by Harlow Cole
“Stay,” I said, demanding. The voice of a desperate man replacing that of the child.
“I promise to always stay, if you promise to give me some room to fly.”
She brushed her lips across mine. It eased some of the pain in my gut.
“I love you,” I whispered.
How many more times could I say it? How many times would it take for her to believe the truth?
She smiled softly in response as her fingers started fumbling with the button casings at the front of her shirt. Watching her skin, exposed inch by inch, bit into my already raw nerve endings.
She kept going, until thin black lace appeared. It swirled and dipped, molding to her breasts and running down the length of her torso. Slowly, she slid her shirt down off her shoulders, uncovering the entire corset that laced around her. She unzipped the back of her skirt, letting it fulfill my mental image of it falling to the floor.
She looked incredible, like every single fantasy I’d ever had. But I was afraid to touch her. Afraid I suddenly didn’t have a plan. Didn’t have a clue of how this would play out.
I had to follow her lead.
Her hands pulled on my own, drawing them up to cup her breasts. Her fingertips danced down the sides of my biceps and under the hem of my shirtsleeves, tracing over the edges of my tattoo.
“Make love to me,” she said quietly. “Right here where we began.”
“Why do you say that like this is the end?”
“Because it is. It has to be,” she replied.
I stiffened, but her fingers dug into my skin, holding my reaction at bay. “Brayden, I’ve lived my whole life, chasing after the dominoes someone else set up for me. I’ve stood by and watched as the blocks fell into place around me. Wondering where the trail of them would lead. Wondering how many more had to fall.”
She stared up into my eyes. She had that look. The one her mother had borne the last time I saw her.
Certainty.
“Have you ever watched one of those videos of a whole room filled with thousands of dominoes?” she asked wistfully. “Long strings of black-and-white tiles that’ll go on forever if you let them. All it takes is one person, pulling out one little tile. If just one is out of place, the chain reaction ends. You and I have both lived with regret and pain. We’ve lived both sides of forgiveness. I’m ready to put down my own tiles. I’m ready to start again. Without all the pain of our regrets.”
“That’s what I want, too,” I murmured.
“To do that, we have to be whole people. On our own. We have to learn to forgive ourselves, Brayden. It’s the only way. This is an end. It has to be if we have any chance at starting over.”
All Signs Point Home
Epilogue One
Ashley
Once a week, he sent me flowers with a handwritten note.
Never on Monday or Friday. Not at the beginning or the end. He sent them in the middle. A random Tuesday morning or Wednesday afternoon.
The artist in me wanted to believe he did it on purpose, symbolically marking the middle place of our years together. We weren’t standing at the starting line, those young kids fueled by hormones and teenage lust. And we weren’t the settled-down couple who had it all figured out, like the ones I watched rushing through the streets to get home to one another at the end of each day.
We were somewhere in between.
And that was okay.
Our relationship stayed under wraps. Heavily guarded. Brayden knew I wasn’t ready for the spotlight or prepared for the big, shiny label that came attached to being his girl. He sheltered me from his public world, protected me from his crew of friends and foes whose feet never touched the pavement.
I guess it gave him something to do.
He worked hard at giving me space. The first time I got lost on the subway, trying to meet him, he didn’t even yell.
Or come to save me.
My white knight waited patiently, inside the lobby of the movie theater, until I found my way to him. Once I got settled, he half-sucked my face off in the back row of the balcony, to make sure all my faculties were still in working order.
I didn’t tell anyone about him. He often joked about turned tables, but he willingly became my dirty little secret.
My roommate, Krissy, fell in love with my mystery man. She sang his praises every time I described some of the vague details of the past or romantic snippets of what he promised for the future.
When the deliveries arrived each week, she would steal the cards and read them aloud in a dramatic voice. She fanned herself after the sweet, sappy ones and pretended to stuff the naughty horndog ones inside her bra.
He left the cards unsigned. Instead, at the bottom of each one, he penned a simple line, I hope you know.
I almost slipped a couple times and used his real name, but I caught myself before ruining it.
The secrecy was better anyhow.
Krissy had grown up a diehard Mets fan.
Brayden and I spent lots of quiet evenings at his apartment, but I never stayed over more than one night. I brought my things back and forth in a beat-up old backpack, refusing the empty drawers he kept cleared for me.
We ate in more VIP seats, at discreet little spots like Mama Rosie’s. I helped him work on restoring the old townhouse by pretending to be his decorator.
It was sort of fun, hiding out again, reliving the old days of stolen kisses. It helped me stay focused.
On me.
On working.
On making my own name complete.
By late winter, his name was everywhere. On the side of the buildings in Times Square. On the little placards atop every cab in town. On the posters strewn about on the subway. Micky and Mia were both hard at work, putting the prince back on his throne.
They interviewed him on every news station. They talked about him in the papers. If the city’s hope and expectations could fuel strikeouts and home runs, this would undoubtedly be the team’s big year.
I worried about the pressure becoming too much. I watched for signs of implosion, scared we’d been in this place before. Only, now, instead of a couple thousand, the town population reached the millions.
He had to go back out there and prove he had it.
To himself first.
Then, to the rest of the city.
He worked tirelessly. Muscles hardened. Bones grew weary. I saw him less and less as spring training loomed.
I started to sneak into his apartment in the early hours of the morning before I had class and he had to work out. Each day I would crawl under the covers and into his arms, softly questioning if he was still okay.
Every time, he’d roll me on top of him, thrust deep inside me, and sigh sleepily, “I am now.”
* * *
I had to miss his first preseason game. It killed me not to catch the broadcast. I had a presentation to give. A portfolio review to apply for a summer internship. I had the chance to go to Paris and work for a magazine as a Fashion Week correspondent.
Joey was still shitting herself.
I sent Brayden a text beforehand and watched all the highlight footage on my phone. His smile, when his teammates piled on top of him, made me wish I’d been there to see it firsthand.
But, instead of celebrating his continued success in the warm Florida sunshine, I was left plowing through my last assignments before mid-semester break.
Krissy and I had both suffered through a tough week. She had a Historical Styles test from hell, and I had a paper due in Elements of Visual Thinking—my least favorite class.
She texted me as soon as she turned in her exam.
Meeting up with the crew at Digby’s for drinks. Margaritas on me. We sure as hell deserve them.
Digby’s was our favorite hole-in-the-wall, within walking distance from campus. By the time I arrived there, our friends were already huddled around the corner of the bar, staking their claim on prime happy-hour real estate.
Jonesy flashed a dimple at me and got up t
o offer me his seat. He nodded to the bartender to pour another drink. “Did you get your grade back from DeLuise on the Narrative Strategies project yet? That guy totally busted my balls.”
“You know Dr. DeLu-Loser didn’t bust Ashley’s balls, Jonesy. For one, she doesn’t have any, and two, she’s the teacher’s pet. She’s gonna spend all summer with him in Europe,” Victor said, from the seat beside me.
I smirked at him and rolled my eyes. “Try turning the next assignment in on time, Victor. It might help.”
“Roasted,” Jonesy said, laughing as he stuck a finger to his tongue as if putting out a match.
An image on the TV above the bar distracted me from their ensuing antics. I let their banter fall into the background as I stared up at his picture on the screen. A new headshot appeared next to old statistics. The commentators spoke without sound. I tried to catch up with the rolling captions at the bottom of the screen.
“Ross has been looking pretty good, huh? You a Yankees fan?” the bartender asked, setting down my drink and breaking into my awkward reverie.
“Seriously? How could he ever look bad? He is one fantastic pile of man,” Victor said, piping up beside me. Since breaking up with his latest boyfriend, Victor had been suffering from a serious case of on-the-prowl.
“He’s the only reason to ever watch the Yankees,” Krissy added in agreement as she glanced up at the screen. “They should just show him from behind every time he pitches.”
“Amen to that sister,” Victor said, drawing out each word. “Just look at that fine ass. I’d take an eyeful”—he made a squeezing motion with both hands—“or a handful of that any day.”
I quietly sipped my drink as their conversation slid further down the hill of inappropriate. The coverage cut to an on-field reporter, a sweet young thing who’d clearly scored her job based on the assets below her neck. She stood on the edge of the on-deck circle, talking as practice played out in the emerald grass stretched out behind her.
I loved watching the cadence of the players tossing the ball around the infield. The crisp colors of their practice uniforms popped in the late day sun. Their footwork, the twist of their shoulders and hips, and the easy strength behind each throw, felt as beautifully synchronized as the chorus lines playing down on Broadway.
The scene made me oddly homesick.
The wide shot cut back to the reporter, who was now thrusting her microphone toward a familiar face. The megawatt smile blinded her, too.
He needed a haircut. Edges of scruffy-sex hair peeked out from under his hat, just below his ears. He’d gotten a lot of sun; the golden tan on his neck and cheeks made his bright blue eyes stand out even more.
I longed to feel them on my skin.
I tried to look away from the screen. To add intermittent commentary to a conversation that had moved on to actors with the best rear view. But seeing Brayden’s face eased that homesickness still lingering in my belly.
I pressed my hand against it, willing it away.
The interview wrapped. The broadcast moved on to reel footage from Brayden’s first game. Him warming up in the bull pen. His cap held over his heart while school kids sang the anthem. Taking his first walk out to the mound.
Mentally, I narrated the choreography of the routine I knew would come next. He would slap his glove against his left leg twice. He’d scuff the rubber six times while he tipped his hat forward and back. He’d take three practice pitches before a short nod to his catcher. A creature of habit, he’d done the same thing at the start of every game since the summer before he turned fifteen.
It all played out just as I’d expected, except for one small addition that instantly struck me dumb.
I watched in slow motion as the bartender mimicked the same gesture. Another guy at the end of the bar followed suit. My head shot back to the screen as he started to take his trio of pitches. The sports talk guys reappeared on the screen.
“Hey. What was that?” I loudly called out to the bartender.
The conversations around me quieted with the shocked alarm in my voice.
The bartender looked at me, surprised by my outburst.
“What was that thing with the lips and . . .”
“This thing?” the guy asked, repeating the signal.
“Yeah. What . . . what is that?”
“That’s Ross’s thing. Apparently, he’s one superstitious motherfucker. He does that before every game. Always has. Since he started down in the minors, I think. He taps his lips twice, puts his hand on his heart, and says something no one understands to the sky. It’s his trademark. Supposed to bring him good luck. Now, all the fans do it, too. Kinda a prayer to the baseball gods, know what I mean?”
I barely heard his last words.
Liquid pooled in my eyes.
“He probably made it up, so he seems like a real guy. Some PR rep probably thinks it makes him more likable,” the faceless guy at the end of the bar chirped up.
I stared down at the stem of my glass as I swiped at my wet cheeks.
“Honey, are you okay?” Victor asked, suddenly alarmed. He placed a hand on my shoulder.
“Ash? Ash, what is it?” Krissy asked, coming to stand beside me.
“That’s our sign,” I said softly.
I pointed up at the screen to where I’d seen him do it with my own eyes. “It means . . . that’s the sign we’d give for . . . we used it . . . to tell each other . . .” Tears slid faster down my cheeks.
Her hands gripped my shoulders, trying to calm me. “What does this mean? You’re not making sense. You’re freaking me out.”
“This whole time, I’ve been hiding, and he’s been secretly telling the whole world. It means . . . I’ve always been part of his plan.” I looked up at her and smiled. “He loves me. He always has.” I squeezed my eyes shut and imagined words on a torn sheet of paper.
Find a way to show Ashley I’ll always love her.
“He’s been telling me since day one. I just never saw it.”
Her mouth hung open. She looked up at the screen and then back down at me. “Holy shit. Are you telling me Brayden fucking Ross is your mystery man?”
“He’s the love of my life.” I pointed back to the TV and giggled. “That’s my sign. That’s where I belong.”
“Well, Jesus fucking Christ, Ashley. I thought maybe it was a married man. Or maybe some dude twice your age. Maybe some hotshot CEO who couldn’t be seen with a coed. But Brayden freaking Ross? No. This just . . . I can’t believe this,” Krissy said, rambling.
I hopped down off the barstool and grabbed on to her arms. “I have to call his sister. She’ll know how to find him. Krissy, focus. How do I get on the next flight to Florida? I need to get to a memorabilia shop. I need a number eighteen jersey. Do I have time for that? Shit. There’s a lot to do.”
Krissy was already typing furiously on her phone. “I can get you there tonight out of JFK. It’s gonna be tight though. Jonesy, we need to borrow your car. Victor, close your mouth; you’re drooling. Go to the shop down the street and get her a Ross jersey. You”—she pointed at me—“we have fifteen minutes to get you packed. I hope you’re ready to run.”
* * *
The air around me filled up with summer come early. Suntan lotion and popcorn. Hot dogs and children’s laughter. They combined into a heady combination of happiness, baseball, and life.
I didn’t grow up sitting in a wooden pew at church on Sunday mornings. I sat on hot metal bleachers, watching my brother and Brayden play out doubleheaders. My preacher wore a dark blue collared shirt and a face mask. Instead of hymns, he sang out balls and strikes, forcing us to believe he knew better than we did.
Now, I stood down the fence line, feeling like I wanted to drop to my knees at that same altar, a born-again sinner who’d found her way back.
I soaked it all in, the homespun majesty. The pops of pure white balls against leather, the pristine uniforms, and the greenest grass I’d ever seen. It rolled out like a thick blanket, the onl
y thing still spread between him and me.
I’d missed so much. So many of his firsts.
I didn’t want to miss any more.
When I’d called Jess on my way to the airport and learned his next start was the following afternoon, my own plan had quickly formed. I’d checked into a little roadside motel near the field and spent a sleepless night trying to be patient.
I knew exactly how I wanted this to go down.
Now, I just had to find him.
“Excuse me, sir?” I called out to the burly older gentleman standing down the line from first base.
His bright yellow jacket read Security across the back.
He kept his back turned, trying to ignore me. I called out again and gave him pleading puppy-dog eyes when he finally looked my way.
“Can you help me?”
“Whaddaya need, missy?”
“Uh, I’m trying to find Brayden Ross. I’m a friend of his.” I held up the plastic badge hanging around my neck.
Jess had instructed them to hold it for me at Will Call.
“Nice try, sugar. You know how many times I hear that a day?”
“Oh no, I’m not a psycho, I promise.”
“Yeah, that’s what they all say. Ross has a girlfriend. Don’t waste your time.”
A ball rolled over near the fence as he served me his parting shot. The first baseman jogged over to retrieve it. He slid his sunglasses down to suggestively look at me.
“Ross might have a girlfriend, but I don’t, honey.” He turned and asked the dude for a pen, signed something on the ball, and then trotted back over to hand it to me.
I glanced down at his digits scrawled between the laces. “Uh, thanks, but I’m sort of spoken for.” I pressed it back toward him.
He tilted his head and looked at me funny. The guy wasn’t used to being turned down.
“Oh, shit. Are you really her? Are you the mystery girl?” He looked over his shoulder and called out, “Hey, Larry! Go tell Ross he’s got a visitor.”
I watched the old man grumble as he walked across to the other side of the dugout.
I smiled as soon as I saw him. Standing near the fence behind home plate, Brayden was signing a ball for a little boy whose bright smile was missing two front teeth. He spoke to him before ruffling his hair and smiling for a picture. I watched as he moved down the line, taking time, forming a connection with each fan. After two more kids got a turn, the old man tapped him on the shoulder and whispered in his ear. Brayden gave a kid back his ball and finally looked up in my direction.
