Page 3 of Pitching for Keeps
"I'm fine!" I chirp. "Just thinking about... wedding stuff. So much wedding stuff to think about!"
Jay hides a smile behind his water glass, and I realize he knows exactly what I was doing. He could always read me like one of his scouting reports.
This is going to be the longest week of my life.
Dinner continues with more stories, more laughter, more careful avoiding of direct conversation with Jay. When Greg insists on picking up the check—"First of many celebrations this week!"—I think I might actually make it through this evening unscathed.
Then Megan announces, "Oh, we should exchange numbers! You know, for coordinating rides and stuff this week."
Phones appear around the table. I dutifully input numbers, telling myself it's fine, it's normal, it's just logistics. When I get to Jay, he holds out his phone with my contact already pulled up.
"You still have my number?" I blurt before I can stop myself.
"Never deleted it," he says simply, and something in my chest squeezes tight.
I update my information with shaking fingers, trying not to notice that he has me saved as "Tracy " in his phone. When I hand it back, our fingers brush, and it's like touching a live wire.
"Well!" I stand abruptly, nearly knocking over my chair. "This has been great, but I should—we should—Megan, we have that... thing. That wedding thing. That we need to do."
"What thing?" Megan looks genuinely confused. "We don't have any?—"
"The urgent thing. With the... flowers. Or possibly the cake. Very urgent cake-flower situation."
Jay stands too. "Actually, I should head out anyway. Early practice tomorrow."
"But it's only eight o'clock," Greg protests.
"Game day routine," Jay says, and I have to bite my tongue to keep from saying that his game day routine doesn't start until the morning of. He's lying for my benefit, giving me an out, and I'm pathetically grateful.
We all say our goodbyes, promises to see each other tomorrow ringing through the restaurant. I manage to make it to the parking lot before Megan pounces.
"Okay, spill," she demands, blocking my path to her car. "What was that about?"
"What was what about?"
"You and Jay! The weird energy. And you clearly know each other better than 'we had some classes together.' The way he looked at you like?—"
"Like nothing. There's nothing to spill. We knew each other in college, and it's not a big deal." I sidestep her and yank on the passenger door handle. It's locked, because of course it is.
"Tracy, I’ve known you for twenty-seven years, and you are the worst liar in the family. Your voice goes all squeaky, and you start talking about urgent cake-flower situations." She unlocks the car but doesn't get in. "What really happened between you and Jay?"
I could tell her. I could spill the whole story right here in this parking lot, about falling in love over baseball statistics and study sessions, about being his good luck charm for three perfect years, about the way it felt to lose him and pretend it was what I wanted.
Instead, I say, "We might have dated. Briefly. A million years ago. It's ancient history."
Megan's eyes light up like Christmas morning. "You dated? Tracy! This is huge! Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because it wasn't important. We dated, we broke up, end of story. Can we go now? I need to review the vendor contracts for?—"
"Oh my gosh," she breathes, "you're still in love with him."
"Why would you say something like that? I am not?—"
"You are! You totally are! That's why you were being so weird in the car, and why you know about baseball, and why you almost cried into your sweet tea when he said he never deleted your number!"
"I did not almost cry!"
"You did! You got that scrunchy face you make when you're trying not to feel feelings!" She's practically bouncing now, her teacher enthusiasm at maximum capacity. "This is perfect! It's like a romance novel! Former lovers reunited at a wedding?—"
