by Kristy Marie
“Goodnight, Mac.”
McKinley
Woosah.
Woo—
“Are you even listening to me?”
Mr. Ear Hair’s fingers snap in front of my face, the worn lines on his forehead deepening while he levels me with a glare. A glare that I’ve been able to ignore with grace. Quite impressive if I do say so myself. He’s lucky I slept like a damn rock in Cooper’s guest bed. Who has memory foam for guests? Hell, I don’t even have a guest room.
“Look, lady, you don’t need that much skill to cook a hot dog—” The dismissive hand-wave adds a little flair to his words. “—but, this is the third time you’ve charred my frank into something unrecognizable. You’d think you would at least get it right once.” He shakes his head, his mouth puckering as he tsks. “Your boss must be desperate for help. I’d never let such incompetence stay on my staff.”
The words bite, but not as much as they did the first time he said them. The first time I accidentally burnt his hot dog.
“My apologies, sir. Please let me swap your insufficient wiener for one less… ugly.” I force a smile that I hope conveys the giant fuck you, I’m thinking.
Honestly, I didn’t intentionally burn his hot dog, but when he snapped his fingers after ordering, adding a clipped, “Hurry the fuck up,” slapping a hundred-dollar bill down on the counter… Well, I certainly wasted no time shoving the dry, crispy meat in a bun.
Mr. Ear Hair—a fitting nickname for one so pleasant—is a season ticket holder in my section at Landon Field, home to the Vegas Tides baseball team. I don’t know what exactly Mr. Ear Hair does for a living, but he likes to remind me he’s uber-successful by paying with bills that I don’t have the change to break. He’s so kind though (insert sarcasm here) and waits while I leave my cart to beg a neighboring cart for change—a no-no, per my boss, Ted—all the while pleasantly checking his watch with a shitty grin as the customers behind him groan and leave my line for another.
Obviously, Ear Hair does this on purpose.
And for that fact alone, he gets a burnt wiener. Every. Single. Home game.
One day, he’ll more than likely complain to Ted. And more than likely, I’ll get fired. But that’s one day’s problem. Today, I’m simply reveling in the fact that Mr. Asshole Ear Hair had to walk back to my cart, wait in line twenty minutes, and miss the sixth-inning home run hit by the Tides—his favorite team.
With that bit of payback in my back pocket, I can endure his condescension and the disdainful look he’s giving me right now.
“Do you think you could actually hurry this time so I don’t miss any more of the game?”
I manage a nod. “Anything for you.”
Fucker.
I hope the next Tides’s player hits a home run right at his forehead. Not hard enough that it causes brain damage, but hard enough that it knocks some decency into him.
Counting back his change, I level him with a fake smile. “Enjoy the game.” Encourage someone to take a bat to your car later, I want to say. Though, I find a wrench is much more effective than a bat. It’s lighter weight, fits in my purse, and Lyle, the head of security, doesn’t think it’s a weapon. He’s had to give me a ride home a few times, so he knows how temperamental my truck can be.
Ear Hair turns away without so much as a thank you. I would never expect a thanks, but a fuck you would be nice occasionally. Ted, the owner of Backdoor Sliders, the concession stand right behind home plate, doesn’t take too kindly to using the f-word. He wouldn’t hesitate to ban Ear Hair with that sort of foul mouth. Which is probably why Ear Hair relies on his condescending repertoire of words.
“Tell me you spit in his food.” Pops’s gentle voice has me looking up, a genuine smile emerging since I shared a bowl of oatmeal with him and eventually accepted the Uber ride to work. Cooper, who only came out once, sporting dark circles under his eyes, muttering a nearly incoherent, “Good morning,” had not only stayed awake and washed my clothes but ironed them too.
Who owns an iron anymore?
I was grateful though—maybe a little too grateful since I borrowed his sweats for another night. Victoria’s Secret has nothing on oversized sweatpants that smell like soap and man.
Don’t worry, I’ll give them back when I go back for my tree. The Uber driver wasn’t having Psalms in their back seat. Pops offered to plant sit for me.
Getting back to Pops’s question about spitting in Ear Hair’s food, I finally answer. “Not this time. Though, I can’t say I haven’t thought about it more than once.”
At the last home game, I had literally given myself a pep talk that spitting was revolting and very unladylike. But those words didn’t stop me from glancing around for witnesses as I rationalized Ear Hair deserved it.
However, it was Brenda, my foster mom’s voice, that sliced through the noise, telling me I was giving Ear Hair power over my life by allowing his actions to control my reaction. “Power is given, Mac,” she used to say. “No one is born with it.”
I didn’t bring up the royal family and their birthright of power because she scared me sometimes with these “mom” looks. But I got what she was saying. She meant only I could give Ear Hair the power to make me feel undervalued. I truly got what she was saying. I did. But letting a nasty comment go without retaliation is easier said than done. But I’d done it, settling instead to burn Ear Hair’s hot dog. It was a small win, but satisfying all the same.
“No one would have blamed you,” Pops says, standing behind the counter, Cynthia, his nurse, looking on with a severe case of resting bitch face.
I wave him off. “Ted would have blamed me,” I answer with a shrug. “One complaint of spitting and I would be out of here.”
While spitting in Ear Hair’s hot dog would have made me happy, losing my job wouldn’t. My landlord finds it exhausting chasing me down for the two months of rent I still owe. Combine that with an assload of medical bills and nothing but a fridge full of air and expired milk, I’m the poster child for debt and poor decisions times two.
“Thank you for the pickle and Mountain Dew. You didn’t have to. You already let me bum a night over at your house.” I don’t tell him I’m only allowing myself one caffeinated beverage a day now. He’d look at me funny, and I’m not ready to have that conversation yet. Pops and I might be close, but there’re some secrets I’d like to keep a little longer.
My much older bestie levels me a look, those thick gray eyebrows slanting toward his nose. “Hush.”
He sounds a lot like his grandson with that bossy attitude sometimes. “You ready for your lemonade?” I grab a souvenir cup, already knowing the answer. Sometimes I’d sneak and have a beer with him, but we’d time it for later in the game when most of the fans leave to beat traffic.
I press the button on the dispenser, topping it off before handing it over. “Here you go.” I wave off the cash in hand. “Your money is no good here, old man. You know that.”
Those gray eyes beam back at me in approval. “Come over when you get a break.” He motions to the aisle seat on the same level as my cart. “I’ll get rid of the demon woman.”
With his southern accent and his cute little jersey, I’d love nothing more than to scoop him up and take him home with me. It’s been so long since I felt like I had someone on my proverbial team, someone who cared about my day and asked if people were nice to me.
The last person was Griffin, but I messed that up—royally. I can still feel his arms wrapped around me as I cried and snotted into his flannel shirt. Not once did he recoil or shove me off. He just held me tighter and patiently waited for me to get it all out. And when I did, I ruined everything.
And now…
I can’t even think about it. Brenda would be so disappointed in me. I’d let my emotions rule my decisions. I did the day she died and every day since then. Through grief, I allowed myself to be nurtured by the things that made me feel better. Shopping. Food. Whiskey. And Love.
All those things controlle
d my life and took over every dream I had growing up. Everything I promised Brenda I would continue in her absence went to utter shit once she was gone. I was lonely, scared, and very much heartbroken. So I did everything I could think of to get rid of those pesky feelings. I shopped and maxed out my credit cards. I gained ten pounds and visited every restaurant in the area. I drank until I ran out of cash, and loved without abandon or sensibility.
All that comfort inevitably left me broke, jobless, and in debt up to my eyebrows. I didn’t go to college. I didn’t chase any of the dreams I once had. I just existed. And for the last year, that was enough for me. I still had Griffin… until I didn’t. Until I messed that up too. Now it’s too late. Too late to apologize and tell him I was sorry for being inconsiderate. I just wanted the pain to stop. I just wanted to feel wanted again.
Shaking off the memories, I muster up a smile and promise Pops I’ll be over in a little while. “If you need a refill,” I tell him, “holler, and I’ll come over to you so you don’t have to get up.”
It’s the very least I could do for him and his grandson’s kindness last night.
You’d think most people watching a baseball game would be full of joy at seeing their favorite team or player live, but that’s not always the case. Some fans use the concession stand as a way of decompressing. They need a beer to settle down or something to stave off the hangry until their team has a comeback inning. You’d think I’d be their hero by providing that relief, but not so much. Usually, by the time they get to me, they are pissed, hot, and tired of watching their team get their asses kicked inning after inning.
Not that the Tides have been terrible this year, but compared to last year’s title-winning season, they aren’t doing so hot, which upsets the fans who paid a small fortune for their tickets. Nevertheless, I wouldn’t give up this job for the world. Running a concession stand might not be a brag-worthy career, but it feels like home. A type of comfort food that gets me through the day.
I took this job because of Griffin. He suggested it because he loved the Tides, and we never had the money to go. Heck, I didn’t even like baseball until Griffin—hence the reason I didn’t immediately recognize Cooper when he stopped to help me push Lu off the road.
Baseball was Griffin’s thing, but I’ve learned that I enjoy it, too.
Griffin thought memories always outweighed tangible items. And I guess, I’ve let that one trait of his manifest into something unhealthy. I took it a little too far. Getting this job just so we could get a discount to games when we should have been paying rent and buying groceries. But we were addicted to drowning our aches in the sound of the crowd and nothing, not even money, stopped us.
Until now.
Until Griffin ended our trips to the Tides’s games without asking me.
Sure, we made some mistakes—me especially. I took advantage of Griffin’s kindness and used his adventurous energy to soothe my pain. Griffin was the distraction I needed after Brenda died.
We could have worked it out. Our argument didn’t need to cost us our relationship.
But it doesn’t matter now.
Griffin took the choice from both of us.
“Thanks, Lyle. I appreciate it.”
My favorite security guard blushes and opens the door for me to pass through. “You clean that knee when you get home.”
I go for a smile, the giant scuff still oozing a little blood from when I was shoved from behind on the escalator, hitting my knees and reopening the wound from last night. It was an accident, just two idiot teenagers roughhousing, but since my toe is still throbbing like a mother, my balance just wasn’t on point and I lost my footing. Lyle had been waiting at the top and immediately spotted my injury and insisted he walk me out. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that my car isn’t out here, and I planned on hobbling home.
“Lu still giving you trouble?” He looks around the employee lot, probably realizing I’m not parked in my usual spot.
“Yeah, I’ve got a ride though, so don’t worry that pretty little head of yours.” He dodges my hand when I go to rub his bald head.
“You sure?”
I nod at the man who needs to get home to his wife and new baby. “Yep. She’ll be here any minute.” I make a show of looking around, trying to spot my imaginary ride. “Now, go on before Lauren throws your dinner in the trash for being late again.”
Lyle grunts, remembering the last time he ended up eating a sandwich for dinner. The Tides went into extra innings and he didn’t get home until after one a.m. His wife had just had their daughter and was sleep-deprived, and didn’t give a damn Lyle was working late. “All right. Well, see you tomorrow then.”
The Tides are home for the next ten days, meaning I’ll be working ten days straight without a day off. Which, having something to keep me busy might not be a bad thing. After my altercation with Chris, and Lu’s inevitable bill coming, I need all the money I can get. A part-time job might not be terrible either.
Lyle waves goodbye, and I watch as he folds into his car and drives away.
Here’s the thing: I’m not a martyr. I’m not. I know I could call Pops and he would force Cooper to give me a lift home, but I don’t want to. Chris, as awful as he may be, was right. I was a drain on Griffin’s life and finances. It wasn’t like I meant to be a mess. I wanted to pay my debts when I over-indulged after Brenda’s death. I wanted to pay my rent, but I just couldn’t. Grief is a hard thing to understand, and it manifests differently for everyone.
I haven’t had good luck with family. I thought I had turned it around though, living with Griffin, laughing, going on adventures. Griffin helped me as much as he could with my debt, but neither one of us made much money. But we were happy, and that meant more to me than it did to him.
I crossed the line of friendship and family and drained the happiness from Griffin’s soul. Finding him in the bed… I’ll never forget the way he looked so peaceful, like an angel dreaming of somewhere better. A place with no debt, no mistakes, and no unwanted ties.
I’ll never make someone feel like they have no escape. Though, I realize Griffin had his own demons; I didn’t help him by adding more stress to our already shitty circumstances.
Long story short, I’m owning up to my mistakes. I choose to keep a ratty truck that breaks down. Therefore, when she’s out of commission, I will walk or take the bus. I won’t allow my problems to be anyone else’s. That’s why I didn’t want Cooper bandaging my broken toe. I kicked that sign in flip-flops. I probably broke a bone, and I should have to endure the pain and wrapping that comes with such poor decision-making.
So I set out for the three-mile walk to my apartment with my trusty wrench snug inside my shorts.
Cooper
A yearly salary of twenty-five million dollars and I’m on my knees, begging. “I swear, he didn’t mean it.”
Cynthia, an impatient woman, glares down at my kneeled position. “I’m sorry, Mr. Lexington, but this was the last time.”
“He won’t do it again.” I fight the urge to reach out and grab her scrub pants.
“That’s what you said yesterday.” Her eyes pinch as if to say, and look where we are now.
“I know, and I’m sorry. I’ll talk to him again. Just please—” I glance back at Pops who’s lounging in his easy chair as if this whole charade isn’t transpiring in front of him. I turn back to Cynthia, pleading for her forgiveness and patience. “Please don’t go. I need to be on the field in half an hour.”
She takes less than a minute to think it over. “No.”
“Please—”
With one swift turn, Cynthia steps over the threshold, but not before turning back with one pointed remark. “If I were you, Mr. Lexington, I’d spare yourself the headache and send him to a nursing home.”
And… Pops was right. She is the devil.
Standing, I dust off my knees and re-tuck my shirt that’d come loose. “We appreciate your time, Ms. Sparks. Your last check will be mailed to your residen
ce.”
With a curt, but polite nod, I close the door on caregiver number who-the-fuck-is-even-counting.
“I told you she was a devil woman, but you didn’t listen.”
“I didn’t listen?” My shock is replaced quickly when I see the grin on the old man’s face. “Really, Pops? A deer cam? You couldn’t have just asked her if she moved it? Did you have to mount a hidden camera?”
He shrugs, flicking his gaze back to the TV. “Consider it similar to a Nanny Cam. Besides, she was stealing from me.”
“Arthritic cream?” I try keeping my voice down as I push off the door and point to the pain relief cream clutched in his hands. “Why would Cynthia steal your cream?”
A half-smile plays on his lips. “Why does anyone steal?” He shrugs. “For all I know, she was stealing my arthritic cream and auctioning it off on eBay as “The Closer’s private toiletries.’”
I roll my eyes at the name and the crazy notion that she was auctioning off a five-dollar tube of generic muscle relief. “That’s ridiculous.”
Pops sits up in his chair, grimacing. “What’s ridiculous, my boy, is that you think you’re still in high school, pitching on Georgia’s clay mounds. When are you going to realize everything you have, even discarded tissue, is worth something? You’re The Closer.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“But that’s who you are to the world.”
I can see this conversation is going nowhere. “I understand you were just looking out for me, Pops, but Cynthia was taking care of you while I was away at games. Games like the one I need to be ‘closing’ in a little over three hours. What do you suggest we do now?”
If you ever needed evidence of the light coming on in someone’s eyes, I should have taken a picture of Pops’s. “I could go with you—without the devil,” he offers.
“No.” Absolutely not. “No one can watch you.”
“I’ve recovered.” He stands like that’s proof of his recovery. “Besides, Mac’ll be there.”
