Page 47 of Love in Pieces

All the jersey numbers are yellow and outlined in black. I’ve always paid attention to whatever player sports the number four. That used to be my dad's number. He’d hung his college jersey in the basement. It was one of his many “trophies” from college, all displayed next to the rest of his baseball memorabilia.

So, when Dallas walks out, it’s almost like a spotlight points straight to him, and that yellow number four. I keep my eyes trained on him. He waves as he starts throwing balls to his team and I remember why I like baseball uniforms so much. His ass fits nicely in those white pants. It’s an effort not to frown when he puts on his catching gear, hiding the good view. Everyone huddles on the pitcher’s mound before taking their places on the field.

After the beginning of the first inning, Dallas jogs back to the dugout and shrugs off his catcher’s gear. “Like what you see?” he smirks with a hand gripping the chain link. “I saw you staring.” He winks but leaves quickly, not giving me a chance at a rebuttal.

Each inning is the same routine. Catch, take everything off, bat, put everything back on, catch again. By the end of the scrimmage, he’s sweating buckets. The clouds disappeared, the sun got hot, and there had been no wind.

I haven’t been to a baseball game since Dad died, but it feels good to watch.

“Have fun?” Dallas asks, sitting down next to me on the bleachers. No more jersey. Just a soaked, white T-shirt, white pants, and a black belt hugging his hips.Eyes up, Abby.

“I did,” I say, training my eyes on anything but him.

“Good.” He pauses, running a hand through his damp hair. “The first game is in two weeks, so we’ve got some time to practice. We could use a good tune-up on a few things.”

“Really? I thought you guys looked pretty good out there.”

“Did we now?” He smirks.

I smack him on the arm. “You know what I mean.” I can't help but smile. I meant both, but I won't tell him that.

Back at home, Dallas jumps in the shower, and Logan disappears into his room. Realizing how hungry I am, I search the fridge for something to snack on but decide it’s close enough to dinner that I should just make us all some food. After scouring the pantry and fridge, I gather the ingredients for fajitas, and get to work. I think the smell draws them out of their rooms because they both take a seat on the barstools as I’m sauteing the onions and peppers.

“You cook?” Logan asks, brows raised with a smile.

“I like to think I can.” I smile back. They both take a long breath in, seeming to savor the smell of the frying vegetables.

“If it tastes as good as it smells, you can cook whenever you want,” Logan says, folding his hands on the counter.

“Grab the plates?” I ask no one in particular. Dallas jumps up, grabs three plates from the cabinet, and adds forks to the stack. Logan gives him a weird look.

“What? Sometimes tortillas don’t stay together.”

“Or,you just load them up too full and can't close them, so you turn it into a salad.”

“Okay, I didn’t ask to be attacked in my own home,” Dallas chuckles.

“Dinner’s ready.” I move to the side and pull the tortillas out of the oven.

Logan beams. “Damn, you even warmed the tortillas up?” He points at me before grabbing a plate. “Okay, you can stay.”

I laugh and grab a plate to dish up my homemade food.

“Dude, this is delicious,” Logan mumbles through a mouthful of food.

“Has no one taught you any manners?” Dallas laughs. Logan shrugs before shoving another full bite into his mouth.

The praise is nice compared to what I had gotten used to with Sam. He never really complained about my cooking, but very few compliments followed after the first few times I cooked for him. So, hearing them so excited about such a simple meal warms my heart.

The boys finish quickly while I take my time with each bite. They focus on a basketball game they’ve put on TV and talk to the players as if they can hear their every word. As I sit here, listening and watching, I find myself smiling and laughing with them. A shake of my head when their team screws up. Loud whoops and hollers fill the room when they score. It’s natural. Easy.

I watch as I clean up dinner, put the dishes in the dishwasher, place the leftovers in the fridge, and wipe down the counters. They remind me of my dad. He used to talk to the TV like that, too. I think most dads do. I think he would like Dallas. I think they would get along. Especially about baseball. I think Dad would go to every game, hell, he’d probably go to every practice, too.

I wonder if Dallas’s dad goes to his games. Or if he used to go before all hell broke loose. He’s always been supportive of my writing dreams. I can’t imagine he’d be different with his kids, but who knows? People can surprise you sometimes. And did he learn to play baseball from his father? Or talk to the TV from him? His father has always been kind to me. I think he got that from his dad. Maybe his mom gave him his sense of humor, and his good looks. There’s still so much I don’t know about him. But I want to.

And as I think about Dallas’s family, I find myself wishing I could talk to mine. Wishing my dad was still alive, and wishing my mom could understand me a little better. Wishing we got along at all. I wish Cameron and I were closer in age so that we could share our life experiences with each other a little more without feeling like we’re living in two different worlds.

I join the boys on the couch and let them yell and cheer. And when their team wins, I cheer and watch them jump up with fists in the air and smiles on their faces. This is what joy looks like. This is what life is supposed to be like.

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