7. seven
seven
Nora
“Oh, no,” Claire gasps next to me. “This is not good.”
The cameras pan to Brooks, and his handsome face appears on the big screen across the ball field. My heart glitches at the sight of him in all his long-lashed, blue-eyed, athletic glory. He’s got shock and disappointment etched into every line of his features. The slant of his easy smile is replaced by a frustrated frown.
I press my hands to my heart as the crowd around us erupts into angry jeers.
“Come on now!” I say loudly, gesturing to the general mayhem around me. “He doesn’t deserve that!”
“He caught the ball,” Dad booms, leaning over to join the conversation from down the row. “Could any of you have done that? Didn’t think so.”
“Cut the guy some slack!” Sydney cries out.
But it would appear that the Stormbreakers fans present tonight are not in a forgiving mood. They’re swearing and screaming at Brooks like they’ve each been personally wronged.
“They can still come back,” Trent adds as an aside, mostly to me, I think. “It’s not too late.”
I want it for him. I want them to come back and win this thing. They deserve it.
I add my cheers to those of our families, hoping Brooks can somehow feel that all is not lost from his position way down there on the field.
But if the Brooks Alden before me is anything like the one I dated in high school, he’s going to feel this mistake deep in his bones. He’s going to absorb it into his soul and stew over it for weeks, replaying it in his mind until the right person tells him to move on, and he finally decides to listen.
Usually, I was that person. I wonder who talks him out of his perfectionist slumps now.
“Get back up, bro!” Caroline hollers. “You’ve got this!”
And they do, partially. Cortez successfully strikes out the next hitter, but my heart is still rapping against my chest fearfully as the inning ends.
The damage may have already been done.
At the bottom of the ninth inning, it feels like the entire stadium is holding its breath. All hope is not lost. The Stormbreakers still have the opportunity to tie the game and pull ahead.
Unfortunately, despite the booing of the crowd, the Raptors closer is in peak performance mode tonight. He strikes two batters out before the third hitter sends the ball sailing into the outfield.
The ball is caught, and the energy leaks out of the stadium in a slow whoosh. The game is over. The Stormbreakers have lost. My heart is heavy as I seek Brooks out on the field, wondering how he feels right now. No doubt he’s just as devastated, or even more so than the fans present.
Claire starts crying. Actually crying. And so does her mother. They stand and embrace each other, tears leaking down their cheeks.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, patting Claire on the shoulder and looking between them sympathetically.
“Don’t be sorry!” Mrs. Alden cries, swiping below her eyes. “We’re disappointed, of course, but it’s not all bad. He played a fantastic game.”
“We’re just relieved!” Claire says on a long exhale. “This means Brooks is done. The season is over. We’ll finally get to see him again!”
I wonder if Brooks feels the same way about ending his season with this disappointing loss. Highly doubtful.
“We’ll get ‘em next time,” Dad says, probably with great effort since he’s seated right next to the family of one of the players. I’m sure his filter will come off, and my family will get an earful on the way home.
We slowly funnel towards the stairway, shuffling as the crowd moves towards the exits.
“Normally, we’d hang out for a bit and try to catch Brooks before he heads home,” Claire says from behind me. “But I have a feeling he’s not going to be in a chatty mood tonight. Plus, look.” I follow the line of her gaze down to the field, where Brooks is being swarmed by reporters. “He’s not going anywhere any time soon.”
My heart pinches at the sight of him surrounded by a hungry pack of media hyenas. In another life, I would have been the one to help cheer him up after a game like this. I watch him with a pit in my stomach, knowing he’s probably beating himself up right now, especially as the Raptors are celebrating wildly nearby. It kills me to know that there’s nothing I can do about it.
“I’m sure he would have loved to see you,” Claire says.
“Had he won,” Caroline adds, ever honest.
“That’s okay,” I say. “This was amazing. Thank you for the great seats.”
“Don’t thank us,” Claire says with a sneaky smile. “Thank Brooks. You’ve got his number now, right?”
My cheeks warm. “Yep. I do.”
The twins share a look that makes me feel like I’ve just walked into a trap.
On the car ride home, Sydney pulls up a post-game interview on her phone.
“I’m here with Brooks Alden, shortstop for the Seattle Stormbreakers, and I’ve got to say, tonight was wild,” the reporter says. “You made an unbelievable snag there in the eighth inning, but I’ve got to know, what went wrong?”
“There’s no excuse, really. I missed the throw. Simple as that,” Brooks says humbly, hands on his hips. “I tripped up and threw it wide. I’ll own up to it, and yeah, I’m disappointed, too.”
“Like I said, you still made a great athletic play, something we’ve seen you do consistently throughout the season, but things happen, right?”
“Things happen,” Brooks repeats . “But the boys and I left it all out on the field tonight. So although I wish things would have ended differently, I can’t say that we didn’t get after it this season because we did. I’m proud of that.”
The reporter thanks Brooks as he turns to field more questions from the surrounding bouquet of microphones vying for his mouth.
“He could have easily pinned that on Jonah Bell,” Trent says from the driver's seat. “But he didn’t. He owned up to his mistake.”
“That’s true,” I say with a sigh as Sydney swipes out of the interview on her phone.
“The noble thing to do,” Sydney says, and she catches me yawning in the rearview mirror. “I hope you don’t have an early morning at Delia’s tomorrow. Please tell me you get to sleep in?”
“No rest for the manager.” My eyeballs hurt just thinking about what time I’m going to have to wake up tomorrow to get things rolling at the diner.
“Do you ever take a day off?” Trent asks.
“Can’t afford to,” I say in what I hope is a light tone and not laced with bitterness. It’s not entirely true. I technically could take a day off as the manager, but I choose not to. My sole income plus Nate’s meager child support doesn’t exactly allow for a whole lot of extra spending. Me and Ollie are happy and content with a simple life, but I have been contemplating lately how I can make our situation better without becoming a part-owner in the diner. Delia’s has been good to me, but I’ve realized after having a kid that I don’t want to be there forever.
“Have you thought about my offer to host a ceramics workshop for you at Wildwood?” Sydney offers, again. She’s brought up this idea several times, but I can never seem to take her up on it with my work schedule. The cabins that she and Trent own together at Wildwood hold some kind of magic that I haven’t forgotten since my stay when I was pregnant with Ollie two years ago. They’re tucked away in a forest about thirty minutes west of Kitt’s Harbor. “I still think it’s a great idea. You could earn a little extra money, sleep over afterwards, and Trent will even make you breakfast.”
“Hope you like burnt toast.” Trent grins.
“You really think people would come?”
“Absolutely,” Sydney says. “Need I remind you that people have been asking for a way to purchase your work for years? I also think you should do the Harvest Market coming up. I’d love to help you set up a booth.”
“I could build you some shelves,” Trent adds.
I look between them gratefully, feeling extra lucky that they love me so well. I think about the rush of boldness that had prompted me to text Brooks back, how good it had felt to do something out of my comfort zone and act on a whim. It hadn’t gone exactly how I’d planned, seeing as I’d made the mistake of not actually sending the text, but I had felt brave nonetheless. I sit thoughtfully as Sydney fills the silence with ideas about how we could make my ceramics available to our community. Her confidence in me makes me want to throw caution to the wind and just go for it.
If I want things to change in my life, I’m going to have to start making different choices.
Maybe it’s time for me to start saying yes to things that make me uncomfortable. Things that I’m afraid of. Maybe it’s time for me to be brave again.
“You know what?” I say. “Let’s do it.”
“Really?” Sydney gasps, looking like Christmas came early.
“Yeah,” I say, feeling a tingly excitement at the possibilities she’d suggested. “I want to do it.”
“Okay,” she says excitedly. “I’ll get to work planning the workshop, and I’ll book you a booth at the Harvest Market.”
We share a smile, and I know she’s proud of me. It won’t be easy to make time for this with my work schedule, but I think it will be worth the effort.
It’s only once I’ve been dropped off at my empty house that I notice my ears are still ringing from the noisy crowds at the game, and I’ve got a headache pulsing behind my eyes. One night out, and I’m officially seventy-six years old.
It’s late, and I’m tired, so despite the itch in my fingers to get to work on throwing more plates, mugs, cups, and vases at the wheel so I’ll have enough inventory for the Harvest Market, I decide it can wait. I usually love ending my evenings by spending an hour or two in my studio. I find that it helps ease the tension out of my body, but tonight, my bed beckons.
Unfortunately, a very handsome baseball player continues to pop into my mind while I get ready for bed. As I remove my makeup, I dwell on the fact that Brooks is probably hurting badly right now and could use some cheering up.
Not your job, Nora. He’s probably got a gaggle of girls with him right now and is feeling a-okay about things. Just peachy.
Then why did he text you in the first place?
I change into a comfy t-shirt and my favorite green sweatpants and contemplate texting him again.
Before I know what’s happening, I’m snuggled up in bed with my phone in my hands, a draft of a text forming without my consent. It’s involuntary. It’s compulsive.
I shouldn’t do this…
And yet, his devastated expression keeps reappearing in my mind. Brooks was gutted tonight. I know he was. A few words of encouragement certainly wouldn’t hurt. It’s what I used to do for him when he was my boyfriend, and it always seemed to help him see his mistakes in the broader context of things.
Nora: Hey, Brooks. You played an incredible game tonight. It was awesome getting to see you do your thing again.Oh, and if you ever want to egg Frankie Fieldman’s house, I’m your gal. I’ve got pallets of them just sitting at the diner waiting to be put to good use.
I place my phone on its charger like a good girl, worry for twenty minutes about whether or not I should have sent that text, and then spiral into anxieties about Ollie. He doesn’t cry or get upset when I drop him off with Nate and part of me wishes he would. Watching my ex drive away with my tiny best friend makes every bone in my body ache.
I slip into a half-sleep, and it takes me a few minutes to register that my phone has vibrated a couple of times. I snatch it off the charger, heart pounding as I read the notification.
Brooks texted me.
He actually texted me.
Now I’m never going to fall asleep.
Brooks: Thanks, Nora. I hope you and your family enjoyed yourselves.Glad you finally figured how to properly hit send. *smiley face emoji*
I’m squealing now. Actual pig-squealing into my pillow. And I think my face might crack from smiling. Relief floods through me. He’s not mad. Or if he was, he’s choosing to tease me about it instead.
Nora: I’m so sorry! I feel so bad. My phone screen is cracked…you know how clumsy I am.
Brooks: Still? Haha. It’s all good.
Brooks: Did you bring your son to the game? I couldn’t see him, but maybe that’s because he’s tiny.
Nora: It was just me tonight. I love having Ollie with me, but it was nice to actually watch the entire game.
Brooks: Oh, no. You saw the whole thing? You sure you didn’t get up for a snack break during the bottom of the eighth? wink emoji
He’s sending emojis. I repeat, he is sending emojis. Is he flirting with me? Oh, good gracious. I hope not. I haven’t flirted in a long, long time. I’m Tow Mater level rusty.
Nora: You mean when you somehow acquired the necessary superpowers to catch that ball? Yeah, I definitely saw that. Your secret’s out.
Brooks : Dang it.
Brooks: I’m sorry tonight was the game you had to see.
I feel a pang in my chest as I read over his words.
Nora: Hey, nobody’s perfect, right? Mistakes happen. You still played an amazing game.
I watch the bubbles dance as Brooks types his reply, then disappear. His text comes through a few long minutes later.
Brooks: Thanks, Nora.
Do I reply? Do I let him have the last word? I can’t think of anything else to say that wouldn’t seem like a ploy to keep our conversation going, so I heart his text, then set my phone back on the charger and curl up under my blankets again.
A peculiar bubbly feeling is rising within me, like the sensation you get after drinking a really good, crisp sip of an ice-cold soda. And for the first time in a while, I embrace it, invite it to stay a while as I smile into my pillow.