Chapter Seven
Eliza
“A theater is the most important sort of house in the world, because that’s where people are shown what they could be if they wanted, and what they’d like to be if they dared to, and what they really are.”
—Tove Jansson
Dear God, if you could please strike down Reed Fulton with a mighty lightning bolt right now, I promise I’ll curse less and go to church more. Amen.
Reed waved to me from the railyard parking lot, and the skies stayed clear.
So much for the power of prayer.
Was there nowhere in this freaking small town for a girl to find some peace?
I closed my script and glared down at his tall shadow. “So what, are you following me now?” First the catwalk, now here…What’s next, my favorite booth at Jenny’s?
He scooped up another couple of rocks, tossing them into one of the empty trash cans near the boarded-up entrance of the station. “Can’t a guy just walk home?”
I pointed toward the Fulton farm behind him, the town limits a literal stone’s throw from one of their fields. “Home’s that way.”
He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted toward the cornfields. “ ‘It’s okay, honey! I was just talking to the corn.’ ”
“Excuse me?”
He faced me. “ ‘This is my corn. You people are guests in my corn.’ ”
Still loved quoting movies, I guess.
“ ‘Is this heaven?…No, it’s Iowa!’ ” He tossed his baseball up and caught it in his glove. “You seriously haven’t seen that movie?”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. All I wanted was a quiet place to get away, and now here I was in the million-degree humidity listening to Reed speak Field of Dreams quotes to his corn.
Then again, while he continued pretending to be Ray Kinsella, maybe I could escape?
The closest ladder was only a few feet away, but it was right behind him, and this railcar was notorious for squeaking.
I guess I could go with the classic plan B: ignore him until he got bored enough to leave.
“Are you giving me the silent treatment hoping I’ll give up and go home?” he asked.
Damn.
“Crowley, I thought you were smarter than that.”
I was smarter than that. My SAT scores may have sucked, but I wasn’t stupid.
“So the question remains.” He tossed the ball up again, higher this time, and caught it while still looking at me. “Does the daughter of one of the best baseball coaches on the East Coast know one of the greatest baseball movies of all time? Survey says no.”
Ha. He couldn’t be more wrong.
I had memorized James Earl Jones’s baseball monologue from Field of Dreams years ago when I auditioned for the role of Fiona in Shrek Jr. for our middle school spring musical.
I nailed the audition but had to drop out before the callback because I had gotten mono.
At the time, I was devastated, but in the end it all worked out.
Lauryn got the lead—she slayed it—and I shadowed a college student who ran lighting and sound, thus beginning my love of the technical side of theater.
Reed threw the ball up again and caught it behind his back.
Show-off.
“Who am I kidding,” he continued. “You probably don’t know that movie any more than you do The Sandlot.”
I rolled my eyes. “Whatever.”
There goes the silent treatment. But how could I stay silent? Anyone who claimed to be a fan of baseball but not of those movies could not be trusted any more than a theater “fan” who claimed CATS was Andrew Lloyd Webber’s greatest musical.
Reed grinned like he won whatever standoff we were having, and his annoying dimple made an appearance.
Could I hit it with my pencil?
The wind did feel just right for such a throw.
He stepped closer to the railcar. “Can I come up?”
“No.” I opened my script to where I’d left off.
“Why not?”
“Because some of us have work to do this summer.” I flicked my ponytail off my neck, which was damp with sweat.
“What if I promised to leave”—he stepped onto the first rung of the ladder and paused—“if you let me sit up there with you for…twenty minutes?”
Twenty minutes? Had he lost his mind?
Then again, I might if he stayed for longer.
“Crowley?”
“I’m thinking,” I snapped.
He did say the word “promise,” but could I really trust him to keep his word? I needed leverage. Something he’d hate to lose…
“I’ll give you ten,” I conceded, “but you’ll have to surrender your ball and glove.”
He took another step up, his head appearing over the edge of the railcar. “Seriously?”
“Ball and glove or it’s no deal.” Dad might’ve been a fool putting the stadium up for grabs this summer, but I wasn’t one.
“Fifteen.”
“Twelve.”
“Do you always have to have the last word?” he asked.
With you? Yes. “Twelve or it’s no deal.”
He sighed and slapped his glove with the ball in it onto the railcar before climbing up, his T-shirt lifting just high enough to show a hard, toned stomach.
But abs didn’t change anything, no matter how sharp those lines were. Nope.
After he reached the top, I snatched his glove and scooted a couple of feet away, letting out a loud yelp when my thighs hit the scorching metal.
Perfect. Less than, what, a minute, and already he was making me burn myself?
I whipped out my phone and set an alarm for twelve minutes.
Twelve minutes.
I could last for that long if it gave me another sixty or so of peace before I had to head home.
But then he grabbed my play from my lap.
“Hey, give that back,” I yelled.
He set it down behind him. “If you get my glove, I get your play.”
Ugh. “Fine.”
He could have it, but I wouldn’t be the first one to speak.
“Man, it’s really hot today,” he said after a long seventy-five seconds. “I had forgotten how bad the humidity gets here.”
Grandma had always said the humidity kept her skin healthy, but I still hated it.
The high-pitched music of the ice cream truck sounded from Main Street. The kids in Fairfield were probably jumping on their bikes, racing one another to Mr. Lee before he ran out of his famous homemade shaved ice.
“Man, I’d kill for a strawberry-mango right now,” Reed said, turning toward the sound.
“Blue raspberry is still top tier.” I crossed my legs.
“False.” Reed drummed a rhythm on the metal. “Honestly? I’m craving a burger.”
He glanced my way, but I checked my phone. Ten minutes and seventeen seconds to go.
“How’d you get here?” He looked around the parking lot, completely unfazed by my Jeep.
“That’s mine.” I pointed to the Jeep. “It used to be my grandmother’s. TJ fixed it up for me.”
He took off his hat and scratched his head. “I thought you drove a BMW?”
“Who told you that?”
“Heard it somewhere.”
With the way this town fawned over my family, I wasn’t surprised. “The Jeep just feels more like me,” I whispered.
“Bet your grandmother would’ve loved to see you drive it.” He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, by the way, about her passing. We didn’t hear about it till after the funeral, or we—”
“Would’ve come? Yeah, sure.” I fake laughed and turned away.
It had been three years but I could still feel that sharp, burning pain in my throat and that stabbing ache in my chest. Grandma’s funeral was, hands down, the worst day of my life, and yet I couldn’t make myself leave her side.
I had waited by her grave site till the streetlamps turned on, and then Lauryn came and walked me home.
“I should’ve been there,” he whispered.
She would’ve liked that.
Maybe a small part of me would’ve too.
Neither of us spoke for a few moments until a warm breeze moved over the railyard, making the building moan and the broken shutters shake. “Do you still believe in ghosts?” he asked.
I snorted. “I’ve never believed in ghosts.”
“Yes, you did.”
“No, I didn’t.”
Truth: I 100 percent did and still kinda do.
“Then why did you refuse to touch the station when we were kids?” He drummed his fingers against the empty railcar, the sound echoing underneath us. “You always made up excuses when I dared you.”
“Maybe I didn’t trust you not to shove me inside and lock the door.”
His finger drumming stopped. “That was your brother’s idea the first time, and you know it.”
Another railcar groaned when a stronger breeze moved in and around its broken windows and open doors. A small animal—a rabbit, maybe—scurried into the tall grass and bushes nearby, sending a cloud of gnats skyward.
Reed shuddered.
“Is the big, tough Reed Fulton afraid of ghosts?” I smirked.
“Only of your breath, Crowley.”
“Please. I chew gum like it’s my job.”
“Oh yeah?” He scooted closer.
He leaned across the now smaller space between us and inhaled slowly. The corner of his mouth turned up into a surprised smile, the same smile he had when I fell into him on the catwalk the other day. “Cinnamon?” he asked.
Why did his voice suddenly drop and sound all gravelly?
And why the hell was I once again close enough to feel the stubble framing his jawline?
“Big Red,” I blurted, scooting back. “Dad keeps a lot of it in the garage.”
Something backfired near the Fulton farm, sending a bunch of crows squawking into a row of trees.
Reed ran a hand over his face and groaned. “That’ll be Ben, screwing around in the barn. Again.”
From what Lauryn had already learned about him, I wasn’t surprised. Who would leave someone that reckless alone in a barn? We didn’t stock a lot of replacement parts for heavy farm equipment at the hardware store, but I knew enough about tools to recognize that farming stuff was expensive.
Maybe that was why Mr. Fulton wanted a team and agreed to the bet this summer? The earnings from the stadium would definitely help with running a farm as big as theirs.
Be that as it may, I wasn’t ready to throw in the towel and leave my entire life behind either. Go Cardinals.
The chimes from the Methodist Church on Main Street dinged the time. Seven o’clock. Five minutes left.
“So were you in on the Crowley prank last night?” he asked.
Ah, there it was. The real and oldest reason why a Fulton would ever want to sit down with a Crowley. It always came back to blame.
And I stupidly thought Reed was actually interested in catching up on lost time.