by L. B. Dunbar
“What?” I choked.
“I’m trying not to swear. It’s a summer goal.”
“Huh. What else is a summer goal of yours?” I asked.
“To watch this movie,” she teased, keeping her eyes on me.
Yeah, well, my summer didn’t have a goal other than to finish it and get out of this town but plans change. And now, my goal was to get to know her.
“I’m Gavin Scott,” I stated. “I’m telling you, so we won’t be strangers.”
“I probably shouldn’t tell you my name,” she said, and I stared at her, surprised she meant it. She wasn’t going to tell me her name.
“Henrietta,” I said, and she continued staring, those blue eyes reflecting in the movie’s light. “No, Susan.”
Her brows drew together. “What are you doing?”
“I’m trying to guess your name. Violet.” I snapped my fingers. “Or Janice.”
“You’re making me sound like an old lady.” She frowned. “And you’ll never guess my name. It’s not . . . normal.”
“What is it? Bullfrog?”
“No.”
“How about Bucket?”
“What? No.” She laughed again.
“I’m just trying to come up with unusual names.”
“You’ll never guess,” she warned before music drew our attention. The movie had ended, and I wondered where the time had gone.
“Thanks for the licorice,” she said, standing with a mostly full tub of popcorn.
“Thanks for the date, Candy.” I stood as well and faced her. Her eyes widened at the name.
“Candy? That’s not my name, either.”
“Well, you look sweet to me,” I teased, and she broke into an honest laugh, one that was loud and had her bending at the waist.
“That was so cheesy,” she admitted. I had to agree, but I didn’t want her to walk away without telling me her name.
“So, Candy, seeing as you won’t tell me your name, how do I ask for a second date?”
“Was this a first?” she asked. Her eyes were innocent as she looked at me. My response was a smile.
“Guess you’ll just have to find me,” she said, her voice dropping as she teased. At least, I thought she was teasing me, but as she started walking backward out of the aisle, holding the popcorn tub like a shield before her, I realized she was serious.
“Ah, a mystery to solve? This will be my summer goal. I’ll get your name, my pretty, your tub of popcorn and a second date, too,” I warned, poorly imitating the Wicked Witch of the West and wringing my hands together. Way to frighten her, Gavin, I told myself, but a smile broke out on her face, wide and bright in the dim light of the closing credits, and I was the one gotten.
“I look forward to you accomplishing your goal,” she said, turning her back to me, spinning out of the row and rushing up the aisle before I realized what she said.
She welcomed the chase.
My thoughts return to the woman I saw on the beach earlier. Britton. It was an unusual name. Where has she been? How has she been? It’s obvious she has a child, so she must be married, maybe. The idea saddens me. It’s not that another man doesn’t deserve her, but for some reason, I wonder if she’s happy. Of course, she’s happy, though, why wouldn’t she be? More questions haunt me. I wonder if we ever could have worked somehow . . . if we could have been happy.
The probability doesn’t seem likely.
When I met her at eighteen, I was hell-bent on getting out of here.
When I saw her again at twenty-five, I only wanted to have sex with her.
What a reckless, wild weekend that had been. Her body. My hotel room. She let me do everything and anything to her.
I give into the smile curling my lips, recalling those forty-eight hours. My team played in Detroit, and after the three-day series, we had a short break. Only a few hours from the largest metro area in Michigan, Traverse City had the lake, good bars, and the prospect of getting away. It was supposed to be a quick trip in and out. I didn’t bother telling my family I was close. When I ran into Britton, all my plans changed anyway.
Take 4
Scene: The Baseball Field
[Gavin]
The following day, I’m in Traverse City most of the afternoon, viewing films, attending panels, and sitting on a few myself. It’s been exciting to be on the other side of the camera and do something I feel has been worth the time, effort, and money, despite what my agent thinks of the project.
My ex-girlfriend doesn’t support it.
Her father hates it.
Zeke Steinmann owns Steinmann Studios, and his daughter works for Imperial Sports Management. She picked me up, overrunning my first agent with promises of more sponsorships. At twenty-five, I was a baseball player on the edge of becoming someone. She hooked me up with a few modeling gigs and endorsements. A watch company. A men’s clothing store. A sports shoe. I had a face, Zoey thought, and that face attracted her as well as sealed deals. She even got me a cameo role in a movie about baseball.
Me? I’m not an actor.
Gavie, anybody can act. People do it all the time by pretending to be someone other than who they are.
We became a couple. It was a farce as well.
As the day draws to a close, I have late-night dinner plans with a couple of indie film directors and decide I need a shower. Again, I curse myself for not renting a place closer to Traverse City as I make the long trek up the highway back to Elk Lake City. As I drive north, my thoughts wander, and I turn off on a road I recognize. It’s an inner drive circling Elk Lake, and I follow the path until I find what I’m looking for. As the road winds around the lake, the land to my left dips toward the water, and built into the rise are stadium seats behind a backdrop. A baseball diamond angles toward the lake. To my surprise, a woman and a boy are on the field.
My rental car tires crunch over the gravel as I pull into the small lot beside the field and park. The spaces force vehicles to face away from the field, mainly for protection against foul balls. As I exit the convertible, more memories wash over me of pickup games and little league playoffs here. The field doesn’t look well maintained, and along with all the other changes to the area, I imagine this piece of my history has a new, improved counterpart somewhere near town. Mum is always telling me about changes to the area, but I hate to admit I only half listen.
As I approach the old wooden stadium seats, I hear the groan of the boy at home plate.
“Mom, this isn’t working,” he drones, and I smile to myself. I watch as I near the backdrop while his mother tries to pitch to him, and it doesn’t come close enough. A bucket of balls rests at the mother’s feet. A ball cap covers her hair and is pulled low to shield her eyes. She tips her head back to see her son better but drops the new ball in her hand when she notices me. I hold up a hand as a friendly wave.
“Hi.”
She doesn’t respond. Not a wave. Not a word. Instead, the boy turns to me and shakes his head.
“She’s terrible.” His voice drops as if he intends to whisper, but he’s not quiet in the least.
“I can hear you,” she calls out to him. He holds a hand to the side of his mouth as if he intends to speak again but shakes his head instead. “I can also see that.”
I chuckle to myself, shaking my own head at their antics. The kid rolls his eyes before turning back to his mother, giving her a thumb’s up.
“Okay, Mom. Try to get it to me this time.” He taps home plate with the tip of the bat, hoists it to his shoulder, fixes his stance, and then calls out, “Ready.”
His mom takes aim, twists like she’s a professional, but I can immediately tell from her position she has no talent. To my surprise, she releases. Hard and fast, the ball comes in the general direction of home plate, but it’s been released on an angle, and it’s heading straight toward me. Thank goodness for the metal fencing above the backstop as the ball collides with the crisscross design and drops.
“Mom,” the boy groans, both surpri
sed at how far the ball went but also disappointed at the off base direction.
“I think we should be finished,” she mutters, but her voice carries. By the set of the kid’s shoulders, I can tell he isn’t done, but he’s not getting what he needs from his mother.
“I could pitch to you.”
His head perks up, and he glances from his mom to me and back. I’m not trying to be creepy, but the kid wants to play, and for nostalgia's sake, I want to step out on that mount. When I was younger, I wanted to be a pitcher. Every kid wants the limelight position, and I was a lefty. Left-handed pitchers are hard to come by. Eventually, I was shifted to first base, another novelty as a lefty. The position stuck.
“Uhm . . .” His mom mutters as I round the backdrop and freeze.
“Britton?” I question.
Her son looks from me to her. Her eyes shift from him to me.
“Gavin.” She chokes on my name, and her son flinches in my periphery, but I can’t take my eyes off her. In a pair of short shorts and a T-shirt, with the ball cap on her head, I’m thrown back in time to a day when I took her to a different ball field and tried to teach her how to pitch. She stole my hat and pulled it low like she’s wearing this one tonight. We were covering the basics of baseball, and I eventually used her body to explain rounding the bases. We didn’t complete her pitching instructions but did plenty of other things that night. First (kissing). Second (skin on skin above the belt). Third (touching below the belt). Home run didn’t happen because I was a goner long before we could have gotten to that action.
Awkwardly, I try to rid the memory as a part of me comes up to bat while I’m still struggling with the fact she’s standing here, on this mound, of all places.
“I didn’t know you were back in town,” I state.
“Yeah, it’s been a while,” she replies. It strikes me that she’s more beautiful than I remember. Her face is lightly tanned, making those blue eyes gleam under the shadow of the ball cap bill. Her lips remain rosy, and I want to step closer to see if she still has freckles scattered across her nose.
She glances away from me to her son, and I finally stop gawking at her, recalling we have an audience.
“Hey.” I nod at him, rushing forward with my hand outstretched. “Gavin Scott.”
Her son opens his mouth to speak, but Britton interjects. “His name is Gee.”
“Mom,” he drones again. “I can speak for myself.”
“Excuse me,” she whispers, but I sense that tone is mom-speak for don’t talk to me like that.
“Gee. That’s a cool name,” I state. It reminds me of my nickname from when I was a child.
“It’s a nickname,” he clarifies. We all stand in awkward silence a second before I recall why I’m standing where I am.
“You play baseball?” I’m stating the obvious.
“Yeah, my team is going to Cooperstown this year, and I’m trying to get in extra batting practice.” He tips a brow at his mother, and she places her hands on her hips.
“Mom’s not cutting it?” I tease, shifting to look at Britton but realizing I shouldn’t as she takes my breath away. Britton is a mom, and it agrees with her. “Is your dad better?”
Suddenly, the temperature around us drops ten degrees, and it’s not an atmospheric shift.
“My dad’s dead,” Gee says softly, and my lids slowly lower.
Shit. Shit.
I turn to Britton. “I’m so sorry.”
She nods once and steps closer to her son, wrapping an arm around his back. “It’s been three years.” With her hand cupping his shoulder, she gently jostles him. “Patrick would have done better.”
Patrick. That was her husband’s name. She was married. Of course, she was married, but now she’s a widow. Jesus, she’s too young for this.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat, finding myself inept at saying anything more intelligent or sympathetic or just change the freakin’ subject.
“So.” I clear my throat. “I’m an old friend of your mom’s. You might have heard of me.” I glance up at Britton, but as her eyes widen, I realize . . .” Or not. But I played ball in California. Pitching was my original position, but eventually, I played first base. Maybe I could throw you a couple of pitches.” I tip a brow at Britton before turning back to the kid. “What position do you play?”
“I wanted to be a pitcher too, but my friend got the spot because his dad is the coach.” Ouch. Yeah, I remember those things happening when I was young too. “Now I play in the outfield because I’m a lefty, and I can throw far.” The lack of enthusiasm in his voice tells me this is not his choice position.
“I didn’t love being first base either, at first, and my dad was the coach. He had me as the pitcher, but when I got to college, they moved me. First base was good for me.” My eyes leap to Britton, wondering if she remembers first base with me. My mouth waters as I recall the taste of her. The feel of her lips against mine. The way she eagerly kissed me. Then I shame myself for daydreaming about the mom when I’m trying to help the kid.
“Do you still play ball?” Gee asks, and I swipe a hand through my hair to refocus.
“No. I broke my wrist. I couldn’t throw after that, and other opportunities came up for me.”
“Cool,” Gee says. My eyes return to Britton, wondering if she remembers anything about us. If she remembers that summer. If she remembers that one weekend like I do. “So, can you still pitch?”
“I think Mr. Scott might have other plans this evening,” Britton says, and I exaggerate, looking around me.
“Mr. Scott? Is my dad here?” I chuckle while Britton frowns.
“We use proper addresses with adults. It’s a sign of respect.”
Oh. Right.
“I can be Gavin,” I state, but Britton shakes her head.
Jeez. Tough mom.
“Look, Mr. Scott is my dad. How about calling me . . . Coach?” I have no idea where the suggestion came from or how it so easily rolled off my tongue, but as soon as I say it, I realize I like it. Calling me Coach would be an honor and not as stuffy as calling me Mr. Scott. “And I don’t have plans this evening until later.”
“Oh yeah, what are you doing?” her child asks.
“Gee,” Britton hisses. “That’s not our business.”
“I’m here for the film festival in Traverse City. I made a film.” Pride fills my voice as I look from the boy to his mother. I want her to be proud of me for some reason. I’d been a drunken sap for part of that long-ago weekend, wallowing in my fear of failure and begging her to just fuck me.
My God. I asked this woman to do things to me, with me, and I did things to her. Things I should not be thinking about while her son is standing next to her.
“A baseball movie?” he asks.
“Sort of. It’s a documentary about baseball.”
His nose wrinkles. “They make us watch videos like that for gym class on rainy days, and they are so boring.”
“Gee,” Britton hisses again, tightening her hold on his shoulder.
“I remember those. Yeah, boring, but I promise mine isn’t.”
“Can we see it?” he asks, and my head pops up to Britton. Would she come to see my film? I’d be flattered, but I’m not certain all of it is appropriate for a kid who is . . .
“How old are you?”
“I’m twelve.” He stands taller, puffing out his chest.
“My film is probably PG-13.” Brant and a few of the other guys are caught on camera hitting on women or getting hit on.
Gee rolls his eyes. “I can watch PG-13,” he tells me.
“When you’re thirteen,” his mom teasingly warns, and I slowly smile, recalling things we did that weren’t PG-13 and probably shouldn’t have been done when she was sixteen, but she let me. She let me do so much to her body, and from the looks of her now, she hasn’t changed one bit. She has a kid but still looks like a teen herself. Zoey said she never wanted children because she didn’t want her body to change shapes, shift, or sag,
or anything. One look at Britton and I can see everything is exactly as it used to be, maybe even better.
She’s so freaking beautiful. I bite my tongue to prevent the words from escaping.
“Maybe we can get in a few pitches before it gets too dark,” I state, noting the heavy filter of trees overshadowing the field. From the view across the lake, it’s going to be a beautiful sunset, but I don’t suppose Britton wants to watch a sunset with me like she used to when we were teens. Plus, I do have dinner plans later this evening, although I’ve lost my sense of urgency to attend.
Gee runs back to home plate, and I use the seconds to step closer to Britton.
“I can’t believe you’re really here. What are the chances?”
“Yeah, what are the chances?” Her voice lowers, not sounding half as pleasantly surprised as me. In fact, she sounds a little displeased that I’m standing before her.
“So, a son,” I say, questioning how, when, who, but then I recall she already mentioned Patrick, her husband. “And he’s twelve.” I don’t know what I’m implying, but a measurement of time comes to me. Her getting pregnant must have happened soon after our weekend together.
“How long has it been since I’ve seen you?”
“Thirteen years,” she quickly snaps. I had already known the answer, but I wanted to see if she remembered.
“Yeah, thirteen years,” I whisper, recalling memory after memory with a smile. I’m actually a little sad to consider she found another guy so quickly after being with me, but we weren’t intended for forever. It was only an amazing weekend.
“You still look amazing.”
Her forehead furrows as if that’s the wrong thing to say to her.
“Thanks for giving Gee a few pitches. Just a couple will satisfy him. I don’t want to hold you up.”
“You aren’t holding me up,” I say, reaching out for her arm, but she steps back at the same time Gee calls out, “We gonna play?”
“Yeah, we’re gonna play,” I reply, but I’m looking at his mother.
I definitely want to run the bases with her again.
