Page 64 of Off Court Fix

Crosby lets go of the steering wheel and reaches over to pinch my thigh. I snatch his hand, placing it on my lap.

“I wasn’t all that bad,” he begins before cocking his head toward my window. “I did break into that house over there one time though.”

My head flings to the side. “Youwhat?”

“I mean, I used the key. It was under the mat.”

“Whose house is that?”

“Not sure who it belongs to now. But back in high school, Gary Sanderson lived there. Typical jock loser, as if he had anything to be proud of. Southampton High School football never had a winning season in history.” Crosby chuckles to himself. “What?” he asks when I don’t say anything.

I turn in my seat, releasing Crosby’s hand. “I’m waiting for the breaking and entering part of the story.”

“He stole my copy ofMoby Dick. And I guess when I think about it, I didn’t really break in. I told you, I used a key.”

“A key to a house that didn’t belong to you,” I remind him.

Crosby waves his hand. “Semantics.”

I shake my head with a laugh and lean back against the seat. This is a moment I want to remember, and it’s not just because the two of us are together, riding in a car in daylight. It’s because, for the first time since I met him, Crosby gives me an opening to understanding him beyond what I know—that he’s a confident, well-kept, middle-aged man with a knack for order and rule.

A few more minutes into our drive, I learn that, really, he was quite the troublemaker growing up. He shares stories of pranks, of partying, of covering the high school principal’s car with cling wrap. And now that I’ve seen it, the playfulness on his face, the lightness to his voice as he tells me stories of the ruckus he once caused, I can’tunseeit.

And I learn something about myself, too. As much as I’m attracted to the side of Crosby I met in St. Patrick’s on that awful night—the curt, confident, handsome man with insanely good hair and a grin that stops me in my tracks, who drew me in with a listening ear and quick wit—I like this side of Crosby too.

I’m lost in my thoughts when we come to a stop sign and the greenery flanking us comes to a halt, and I realize I don’t know where we’re going.

“It’s a surprise,” Crosby tells me when I ask, but it’s only a few minutes later I recognize the charming homes of Sag Harbor. Crosby detours to avoid the small town’s main drag, and we find ourselves at the far side of the harbor. “Let me run into the deli and grab us some lunch. Wait here.”

I watch Crosby cross the road and enter the deli, reappearing a few minutes later with a bag.

He walks around, opening the trunk. “Come on. We’re going to the one at the end.”

I lift my head, taking in the line of boats before I think for a minute. “We’re notstealingit, are we?”

“I have a key.”

“Crosby!”

He laughs. “Relax. It’s Dave’s boat. We’re borrowing it, and before you ask,yes, he knows. Nothing reckless with you.”

Isn’t just being together reckless? There’s a level of anonymity to the Hamptons I appreciate. Even if I’m recognized, people aren’t bothersome, and rarely do I ever mind anyone approaching me for a photo or an autograph. But the issue isn’t just me. It’s us together after our very public argument that happened to be captured on national TV and was covered in the media for weeks on end.

So, it isn’t justWow, there’s Maxine Draper.

Now, it could be,Hey, that’s Maxine Draper. And isn’t... isn’t that the guy? That umpire?

That makes for more interesting conversation.

But like the night we met, I put blind faith and trust in Crosby, and we walk normally across the grassy lawn toward the water and down the dock to Dave’s boat. We don’t hold hands but lightly bump into each other repeatedly because that’s all we can get in the moment.

I take it. I take the brush of his hand, the feel of the dark hair dusting his strong forearm. And when we get to the boat, Crosby holds his hand out for me—like any gentleman would.

But there’s more, a silent reassurance that brings a smile to my face and a rush to my heart—Crosby gives my hand an extra squeeze before letting go.

Once again,we’re back to the situation where Maxine is taunting and teasing, again in a barely-there bikini, and I’m tempted to hook a finger through the knot at the back of her neck holding the flimsy fabric to her body.

But I don’t, and it’s not because we’re on a boat out in the middle of the bay. It’s because for the first time in a long time, I’m finding I enjoy the company of a woman beyond our bodies conjoined together horizontally.

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