didn't get a baseball scholarship?"
"No way. Do you know how hard they work?" He stopped, and the ball flew by him into the net. I quirked an eyebrow at him. He twisted the bat in his hands and then tapped it against his feet like he had done when he was in high school, when he’d been in the on deck circle. "Our frat had several guys on the baseball team, and they were busy nonstop, even during the off season. Lifting weights, in the batting cages, running drills. I didn't want to put the time and effort into it."
I heard a tiny bit of disappointment in his voice, and I wasn't sure what to assign it to: the fact he hadn't played baseball, or that he thought it was a mountain not worth climbing.
After another round of his bat meeting balls, he finally got tired and exited the cage to join me at the table. He sat and grabbed my bottle of Dr. Pepper and drank half. "Here's the deal, Winter. I want you to give us a try. One week, no thinking about other people, the past, anything. Just you and me. After the week is up and you never want to see me again, fine. But you need to give me the week."
A week with Finn, pretending like we had no complicated backstory? It sounded too good to be true. When I opened my mouth to say no, my heart talked for me. "Okay. One week."
"Great." A huge grin stretched across his face. "How about the concert in the park on Saturday?"
I started to object, because what would I tell Ivy, but he knew exactly what my protest would be.
"You agreed. One week. No other people."
I pressed my lips together and nodded.
One week. Just the two of us.
9
FINN
"Are you humming?" Bo asked.
I looked up from pulling on the dingiest carpet I'd seen in months. This house I'd picked up was vile, worse than usual. Bo had suggested it was a meth factory, given the needles, rotten egg smell, and burnt patches on the walls and flooring. It could have been, or it might just have been an ordinary addict's house, but there was shit everywhere.
If I was humming, I didn't realize it, but I was in a decent mood. I figured once I got Winter to just sit and talk with me, we’d work it out. That was something worth humming about.
I just shrugged and went back to work. "Just trying to block out the god-awful music you choose to play. You've been up north here for almost a year. Can't you play anything but country songs?”
"I could." Bo paused to toss a handful of staples in the trash. "But I know it annoys the hell out of you. And that makes the music sound that much sweeter."
"Too bad you don't know shit all about constructing a house and you still have to hang on my dick until you can get it right."
"Which is why I play music you hate. It fits our dysfunctional relationship."
"I thought you were going to therapy to fix your problems."
"If by ‘therapy’ you mean having a ton of awesome sex with my girlfriend, then yes, I'm in therapy all night and random times during the day." I snorted but wisely said nothing. "But speaking of therapy," Bo continued. My response was a loud groan that I hoped would be hint enough that I didn't want to talk about whatever it was that followed. Bo ignored me. "How's your mom?"
"Well, she texted that she got up and had coffee today, so I count that as a win." I reached down to tug harder on the carpet. Did they glue it down instead of just stapling the edges?
"Mal says 'Paradise lies under the feet of your mother.'"
That made me stop.
I gaped at Bo. He threw up his hands, one still holding a crowbar he was using to pull up the tacking strips, the long thin lumber pieces that held the carpet on the edges of the room.
"What the hell does that mean?"
"Apparently it means if you don't make your momma happy, you ain't gonna be happy."
"If I knew what would make her happy, I'd do it," I replied.
"I suck at this comforting thing." He pulled off his hat and scratched his head. "But maybe you outta talk to someone else?"
"Like Lana?" I grunted. "No thanks. Between her and Mal, it sounds like I should be taking my mother on a date."
Lana, a friend of ours, was a psych major at Central College. She'd once said that I had an Oedipus complex but refused to elaborate. I’d looked it up the next day and learned that Oedipus had a thing for his mom that ultimately led to his demise. Thanks, Lana.
"Maybe talking to her wouldn't be such a great idea, but you should talk to someone," Bo counseled.
Ever since Bo had hooked up with AnnMarie, he enjoyed giving out advice like some on-screen dating show personality. I think I liked him better when he was screwing everything that moved and punching everything that stood still.
"I'm talking to someone," I lied. It wasn't actually a real lie. I was talking to someone. I talked to Winter, someone who knew just about as much about death, loss, and grief as anyone.
We worked in silence for a while longer when he finally said, "Sorry I ruined your morning."
"You didn't ruin anything," I said, and he didn't comment on the fact I'd stopped humming.
Henry called me a half hour later and told me to haul ass to the jobsite.
"You're in charge, Bo," I told him as I pocketed the phone. His look of terror would have been amusing if my ass weren't on the line. "Just finish up with the flooring and make sure the trim guys come in tomorrow. You'll be fine."
He had to be, because I couldn't be two places at the same time.
When I got to the jobsite downtown, Henry was pacing by the entrance.
"Is it the grading?"
"Fuck no. Grading is fine. Sewer line busted last night."
"How bad?"
"Bad." Henry looked grim.
"How many days will it take to fix it?"
"Two, at least. Grading inspector said he didn't want to come out until that was fixed."
"It's dirt. We're just moving dirt, so it's no big deal." When Henry's worry didn't ease, I rubbed my face. "What else?"
"Our concrete subcontractor never showed."
"Are they testing me? Do they want me to fail?" I dug my hands in my pockets because I was very afraid if I didn't, I was going to start picking up hammers and nail guns and going Lethal Weapon crazy. Henry wisely took a step back and to the side. "Here's what we're going to do. I'm calling the sewer sub and getting the repair done today, or we won't pay them. There's more than one concrete pourer in the city, and it's getting done today if I have to goddamn do it myself. After that, you and I are going to walk the entire property and do an inspection. Tomorrow morning we'll have a sub meeting and go from there. No delays."
Henry nodded and echoed my mantra but without any conviction. "No delays."
The call to the sewer sub was easy. The next one was much harder. I hadn't spoken with my Uncle Pat since the funeral, and even at that time, it was strained despite the fact we were burying my dad, his brother. I couldn't get past the fact he'd slept with my mom while she was still married to my dad. But I needed help, and the one man who could give it was Uncle Pat.
"O'Malley Construction, Peggy O'Malley speaking."
"Hey, Aunt Peg," I croaked. Talking with Aunt Peg was almost worse than talking to Uncle Pat, but it wasn't as if I had some control over my mother's vagina. I shuddered. A guy should never have to think of his mother's girl parts. Shit, I needed to look up that damn Oedipus wiki link again.
"Finnegan, how are you?"
It made it worse that she was always so kind. How she stayed married to Pat and still worked as his office manager was a mystery.
"Good, I'm in a bind though. I wondered if you or Uncle Pat could help me."
"Of course, I will." She sounded decisive. "What do you need? Is it the Riverside project?"
"Yup. My concrete sub never showed up today. He's probably too baked to run his mixer, but I need the footings poured today, or we can't do anything."
"You need the name of another sub," she accurately surmised. "Just a minute." I heard some clicking of keys and then a ping on my phone. "I texted you a contact. After we're done, I'll call him up and tell him he needs to get over there right away."
"Thanks, Aunt Peg." Relief washed over me. "I really appreciate it. And…I'm sorry about everything else."
"This is an O'Malley project even if my husband doesn't acknowledge it. Nothing for you to be sorry about, Finnegan. It's not your fault my husband can't keep his dick in his pants or your mother doesn't care about ruining two families. You shouldn't have to suffer because of that. Goodbye now."
That should have been comforting but wasn't, in any way. Even though my problems seemed to be solved, I felt like shit. Henry and I walked the entire property, checked every sub's work, and prepared a list of all the things wrong.
Henry was testing me. He was a competent foreman, or my dad wouldn't have put him on the job. And I knew my dad wouldn't have been here every day, all day long either. But my dad had so much experience, he could do a walk-through in an hour and know exactly what needed to be done and what wasn't up to snuff. It took me hours.
"I need to be here every day, don't I?" I asked Henry.
He nodded. "On a build this big? Yeah. I'm looking at this stuff, but the buck stops with you."
I exhaled heavily. "I'm in the middle of a flip."
There was a little disdain when he answered. "Your profits on a flip are five figures, right?" I knew where he was going with this. "The profits on a build like this are six or seven figures. What's more important to you?"
The only relief I had was looking forward to the concert tonight with Winter. Adam surprised me with lunch.
"I could kiss you," I said honestly.
"If you want." He shrugged. "But then you'll become addicted to me. All the girls do. One kiss and they're done for."
"Yeah, but I know what you look and smell like in the morning."
"A bouquet of awesome, you mean? I admit that letting that knowledge into the public will endanger me more, so let's keep that a secret between us."
"How about the knowledge that you enjoyed eating your nose crud? Is that going to drive the women into a frenzy?"
"There's a fetish for everything, man. Don't be judgmental."
I ate the rest of my sandwich and then tossed the paper and napkins in the trash. The office trailer needed cleaning. It had been a mess when I’d brought Winter here, and it was still a mess. I wondered if my dad had hired someone to clean. The weight of all I had to do made it hard to stay upright, so for the time being I thought I'd lay my head on the table.
"You okay?" Adam sounded concerned.
"Yep." Not really, but I wasn't interested in talking this out with anyone, not even Adam, who was my oldest friend.
•••
The situation rode me hard all day, and by the time the concert rolled around, I was in a foul mood.
"You look tense," Winter observed as we settled onto the blanket I'd brought.
"I need a beer," I muttered and then grimaced. Winter not only didn't drink, but she had an understandable aversion to people close to her drinking.
"Oh, well, you should get one. I don't mind." She turned from me and faced forward, her face completely blank of emotion. Dammit. This wasn't how I wanted the date to go. Looking around, I saw Bo and AnnMarie staring at me. Actually she was wincing. My fuck-up with Winter was evident to everyone. She'd moved as far away from me as possible. Soon her ass would be off the blanket and on the grass. Hell, if I didn't get my act together, she'd find a different pa
rty altogether.
Sucking in a breath, I forced myself to exhale some of my anger. "I'm sorry I'm being shitty company. If I promise to stop being an asshole, will you sit next to me?" I patted the blanket.
"You could tell me what's wrong," she offered without moving. Since she wasn't coming to me, I was going to her—even if it meant chasing her all around the park.
"How about this? We try to enjoy the concert, and at the end of the night, if you still want to know, I'll explain everything." The last thing I wanted was to dredge up the whole mess about work, my uncle, my mom, and my screwed up home life. It just wasn't good date conversation. It wasn't good post-date conversation either, but I hoped she'd forget about it by then. I reached across the blanket and rubbed two fingers over her very sensitive inner wrist. Her mouth formed an unintentionally erotic circle as the touch did just what I hoped—distracted her. My hand curled around her wrist, and I tugged her gently toward me.
"Does the music get any better?" she asked. I took her change of subject as tacit agreement to my request.
Just us. No other people.
"Haven't you come to the Concert in the Park series before?" I asked, surprised.
"Nope. I've always meant to come but was busy."
Translation: she'd been cleaning up her sister's messes.
Wrapping my arms around her, I gently maneuvered her so she was surrounded by my knees and resting against my chest. She hesitated at first but then relaxed. And I relaxed with her.
"The good bands come later." The softness of her body actually helped ease my tension more than anything. I should have tried this before. When I’d picked her up at Atra, I should have pulled her into my arms and just held her for like ten minutes until the stress of the multi-million dollar construction project drained away. "The shitty bands play first, which is part of the payment for getting a decent spot on the grass. The better bands play later. Or at least we all think they're better, but it could be we're too high or drunk to notice their shittiness."
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