Chapter 27
The Yankees game is Saturday, and I spend the morning worrying about how I am going to keep my feelings from Gus.
He picked up on my little crush when it was still that, and I’m worried my new heart-exploding fever is going to show on my face the second Stewart pulls into the driveway.
Luckily, Gus is too excited about the Red Sox to notice that his mom’s gone mad.
Stewart picks us up on Goose Lane, and we leave the car right by the helicopter.
It’s a different one, a four-passenger version, and Stewart lets the boys sit in front for the better view.
Gus and Clay are buzzing in their seats, each in a Red Sox T-shirt, each in total disbelief.
I know exactly how they feel. Stewart puts his arm around the back of my seat and strokes the ends of my hair.
We land on the roof of Whitfield Tower, and Billy meets us outside the lobby to take us to the stadium.
There’s no game like the Red Sox vs. the Yankees, and everything seems to be buzzing with Gus’s energy.
Stewart directs us to a separate entrance and then up to his suite.
It has dark walls and leather seating. Huge television screens, unnecessarily, because an entire wall opens up to view the actual field.
Players are warming up below. Gus and Clay high-five and Stewart smiles at me.
“Let’s have something to eat,” he says. “Then we can go down to our seats.”
“These aren’t our seats?” I ask. “I might be disappointed.”
“They are, but I also got the front row on the third base line. Because of Howie Carver?”
Gus’s face goes slack like he’s going to pass out, and I think my heart just exploded.
“You’re kidding,” he says. “Tell me you’re not kidding.”
Stewart laughs. “I’m not. I like it up here but if you really want to feel it, it’s better down there.” We eat pizza and salad before heading down, and Stewart insists Gus and Clay each carry a big bucket of caramel corn with them. Stewart grabs hats from a cupboard as we go, one for each of us.
The Red Sox take the field and it’s as if Howie Carver is running directly toward us.
He tips his cap in our general direction and we all beam.
It’s a great game, four to two, Red Sox in the third inning.
The Yankees bring out Audrey’s relief pitcher boyfriend in the sixth inning.
I give Stewart a nudge and he smiles at me.
My phone pings with a text from Patsy: What??
She attaches a photo of her TV screen, Stewart smiling at me in the good seats.
Me: Gus won a raffle
It’s the first thing I thought of. These seats cost a month’s rent.
Patsy: And you invited Stewart Whitfield??
Me: Oh, ha. No. They’re the Whitfields’ seats. They donated them to the lifeguard camp but only three. So Gus won three. He bought the raffle tickets. At camp
I am truly the worst liar of all time.
Me: Anyway, Stewart’s in the seat next to us. Nicer than you’d think
Patsy: Mom would freak out
Me: Totally. Gotta go
Stewart’s watching me. “What was all that?”
“My sister saw us on TV. I made up a lame story that she bought.”
“You can tell your sister,” he says, frowning.
“I signed an NDA.”
“I know, but—” He stops himself. “You’re right.”
On the way out, Stewart stops to get T-shirts for my dad and Christopher, the ones that say Wicked Old Pahk on the back.
He buys Gus and Clay each a Howie Carver jersey.
Stewart and Gus argue about the Red Sox’s strategy for batting order on the way back to the car.
I don’t hear how it ends, but I watch as Stewart turns Gus’s cap around backward and Gus laughs.
It’s funny how sometimes when a moment is unfolding you’re aware that you will remember it for the rest of your life.
The turn of that cap is the beginning of something new, the first page of a fresh story.
I hold Stewart’s hand the whole way back in the helicopter. He drops Clay off first and then us. Gus runs into the house to show off all the new gear.
“Did he say thank you,” I ask Stewart by his car.
“About a hundred times.”
“Well, thank you. That was a once-in-a-lifetime for sure.”
I look up at him, and he has a questioning look on his face. “Was it?”
“I hope not,” I say, and steal a kiss.
I watch him pull out of the driveway, and I make my way up the porch steps. Gus is in the doorway. “Christopher’s never going to take that shirt off,” he says. The TV’s on inside and they’re watching all the postgame stuff.
“Probably not,” I say. I take a step toward the front door, and Gus steps to block me.
“You were holding hands in the helicopter even though no one was around to see,” he says.
Busted. There’s no way around this, and I’m not going to lie about this very real thing that’s happening in my life. “We were. Yes. We kind of like each other,” I say. “We do, actually.”
“Knew it.” He gives me a half smile.
I take the cap off his head and smack him with it in the chest.
“I like him too,” he says, replacing his cap. “And not just because of the great seats.”
“Fun today, right?”
“It was amazing,” he said. “I think the third base line is better than the private box.”
“All right, let’s not get too picky,” I say, leading him inside. “Last time we were there we were in the nosebleeds.”
He stops and turns to me. “I know, I’m just saying.” He’s quiet for a second. “It’s okay if you liked the good seats too.”
I stop and consider that. In one way or another I’ve been pushing back against the good seats my whole life. Stewart is the good seats. “What’s not to like,” I say.