Page 68 of Embers in the Outfield

Kennedy is inspecting each photo, admiring the love my parents had for their two rambunctious boys.

“Did your dad have a mullet?” Kennedy suppresses a laugh, and I smile.

“Yeah, Dad rocked that thing, at least from what I remember,” I say, although my dad didn’t have that hairstyle as we got older. He grew a mustache the last few years of his life, so that’s how I always envision him. He looks completely different in the first two years of my life.

But that mullet was in full force when Clay and I were merely babies, and it really wasn’t in at that point. I guess the guys at the station said he lost a bet, and that was his punishment, but then he kept the style going just to mess with them.

My mom pulls out another album, and I’m immediately reminded that’s the one she put together right before he died. She opens it up to the first page, and it’s our birthday a few weeks before he passed.

I don’t know what photo they’re on, but Kennedy is silent, taking in the page. My mom is rambling about how my dad couldn’t get enough of the water balloons we were tossing outside in the yard. I peer over Kennedy’s shoulder and see the photo they’re inspecting is one of my brother and me aiming water balloons at him, and my dad’s pretending to be shocked in the center. The smiles we’re all wearing are big, nearly taking over our faces.

My brother and I favor our mom in appearance, but something about the way my dad carried himself seems to be the biggest legacy we have held on to. My dad lived life largely, always chasing the next adventure. I think that says a lot about the fact he died walking toward a building that breathed instability and fear. He was ready to carry out his next assignment despite the fear that many carried as they ran away from the wreckage.

My mom keeps talking, but the more she carries on, I can’t help the dread that seems to be taking over my girlfriend’s face. I can tell all the color has left her face, and she looks like she saw a ghost.

“Hey, Kennedy, you okay?” I ask, putting my hand on her shoulder.

She doesn’t move, and her body is rigid. I look down at the photo, wondering if there’s something odd in the image in front of her. Much as I expected, the picture staring back at us is the one at that birthday with my brother and me goofing off with our dad.

Like a spark has been ignited back into her, Kennedy stands abruptly and declares, “I, um, I don’t feel good. Do you mind taking me home, River?” She doesn’t even turn to look at me. She’s already moving along, her body language closed off and uncomfortable.

My brother keeps looking down at the picture and then in the direction where Kennedy walked off. Before I can register what’s happening, Kennedy comes back in, her voice laced with unease when she speaks to me, “Please, River,” and I start to move about, saying a quick goodbye.

“I’ll stay here for a bit longer,” Clay says, grabbing the photo album and inspecting it further.

“Thanks for everything, Mrs. Nichols,” Kennedy directs to my mother flatly, and it’s like she only realizes Kennedy’s oddbehavior right then because my mom looks over to me with concern on her features. I shrug and wave a final goodbye before heading out the door.

Kennedy is already standing next to the passenger side door, waiting for me to unlock it.

The minute the car beeps, she shoves the door open and gets inside. I make my way to the driver’s side, trying to understand what just happened.

The drive back to Kennedy’s place is full of tense silence, filling my truck cab. Kennedy is pensive, her gaze glued to the outside of her passenger window.

The moment I park in the underground lot of her building, she’s rushing out of the truck, trying to get as far away from me as possible. She reaches the elevator, and had I not been close behind, I’m not too sure she would have held the doors for me. The ride up is just as quiet, riddled with tension, much like the ride in my car was.

As much as I want to give her space, this has gone on long enough. I’ve given her time to say something, letting me into this internal freak-out she seems to be experiencing, yet she’s getting more closed off by the second. The moment the doors open, she charges out, keys in hand, ready to get inside her home and away from me.

What the fuck is happening?

I stop the door from slamming, with Kennedy already moving through her home, putting her things down, trying to dispel the tension I see radiating off her.

I grab her shoulder, forcing her to turn toward me. “What the hell, Kennedy? What was that? What’s going on?”

It’s then I notice the tears that have started to fall down her cheeks. I’m lost and have no clue what instigated this reaction.

“What did you see at my mom’s house?” I keep throwing out questions, hoping something becomes more clear.

Her eyes look around her surroundings until she brings those bright green eyes to me. She gives a small nod, and I can’t help but feel it does little to soften the blow she’s about to throw at me.

“Your dad, he…” She moves her hands to rub her arms even though it’s a warmer day today. I wait to let her finish.

“He was the man that day,” she explains, yet I’m not following.

My expression must depict a puzzled look I can’t seem to hide.

When she doesn’t elaborate, I push further. “He was what man?” I’m still not following.

“He was the man who pulled me out of the car that day of the accident,” she says, and her voice is so small, so unlike Kennedy, I can’t seem to shake the unease that courses up my spine.

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