Chapter 22
CHAPTER 22
Nate
I barely say “bye” before the phone cuts out. Brooke is in a bathroom, and I’m surrounded by loud talking and some cheesy cover band playing AC/DC. The noise and the crowdedness makes me miss her even more.
Some woman came by and asked for all our autographs on a napkin, then stuffed it in her bra. That’s the kind of crap that makes me stay away from places like this. I much prefer a little kid wanting me to sign his cap.
After eating low-key meals in Apple Cart, I’d almost forgotten how hard it is to eat a quiet meal. Unless I get takeout, which I normally do.
But Ace wanted me to come out with him. I refused his offers of clubbing and beach bars, so we settled on a pool hall. We used to splurge on burgers and play pool for cheap entertainment as rookies, and he knows I have a weakness for nostalgia. As well as bacon cheeseburgers.
I take another bite of my food and try to drown out the noise. Funny how that skill works for me on the mound, but not always anywhere.
It’s nights like this I miss Dom. He was my other first roommate and an awesome catcher. A few years in, the Dodgers snatched him. Last year he retired and moved back to the Dominican Republic to coach young players. That was always his goal, and I admired him for it. I’m not certain if Ace has a goal, other than to live life like one big party.
Needless to say, Dominic and I had more in common. Except for him being the oldest of eight boys and me an only child. Plus, he had a great father figure. And thinking of that makes me miss Timothy too.
I almost choke on my tea when Ace slaps my back. “Come play some pool.” His perfect teeth shine in the dark lighting.
“Let me finish my food first.”
“Eat, sleep, work out.” His voice is monotone.
“I don’t sound like that.”
He laughs and slaps me harder. “Come on man, live a little. We’re not even thirty yet.”
I push back my chair and start to stand.
“All right, you’re in.”
“Nope. Going to the restroom.” I stand and drain my tea, then pass him.
He boos behind me, but stops when I take a few steps. I hear him talking with a woman and shake my head.
This is one guy I don’t see settling down. Dom, definitely. Me, Lord, please, with Brooke. Ace, never.
I pull open the heavy metal door to the restroom and open the door to a stall. After I’m done, I rush to wash my hands. My goal is finishing my meal and heading home before something crazy happens with Ace. Because it always does when he’s involved.
As I’m grabbing a paper towel, I see a woman standing behind me from the mirror. I flinch and turn around when I recognize her from earlier.
“Ma’am, this is the men’s restroom.”
“I know.” She does something sensual with her lips. “And I’m no ma’am.”
I exhale in frustration. This doesn’t happen to me often, but when it does, the women are relentless—and crazy.
“If you’ll excuse me.” I wipe my hands and shift to sidestep her.
She presses herself closer until we’re about an inch away. Then she pulls the napkin from her cleavage. “You forgot to write your number.”
“No, it’s on there. Number sixteen.” I tighten my lips, showing no sign of amusement.
“I meant your phone number.”
Obviously, but I don’t give that away.
She reaches for my belt and I shrink back against the counter. I could move this woman with one finger, but that would do one of two things. Either give her the impression I’m interested or have her report me for physical abuse. Regardless, I won’t win.
I have no choice but to resort to distraction. “Let me fix that for you.” I take the napkin from her hand.
I turn and drop it in the sink, then twist the faucet. Water flushes the napkin, and she shrieks.
Luckily, she’s so focused on the napkin disintegrating that I slide by her and out the door. Ace is at our table with a woman on both sides of him when I return.
In my estimation, I have about two minutes before the bathroom barracuda either slings a drink at me or keys my truck. I pull a hundred from my wallet and slap it on the table. Then I pick up my plate and head for the door. A hundred dollars should more than cover the cost of that plate.
I hurry outside and climb in my truck. Only when I’m safely at a red light about a mile away do I relax and stuff a few fries in my face.
I have somewhat of a reputation for stealing plates both on and off the field. But it’s always for a good reason.
The light turns and I drive toward my condo. Nine years ago, I left Pool Pub in Atlanta with a half-eaten burger on a plate. Back then, it was a huge sacrifice to leave a twenty, and my truck barely made it to Tuscaloosa.
This time feels eerily familiar, except I comfortably left a hundred, I’m in a nice ride, and I’m going to my luxury condo by the beach. That should make it better, but it doesn’t.
Nine years ago, I was on my way to see Brooke.
It would be the last time I saw her in person before our breakup, but I had no clue. Still, I don’t regret going.
I’d follow Brooke to the ends of the Earth as long as she wants me. Good thing she’s in Apple Cart, which isn’t too far from me.
It’s also much quieter, and I can live a normal life. To everyone there, I’m Nate Miller, or Anne’s son. And the only autograph I’ve signed for anyone over fifteen was on a Chipper Jones jersey.
* * *
I arrive at the Florida condo, aggravated I’m not in Apple Cart. I should be thankful I’m able to join spring training, but I miss Brooke.
My burger and fries are reduced to crumbs. After I park in the deck, I open my door and shake them from the plate. I may as well take this plate inside. I did pay for it.
Round, white, and heavy, it’s the same kind of plate I ran out with years before. Funny how things change and stay the same all at once.
The blankness of it makes me miss Brooke even more. Many nights I’d stare at the words she scribbled on the original plate with a permanent marker. She’d kissed beside the message, leaving a red lip stain.
Over the years, the lipstick faded, and I found myself doing all I could to preserve the plate best I could.
Whenever I moved my stuff, I’d pack it separately and carry it myself. If it ever broke, I imagine I’d try to glue it back together.
On some level, that’s what I’m trying to do with our relationship. Except this time I want the glue to be extra strong. Not like when we were young and let busyness and distance keep us apart.
It’s close to ten when I unlock my front door. Brooke may be in bed, so I settle for sending her a message instead of calling. She sounded tired earlier, which I assume is common for someone who works at a hospital all week, then takes a bunch of kids to the Moonshine County ballpark.
I set the plate on my kitchen counter and shoot her a text.
Wanted to say I love you one more time.
I hit Send and go to my room for a shower. When I return, the text remains unread. Knowing my luck, Timothy will read it in the morning.
That’s fine. I have no reason to hide my love for his mother. And if he thinks that text includes him, all the better. The little guy has grown on me.
I open the sliding door to my balcony and step outside. The air is sticky, but the cool tile under my bare feet makes up for it. I pull a patio chair to the railing and prop up my feet.
They’re terribly ugly. Big and blistered, with a crooked toe from an old sprain. Brooke’s feet were always so dainty and small, and she kept her toenails pink or red. Everything about her is equally adorable and gorgeous. I wish she were here.
I lean back into the cushioned chair and crane my neck and look at the stars. A habit I’ve formed since being back in Apple Cart. In Atlanta, I have to settle for a barely visible moon among city lights.
Lots of people go into the Georgia mountains to camp and hike on the weekends. I never understood why until I’d lived in Atlanta a while. They want an escape from the noise and the constant movement of things.
Buying the Apple Cart mansion was my way of escaping. Or so I thought. But after reuniting with Brooke, I believe we could be happy anywhere.
I sigh and mentally play out scenarios if my arm doesn’t live up to expectations.
If that happens and I choose not to retire, there’s a good chance the Braves might trade me. There’s also a chance they could send me back to the minors. That would mean less of a chance at bouncing back to my current status.
What would Brooke think of that?
Would she be willing to uproot her life—and Timothy’s—for something less stable? Even if she were, would I let her?
Like Timothy, I never had a father in my life. Also like Timothy, I grew up in a great community with an awesome mom and plenty of people who had my best interest in mind.
Worst case scenario, Brooke leaves me again. If that happens, I still want to do all I can to encourage Timothy’s love of ball. That kid has some raw talent.
A slight breeze cuts the muggy air and makes me yawn. Ace is probably catching his second wind, but I’m ready to wind down. Maybe I am an old man at twenty-seven.
I retreat through the glass door and lock it behind me. When I check my phone, I see a text from Brooke.
I love you too. Good night.
She follows that with a kissing, winking smiley face. I grin at the message while I brush my teeth. Again, she has me acting like a teenage girl.
Maybe this is karma for me laughing about how ridiculous some of the girls at our high school used to act.
Whether karma or my own weirdness, it doesn’t much matter. I fall asleep quickly with a stupid grin plastered across my face. Even better, I dream of Brooke.