Chapter 19
19
[Bolan]
M y Tulip appears to bounce back rather quickly from her ear infection. Ruthie struggles another day or two before she looks more like herself again and she’s ready to leave the house.
It occurs to me that my wife and I haven’t had a proper date. Instead, we’re a family of three as we enter a local barbecue restaurant, known for their brisket. I’m pleased to learn Ruthie can put away the meat, as she eats a chicken leg-quarter, fries, and coleslaw. While I enjoy Japanese food—sushi, udon, and tempura—I’ve missed the hearty meats and potatoes of America. Like blackened brisket and mashed potatoes.
With my belly full, and a smile on my face, I suggest we drive somewhere to watch the sun set over the mountains. A quick search finds a place close to Phoenix with an easy climb. Our timing isn’t the best as it’s still late winter in the desert and the sun lowers early, but I’ve been told the clearness of the sky makes any place ideal for observing the overhead color change.
When we pull into Papago Park, I notice I’m not the only one with this idea. Still, we take our time to walk through the crowded parking lot and hit the gravel-like dirt common to the area. Tulane alternates between walking on her own, exploring as we go, and being picked up by me, to speed us along, especially as the sky continues to shift. Walking through the desert landscape of cacti and low brush, we don’t climb the highest peak, but a large mound where I take a seat facing west and settle Tulane in my lap. Holding out my hand, I assist Ruthie to sit beside me on the dusty rock.
I’m not much of a hand holder, having big hands that are often clumsy. Still, I clasp her hand and start to sweat a little bit when she doesn’t pull away either. Eventually, Ruthie scoots closer to me, so we sit hip-to-hip. Then she sets my hand on her knee, and her hand over the back of mine.
We sit in silence a few minutes before Ruthie starts pointing out the colors in the sky to Tulane.
“Orange.” She points at a stream of rusty red and then tugs at Tulane’s hair. “Like your hair.”
She aims her finger at another strand of light. “Yellow. Like mine.” Her hair hangs down, stick-straight, and she winds a few strands around her finger.
“And pink.” She pokes Tulane in the belly, emphasizing the color of her shirt and then points once more at the sky.
I’m not certain Tulane fully follows the direction of Ruthie’s finger or understands the correlation between the streaks in the sky and the comparison to hair color, but it’s amazing how Ruthie makes everything a game while also a learning experience.
“What’s your favorite color?” I ask, then quickly cut her off. “No, let me guess. Red? ”
Ruthie laughs. A genuine rumble that I’m not certain I’ve heard before. “Red feels too reckless for me.”
“Really?” I arch a brow, looking over at her. “A color can be reckless?”
“Definitely. And red is a reckless one.”
“Perfect for Reckless Ruthie.”
“Ha.” She snorts. “Not something someone would use to describe me.”
“Why not?” She had sex with me within an hour of meeting me. That’s pretty rash, all things considered. I recall feeling that sense of familiarity with her. Maybe it was a sense of rightness, which made the decision not quite so irresponsible. “You’re always wearing the color. The dress at the event. Your glasses. Your toenails.”
“My—” Ruthie glances down at her feet which are covered by her gym shoes. “How do you know that?” Her voice lowers to a curious whisper.
“I pay attention.” Not always. My ADHD can get in the way, but when I’m focused, I’m hyper-focused. And she has my interest piqued.
Ruthie straightens a second. Her shoulders back and her eyes aimed forward. “Well, thank you for noticing, but red is not my favorite color. What’s your favorite color?”
I shrug, having not really thought about it but I glance up at the sky again. The blue darkens as the sun lowers. The color matches the royal blue of Chicago Anchors uniforms, and the color feels lucky.
“I’d say blue today.”
Ruthie hums. “Blue is nice. Said to be a calming color.”
“You disagree,” I tease, bumping her shoulder with mine.
“I’m finding I’m partial to green lately.” Ruthie turns her head to face me. Her gaze locks on my eyes. “Green feels . . . safe.” Her voice lowers a bit. “And that’s a little scary. ”
My eyes widen, taking in her meaning. “How can something be safe yet frightening?”
“It’s unfamiliar,” she states, still looking at me.
With us staring at one another, the sun setting off in the distance, and Tulane on my lap, I understand her sentiment. This moment feels like a warm hug. An embrace you didn’t know you needed and then don’t want to let go of. Deep down inside me exists the fear that nothing this comforting can last. And I never want Ruthie to feel uncertain about me.
I sling my arm around her shoulders and tug her into my side. With my lips at her temple, I mutter. “Whenever you’re scared, flower, cling to green.”
Cling to me .
Spring training doesn’t offer many days off. Most games are played in the afternoons, so evenings are open for downtime or nightlife, depending on who you are.
Lately, I’m priding myself on being a family man and decline Valdez’s repeated invitation to attend nights out, chasing women already chasing ballplayers.
But when the Anchors win our second game, roughly a week after our first victory, it’s cause for celebration, and I long to go out with my team.
As I’m standing outside the stadium waiting on Ruthie, as I’ve grown accustomed to doing, Cyrus Sawyer claps me on the shoulder. “Come out with us tonight.”
Just as he asks, Ruthie appears before me, holding Tulane’s hand. They are the cutest Anchors fans I’ve ever seen.
I glance back at Cyrus. “I can’t.”
Cyrus peers from Ruthie to me and back. I look at Ruthie then Cyrus .
“You should go,” Ruthie says, her voice encouraging while a little off.
“Bring your wife,” he says at roughly the same time.
“My—” I’m dumbstruck a second. Despite calling Ruthie my wife in her presence, I don’t talk about her much during practice and games. Games are often too serious, but practices can be a time when players shoot the shit a little more. While other guys talk about their wives and girlfriends, I don’t speak up about Ruthie, mainly because I don’t feel I know enough about her.
We’ve been married roughly two weeks.
Cyrus nods toward my left hand and I glance down at the silicone ring on my finger, the visible sign that I’m a taken man.
“We’re going to a country bar. They have line dancing.”
I snort. “Do a bunch of city players know how to line dance?” Doesn’t matter. I love to dance.
Cyrus chuckles. “I’m a country boy at heart.” His accent thickens, the Southern twang growing more predominant.
“Ruthie,” Cyrus turns toward her. “Tell him he should come out with us. You both should come.”
The invitation doesn’t offer the one-on-one that Ruthie and I need for a date, but it would give her a break from Tulane and get us out together. Being my wife, she should meet the significant others of my teammates. Those ladies might be key support for Ruthie once the season hits full-on.
I arch a brow at her, and she fights a smile, nodding once toward me.
“Yeah, man,” I address Cyrus, while still looking at my wife . “We’d love to go.”
“Excellent.” He slaps my shoulder again. “Tonight. Eight o’clock. Gus Mackers. I’ll text you the address.”
He’s already walking away backwards and pointing at me with a finger gun, before spinning on his cleats and heading for the locker room .
“I don’t have to go with you, if you’d like time with your team.”
Team building is important, but I want bonding time with my wife. Turning toward her, I say, “Nah. I think it will be fun. We haven’t been out together . . . ever.”
She slowly nods, not pointing out the obvious that we won’t be alone, but this is a good first step.
I have a date with my wife.