by Lisa Sorbe
Back to being an ass again. “Fine. But I’m only doing this to humor you,” I say, sticking my hand in the bag and pretending to be annoyed. I pull out a gray bundle, and when I shake it out, I see that it’s a t-shirt. And not the cute, slender cut that most women who have a hot body prefer. It has a boxy, gender-neutral fit and looks like it’s at least a size too big. A large wrench decal and the words Wright Auto Repair have been flat-ironed on the front in blue and silver print. I flip it over and scowl when I see the phrase MILES IS THE BOSS OF ME spread out across the back in blocky black letters.
I squish the shirt in my fist and hold it up. “You’re really something, you know that?”
Miles ignores me. Instead he steps closer. He closes a hand over mine before sliding the shirt from my grasp. “You know,” he says, holding it up to me. “I am your boss. I can always make you go.” His voice is rough, teasing. And it makes my heart beat faster.
I hope he can’t hear it.
I pluck the shirt from his hands. “No one can make me do anything.”
“Yeah, I can see that.” He cocks his head, studies me. A slow smile spreads across his lips. “But I’m having a whole hell of a lot of fun trying.”
He’s so close I can smell the spearmint gum on his breath. “I don’t even know if I can get a sitter.” There. The first time I’ve ever used my daughter as an excuse not to go out.
“Call you mom. I’m sure she won’t mind, considering this is a work-related activity.” He smirks, knowing he’s right.
I reach up and run a hand over my pony tail. “I’m a mess.” Another excuse that’s not really an excuse. There’s no way I’m going out in public and letting anyone other than Miles see me like this. I mean, he – for obvious reasons – doesn’t count.
He shrugs. “Who cares? It’s a ballgame. You know, a place that’s full of dirt, sweaty people, the smell of hotdogs and stale beer.” He looks me up and down. “Believe me, Jenny. You’ll fit right in.”
“You’re hilarious,” I snort. And then I relent. “Fine. I’ll go to your stupid game.”
Miles beams.
“But,” I hold a finger up, “only because you’re begging me to.”
“Whatever gets your ass in the bleachers, sweetheart.” He nods at the shirt. “Put that on. Give me ten minutes to change, and then we’ll head out. And what the hell? In honor of your first official day, I’ll even spring for dinner on the way over. How do you feel about taverns? I know this great place that has the best onion chips you’ll ever eat.”
Before I can tell him exactly what I think of loose meat sandwiches and fatty-fried onions, the jerk is out the door and heading for his loft. Leaving me alone with this eyesore of a shirt. Having no intention of wearing the stupid thing, I throw it on the counter, deciding instead to try and get some of the dirt stains out of my tank top. But when my eyes land on a pair of scissors, I get an idea.
Without thinking, I grab them and get to work.
I’m getting way too caught up in this.
Even so, I can’t help but cup my hands around my mouth and yell, “Boo!” along with half our crowd. The runner from our team who was just called out on second base shakes his head as he trots back to the dugout.
A man behind me wearing nothing but a hairy chest and tight-fitting Hawaiian swim trunks that pinch his beer belly drops an f-bomb. He’s a sweaty beast who’s been dropping popcorn on me for the last half hour, but I agree entirely with his sentiment. He taps me on the shoulder, holds a meaty hand up, and nods. I reach back and slap it.
Solidarity, brother. Solidarity.
“There’s no way he was out!” I turn to Betsy, who’s sitting next to me and munching on sunflower seeds, and nudge her in the ribs. “How are you not riled up right now? That call was totally unfair!” I take another swig of my beer, the flimsy plastic cup sticking to my sweaty palm.
The sun is starting to dip below the horizon, although the temperature is still in the upper nineties. And the humidity, well… That’s another thing entirely. I slide my sunglasses on top of my head so I can swipe the sweat out of my eyes. Thank god for waterproof mascara.
Betsy shrugs. “There’s nothing we can do about it. Our guys will come back.” She winks at me. “I’m an optimist.”
“No shit,” I mutter.
“You really get into this, huh?”
I shrug. “It’s been awhile since I’ve been to any sort of game like this. I spent ten years in Chicago, and my ex-husband was a huge Cubs fan. We attended more games than I can count.” I don’t mention that, as much as I grew to love the game, I haven’t watched even one inning since we split.
She nods, but doesn’t inquire further. Working alongside my mom at the soup kitchen all these years, I wonder how much she knows about me. Like, knows knows. “By the way,” she says instead, “I love what you did with the shirt. Sorta sporty, glam, and sexy – all at the same time.”
I glance down at my shirt, the one Miles bought for me so I’d match all the players on his team. (Although none of their tees say MILES IS THE BOSS OF ME on the back. Asshole.)
“Thanks.” I finger the collar, biting back a smile as I remember Miles’s reaction when he saw what I’d done to it. Leaving the collar intact, I trimmed around it, shearing off the shoulders before cutting a good chunk of the bottom layer off. I clipped a triangle out on each side to make the garment more form fitting, closing the gap with the bobby pins I found stashed under the counter earlier that day. And I have to admit my makeshift creation doesn’t look half bad. In fact, wearing it now I have some weird sense of accomplishment. Like I took something plain and ordinary and turned it into something beautiful.
Okay, so beautiful may be pushing it. But at the very least, it’s not hideous.
When Miles saw it, on the other hand, he looked like he could have strangled me.
I snicker at the memory and turn my attention back to the game. The inning is over, and Wright Auto Repair is taking the field.
“So, do you have a background in fashion or something?”
“Huh? Oh.” I laugh, although it’s devoid of humor. “Ah, no. I have a degree in art, but most of my classes centered around studio work, like painting, drawing and,” I take a breath, “sculpture. That sort of thing.”
“Cool. I have an associate’s in Visual Arts. Although, I’m not really putting it to use. I do love photography, though. I’ve been playing around with it for a few years. Nothing really serious, of course. I’d love to do it full time, but…” She sighs, letting her voice trail off. “It’s just so hard, you know? Taking something that you love to do and making a living from it. As far as painting, I did take it as an elective back in school and was awful at it, to be honest.” She chuckles before tipping her head back and taking a swallow from her own plastic cup. “So, are you working on anything now?”
A flutter of guilt ripples through me, followed by a wave of longing so strong it makes my stomach twist, my teeth clench. It’s how I always feel when I think about my art. Because no, I’m not working on anything. I haven’t worked on anything in years.
“I’m between projects,” is all I say.
Betsy seems to sense my discomfort, because she changes the subject. “I bet working for Miles is fun, though.”
I take another sip of my watered-down beer. It’s warm, but the buzz it provides makes sitting here bearable. “Yeah,” I say, drawing out my response. The words on my back feel like they’re burning into my skin. “I’m having the time of my life.”
Speaking of Miles… My eyes follow him as he jogs out to his position at center field. He’s fast, his speed helping him catch several fly balls that would no doubt have turned into home runs if he hadn’t hauled ass to snag them. Now he adjusts his baseball hat, tipping it low to keep the setting sun out of his eyes. He has a baseball player’s build: tall and strong and lean. I squint, moving my gaze around the field, lingering for a moment on each player. Miles confessed on the way over that George was playing tonight
, and it’s been my mission since we arrived to try and found out who he is.
The crack of the metal bat pulls me back to the game, and I watch as the leggy blonde manning third scoops up the grounder and fires it to first. She’s the same one I saw hug Miles that night at the bar, the natural beauty who – I frown as I watch her – looks just as good now covered in dirt and sweat as she did then. She’s wearing the same shirt as I am, although with her hourglass figure she fills it out better than I ever could. Like Miles, she’s wearing her baseball cap low, and the chunky blonde braid flung over her shoulder swishes all the way down past her ample (it’s so ample) chest. The fact that she’s playing third base places her close to the opposing team’s dugout, and more than a few guys have tried to engage her in conversation between batters. She’s all business on the field, though – a blonde Wonder Woman in black stretch pants and shiny metal cleats.
I’m about to break down and just ask Betsy to point out George when an older woman walking a blue pit bull takes a seat on the bleacher in front of us. She looks familiar, but it’s only when Betsy greets her that I remember. “Marilyn,” she says, bending down to give the woman a quick hug. “You made it.”
Marilyn laughs. She’s wearing the same t-shirt she had on that day at the soup kitchen – the one that says My Granddaughter is a Pit Bull – and I can only assume it refers to the dog sitting by her side. The dog who’s turned her doe-like eyes to me and whose quivering wet nose is inching closer and closer to my knee.
I hold out a finger, and she licks it.
“Are you kidding?” Marilyn says. “Miles would never let me hear the end of it if Lady and I didn’t come.” She lowers her voice and puts on a stern face. “Gotta support the team.” She and Betsy laugh, and even I chuckle – her depiction of Miles is uncanny.
Marilyn turns her eyes my way, and I see they’re the exact color of Miles’s – liquid hues of brown and gold and green swimming together to form a color my artist’s mind itches to replicate with a brush.
Betsy flings her arm over my shoulder. “Marilyn, you remember Jen.”
Marilyn smiles, her face lighting up. “Of course! Judy’s daughter. So nice to see you again.” Then she leans in, her eyes full of mischief. It’s a look I recognize, so I’m not at all surprised when she says, “So, how did my son finagle you into coming?”
I twist in my seat and point at my back.
When I turn around, she tosses her head back and laughs. “That boy of mine, I swear. I told him he needed help down at that shop, but would he listen? ‘Course not. Determined to do it all himself. Anyway, I’m glad he has you.”
Betsy nods in agreement. “Stubborn.”
“Granted, he wasn’t planning to do it all alone but…” Marilyn sighs, reaches out and gives my knee a squeeze. “Sometimes the Universe takes our well-laid plans and flushes ‘em right down the toilet, doesn’t it?”
Lady, you have no idea.
The only real death I’ve ever experienced - aside from the baby birds with the broken wings my brother was always running across when we were kids and trying to put back together - was my grandfather. And while I loved him and his passing did cause a twinge of sadness to settle somewhere in my stomach for a day or two, I was too immersed in the social pickings of college and Julian to really feel the full effects of grief. Fox said I was just in denial, but I knew that wasn’t true. In my opinion, once someone died, they were gone. Departed entirely from this world and no amount of crying, begging, or bargaining had the power to bring them back. So why spend time wallowing in pain you couldn’t do anything about?
My grandfather’s passing, the loss associated with it, flickered on the edge of my priorities. A dull ache I was able to drown with touch of Julian’s hands, the teasing caress of his lips.
Sure, someone I loved had died. But I still had a life to live. And I was damn well going to live it. The world didn’t stop for a dead relative. And I didn’t plan to play catch up while it spun on without me. I wanted to be in the lead. I needed to be.
Get over it. Move on, move on, move on…
The problem with that mentality is, eventually, all your moving on catches up with you.
And then you’re fucked.
Because what I didn’t realize at the time was that someone didn’t have to die to disappear from my life.
When that happened – when the one person I loved more than anything was still living and thriving in the same world where I lived and breathed – the agony was so sharp it knocked me off my feet.
And by the time I pulled myself together, I was already so far behind that catching up wasn’t even an option.
So… I gave up.
Miles doesn’t introduce us. I meet George later that night entirely on my own.
Most of the team is made up of men – a staggering collection of broad shoulders, muscles, and testosterone. All chugging beer and slapping each other on the backs, hooting and hollering and crowing like they’ve done something as amazing as discovering life on another planet or curing cancer rather than what they’ve really done – won a softball game against a team where most of the players were too drunk to know first base from third.
There are only two girls on the team – well, four if you count me and Betsy (who, like me, can’t catch a pop fly to save her life), the both of us honorary team members by association. The only difference is that she actually likes Miles while I merely tolerate him.
Poytayto. Potahto.
But if nothing else, we cheered Wright Auto Repair right into their win.
And I have to admit that I actually had a good time.
Although that does leave two questions to be answered:
One, who would have thought?
And Two (which is, perhaps, the most important) who the hell am I?
I’m still sweaty and a complete mess, but then again so is everyone else, which makes my bedraggled appearance a little easier to bear. Plus, we’re back at Bert’s Bar – which seems to be the hang out spot for this crew – and the other patrons here are far from glamorous.
The air conditioning does feel amazing though, and at this point I’ve had enough to drink that my give-a-shit is broken. There’s no one here to impress anyway. Which, to be honest, is kind of freeing.
Betsy hasn’t left my side all night, and I’m not sure if it’s because she actually likes me or feels responsible for me since I know next to no one here and Miles pretty much ditched me the moment we walked in the door.
The rest of the team arrives in groups of three and four, and eventually we snag a long table while a guy with strawberry blonde hair and a thick Scottish accent orders us several pitchers of beer.
I tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear as I lean forward in my seat, studying the chick across the table from me. It’s the blonde Wonder Woman with the amazing tits who also happened to put every guy at the table here to shame with her night’s batting average. Her mouth is moving, but I don’t believe what’s coming out of it. “Excuse me?” I say, because I didn’t hear her right. I couldn’t have possibly heard her right.
Her arm is stretched across the table, hand meeting thin air.
“Sorry, it’s so loud in here. I’m George. And you must be Jenny.” Her full lips stretch into a smile so sweet and friendly and wholesome that I’m thrown off guard. “Miles has told me a lot about you.”
Oh, shit. Now that can’t be good.
I feel numb as I stretch my hand out to meet hers.
George isn’t a guy. George is a girl. A beautiful, hot, blonde bombshell of a woman who’s perfect in practically every way.
Miles isn’t gay.
Miles likes women.
Miles is dating this woman.
I give her my best blank stare, all the while scowling on the inside.
I bet she tastes like sugar. And spice, and everything nice.
My nerves prickle, my senses suddenly overwhelmed with the onslaught of noise, people, and smells whirling around me. My throat fe
els swollen and my tongue floppy, like my mouth is too numb to form even the simplest of responses. Like nice to meet you.
I’m struck dumb.
And I have no idea why.
She smiles at me again, lifts her brows like she’s waiting for me to respond.
I swallow, purse my lips together.
“I’m pretty sure she goes by Jen.” Betsy, who’s sitting next to me, raises a brow. “Right?”
I nod, finally finding my voice. “Yes. Preferably.”
George opens her mouth to apologize, but I wave her away. “Don’t worry about it. I think Miles just calls me Jenny to be an ass.”
Instead of taking offense, George just laughs. “Yep,” she says. “Sounds like him.” Her face lights up as she turns her gaze to the other end of the table where Miles is chatting away with a skinny guy who’s even taller than he is. When he feels the heat from our stare, he turns. “What?” he half shouts.
George blushes, laughs. “Jen was just telling me what an ass you are.”
“Great. Cheers.” He holds his glass up and grins. “I’d be more worried if she said something nice.”
She just giggles and shakes her head.
I flip him off.
He responds by blowing a kiss.
“Anyway,” she says, tuning her attention back to me. “I’m happy you’ll be around to help.” She reaches out and grabs the closest pitcher, pours herself a drink and then holds it up. Betsy pushes her glass forward. And then, without asking, grabs mine and does the same. “He’s so busy, he doesn’t have time for anything besides work. It’s making things…” She pauses, her smile faltering as she focuses on filling my glass. “… difficult.” When she nudges my drink back across the table, however, her smile is bright, and you’d never guess there was a momentary blip in her bubbly personality. “Anyway, having you around to take some of the burden off his shoulders will help.” She takes a sip of her drink, her peaches and cream complexion reddening. “Maybe he can have a life again.”
