Page 67 of Curveball
Me: Cookies or a cupcake?
It’s occurred to me off and on that, even though I have feelings for this guy, I don’t know as much as I’d like about him—about his everyday life. This is as good a place to start as any other.
A combination of second thoughts and giddy anticipation assails me from the moment I send my message, and continues through the dark of the night, like some sort of reverse lullaby, keeping me awake when I need to be up early to deliver Dylan to Gabe’s house.
What kind of stupid question was that?
He’s going to think you’re deranged.
When I wake to several text notifications—including one from Max—I rush to open his first. It has to be his response to last night’s question.
His response is . . . playful?
Bad Boy: How many cookies?
He’s a bit flirty, andoh, maybe I’m not a weirdo after all.
I leave the rest of the messages for later and hop out of bed. They’re all from Alejandro, andJesus,does this man know how to blow up an already nerve-rattling morning.
But once I drop Dylan at Gabe’s house, chat with his parents for more time than I intend, and then leave, I’m in a rush to be on time to work. I don’t even have time to stop for a latte as a reward for not crying when I left my son. It’s not that I don’t know both his dads; we’ve spent endless hours sitting together at baseball games and carpooling to camp each summer. So, why the extra emotion today? Why does this trip hit differently than any of the others?
Unless it’s not sadness I feel for my boy taking off, but anticipation for what could happen while he’s away? Tonight will be the first opportunity Max and I have to spend time together, one on one, without tiptoeing around our pair of adolescents.
A delighted grin splits my face, and the warmth in my chest lasts through the morning, till around noontime when my phone dings with an incoming message and I discover my bad boy has continued our game.
Bad Boy: Pizza or pasta?
Well, this is a no-brainer. My response is nearly immediate.
Me: but only from Zito’s
Immediately, the mild fluttering of nervous butterflies in my belly becomes a full-fledged swarm of ninja locusts, rolling somersaults and high kicking, and generally wreaking all kinds of havoc. I contemplate this as I pull into school and unlock my classroom.
His return message is almost immediate.
Bad Boy: Now you tell me
I wonder if he’s referring to the night we took the kids to Dugout Pizza after a losing game, and the fans there were feral. Must be, right? I send back a sympathy emoji, because he may be accustomed to that sort of treatment, but to me, the memory just isn’t funny.
For the next few hours, I’m counting on my summer students to blatantly misbehave, repeatedly ask for a bathroom pass, and frustrate me with their inane questions. For today only, I don’teven care if they learn anything. Their mission is solely to keep me distracted until my sub arrives and I’m off for his eleven o’clock game. After that, my bad boy in his snug-fitting uniform pants will provide all the distraction I can handle.
I arrive at Music City Park early to give myself plenty of time to locate my seat before the national anthem. Don’t know why, but on my previous visit, I entered on the opposite side of the park than the gate to my allotted section. Today is no exception, especially when I realize the seat he reserved for me isn’t off in some far section, but is front and center.
“Hi,” comes a friendly voice from the cute auburn-haired girl sitting beside me. She holds down my hinged stadium seat so I can drop into it somewhat gracefully, even with my hands loaded down with the snacks I stopped for in the concession area.
“Thanks,” I murmur in appreciation to this stranger for the assist with my chair. “It’s a bit of a gauntlet, isn’t it, sliding past all those knees without spilling on anyone.”
“Yeah, it can be, all right. I’m Christy. This is Nolan.”
“Palmer.” I settle my drink into the cup holder on the back of the seat in front of me and say hello to the young boy sitting on Christy’s other side.
“Nolan, huh?” I say to him. “Were you named after the great ball player?”
The boy shakes his head. “Nope, but everybody asks me that.” I chuckle, and Christy ruffles his hair, which makes him pull away and climb back in his seat.
“Hey, I think they’re going to start soon,” he yells, obviously excited about the game.
I look out over the field where the team is coming into the dugout after warming up. I munch on a nacho, then reach for my beer.
