Chapter 3 #3
In the bottom of the fourth, I hit a double to center field that went through Becca’s legs.
But I didn’t make it any farther than second base as Rhonda Coates hit a pop fly to close out the inning.
I got on base again in the sixth, but was tagged out by the high school principal, Jim Gentry, trying to steal second.
Neither instance put me in range of Bonnie, who was a pretty solid third baseman.
She struck out again in the seventh, but she didn’t say a word. No, Hey, how are you? Or Thanks for holding my hair back. Again with the silent treatment. To be honest, I hadn’t seen that coming. I’d fully expected her to be awkward and appreciative—a repeat of that morning in my apartment.
But while she was doing her best to ignore me, I knew she was still aware.
I caught her glancing my way a few times, her pale cheeks going a rosy pink before she managed to hide her face.
I noticed the stiffness in her shoulders as a result, the way she held herself in check so tightly.
It was clear I made her uncomfortable, and I wasn’t sure why I found that so frustrating.
Maybe she didn’t want the reminder of the night she was trying to forget.
Either way, I clearly needed to stop assuming I knew people after one brief encounter.
Things took a turn in the bottom of the seventh. The game was all tied up, and I’d just taken my place on first base after being walked by the pitcher. Will batted next and managed a double that just barely stayed in bounds and got me over to third, where Bonnie gave me a wide berth.
Jordan was up to bat, and the Teachers’ Lounge pitcher and catcher were taking a moment to confer.
Some part of my antagonistic teenage self must have still been alive and kicking because I turned my attention to Bonnie and teased, “I’m not going to bite, Clyde.”
Her pretty brown eyes snapped to mine in surprise, and she frowned. “I know that.”
“Well, you’re practically in the dugout trying to get away from me.”
“I am not,” she argued.
I tried to keep the amusement off my face at her combativeness, but didn’t manage it. She huffed and crossed her arms over her chest, but her glove made the action cumbersome, so she gave up and let her arms fall back to her sides.
Suddenly, a voice called from behind her, “Bonnie, you okay?”
She startled, then immediately piped up with a huge fake smile, “Of course!”
I glanced briefly at the guy who stood on the steps to the dugout. Generic brown hair, mid-thirties, with his rec league tee shirt tucked into tan pants. He had administrator knight in shining armor written all over him. Someone was very aware that Bonnie Clark was no longer married.
She stepped closer to the bag, but she was still farther away than necessary. Then she hissed out of the side of her mouth, “You’re getting me in trouble.”
I nearly laughed. That . . . was a gross exaggeration for what had just happened. “Can’t help it. That’s what happens when I’m around principals in khaki pants.”
Jordan must have made contact because Bonnie and I both startled at the sound of the bat cracking. But the ball went foul over the teachers’ dugout.
“I might make a break for it,” I teased some more. “Steal home if you’re giving me so much leeway.”
Bonnie took two tiny steps closer to me, and I grinned.
“Um, actually, I baked you some muffins. As a thank-you for”—her gaze dropped—“the other night. They’re blueberry. I hope you like them.”
I knew it. She was one of those people who sent thank-you notes and followed up, and probably majored in people-pleasing. Frowning, I didn’t know why that bothered me so much. I liked it better when she was giving me shit for getting her in trouble.
I must have stayed quiet too long because Bonnie jumped in, her words rushing over one another. “I know muffins don’t really make up for the”—she paused to swallow hard—“inconvenience.”
“Inconvenience?” I repeated, dumbly.
She nodded, the bill of her baseball cap dipping down.
“Yeah. Of having to wrangle some irresponsible drunk person. I still don’t know how I ended up at your place, but I’m sure you had better things to do with your night.
It was immature and inconsiderate of me.
I hope I didn’t get you in trouble with your boss. ”
With my boss. Christ. I nearly rolled my eyes.
But something about her self-assessment felt all wrong. Sure, I didn’t know her very well, but I got the impression that irresponsible, immature, and inconsiderate were not adjectives anyone would use to describe Bonnie.
So I asked, “Do you do that sort of thing often, then? I’ve never seen you drinking at Magnolia before.”
“No, of course not,” she replied emphatically, as if the very idea were preposterous.
I put my hands on my hips and stared at her in confusion. “So what are you over-apologizing for? You already thanked me and said you were sorry—multiple times—Sunday morning. I know you meant it. I don’t need you to prove it with blueberry fucking muffins.”
“Right. Sorry, I shouldn’t have—”
“Stop apologizing.”
She frowned. “It’s polite to acknowledge bad behavior.”
I scoffed. “It was barely bad behavior.” I’d done a hell of a lot worse in my day. Vandalism, breaking and entering. What was a little public drunkenness from the hometown sweetheart?
Bonnie’s gaze narrowed further, and she gritted out, “I like baking, so it was no trouble.”
“I don’t want your self-flagellation muffins, okay?” I snapped, unwilling to let this go.
If she’d been wearing pearls, she would have clutched them. Bonnie opened her mouth to argue—I could tell—but right then Jordan Rockford ran up from the direction of second base.
“Uh, Jack,” he panted out. “You want to maybe run to home plate? My RBI won’t score itself.”
It wasn’t until then that I noticed the volume of the crowd cheering for the Bar Hoppers, the flurry of movement from the other team, scrambling deep in the outfield after the hit Jordan must have made that I hadn’t registered.
Bonnie’s wide, surprised brown eyes met mine for a split second before Jordan was pushing me off third base and toward home. I took off, crossing the plate just before the teachers’ catcher snagged the ball and lunged toward me.
The umpire swept his arms out wide. “Safe!”
And then my team was on me, cheering and patting my batting helmet, offering high fives. When I managed to see over everyone crowding me, I couldn’t find Bonnie anywhere.
Someone shouted out to both teams, “Drinks at Mattie B’s!” and another cheer went up.
We eventually retreated to the dugout to put away our equipment, which the parks department provided.
A few minutes later, leather jacket in place, I walked toward my bike.
I caught myself looking around the parking lot to see if I could spot Bonnie.
She was probably getting into a minivan or something equally fitting. But I didn’t see her anywhere.
When I was twenty feet away, I noticed a bright spot of something on the seat of my motorcycle. As I got closer, I realized it was a turquoise Tupperware container, small enough to fit in my saddlebag.
There was a half sheet of notebook paper on top. A short message had been hastily scrawled in quick, messy script.
I read the note, an ironic smile twisting my lips as my fingers traced the torn edge. After a final glance around the busy parking lot, I still couldn’t find the woman who’d been nothing but a distraction since she’d stumbled her way into my life.
Huffing a quiet laugh, I placed my catching glove and the Tupperware carefully into my saddlebag. Then I folded the note and slid it into my pocket.
I didn’t know what it said about me that I couldn’t accept her thank-you the way she’d intended.
That I’d argued with her and goaded her into reacting, scribbling on a piece of paper she’d likely found in her car.
Maybe now, the baked goods weren’t just some people-pleasing gift to acknowledge something any decent human being would have done.
It was quite possible they contained a little bit of spite that had me eagerly anticipating them with my morning coffee.
Finally, I revved my engine and took off toward Mattie B’s, thinking about the single line of snarky text Bonnie must have written in a fit of annoyance. I smiled beneath my helmet.
Blueberry Muffins (dairy-, nut-, and self-flagellation-free).