Chapter 5
Miller
This was a colossal fucking mistake.
The kid directly in front of me with the dinosaurs on his bucket hat and the baseball on his T-shirt keeps looking back at me.
He can’t be more than seven, but he looks . . . shrewd, or something. Like he can see through my shitty disguise—a black ball cap with no identifying information pulled down low on my head, and my tattooed hand shoved into the pocket of my navy jacket.
There’s a smear of something that might be dirt or chocolate on his cheek, but I swear his tiny little eyes narrow on me right before he starts tugging on the sleeve of his dad’s shirt for his attention.
He’s going to rat me out, little shit.
I smile and make a face at him—I’m not sure what kind of face.
I’m not really around kids very often—and it wasn’t exactly supposed to scare him, it was supposed to be something funny to convey this was our little secret: Miller Colson-Burke, best shortstop in the league, walking in the back of a museum tour that’s definitely meant for children and their parents.
Not for pariahs like me who can’t go outside without sunglasses and a hat on.
But he must be a smart kid, because the man in the ball cap without a child, his hands shoved surreptitiously into his jacket, who’s making faces at him, does scare him.
His eyes go wide, his mouth wobbles, his hand tightens on his dad’s sleeve, and he whips his head back to the front of the group tour, where Ren Jacobs walks backwards, hands folded neatly behind her back.
Hair pulled into a sleek ponytail, shining under the bright museum lighting.
The silk of her blouse shifts against her shoulders, draped against the lines leading from her neck, framing her silhouette where it’s tucked into belted black pants that swish against her legs with every click of her heels against the tile.
She smiles, eyes sparkling when she walks seamlessly through an open door into the next exhibit. “We’ve been talking a lot about dinosaurs today. And we just saw some very cool fossils of baby dinosaurs. Does anyone remember why those fossils are so special?”
“They’re hard to find!” the almost traitor in front of me shouts.
Ren’s smile grows, her cheeks soften, and she gives a proud scrunch of her nose. “You’re right. They’re very rare. Because they’re so tiny, their bones were incredibly fragile, it’s almost impossible to find them fossilized and intact. But you know what we do find more of?”
She waits patiently, blocking the doorway while kids crane their necks and start shouting “What” all at once.
She tips her chin down, one brow lifting before she widens her eyes and leans forward. “Eggs. Who wants to see some dinosaur eggs? There might even be some you can touch.”
There’s a resounding chorus of something that sounds like “Yes!” but might just be inaudible screeching as Ren steps aside, unblocking the doorway, and all the kids rush forward at once into the exhibit.
She stands off to the side, nodding and smiling, answering the occasional question as parents file through, following their screeching children.
And she waits for me after the last adult actually attached to a child has filtered through the door.
I stay rooted to the spot in the world’s worst disguise.
I’ve got no idea what I’m doing or why I came here today.
It wasn’t because of what Yas said. But when another beautiful summer day rolled around—a rare one where I had nowhere to be, one where I couldn’t think of anything worse than being out in public but couldn’t stop thinking about the brilliant woman with the brilliant blue eyes and brilliant red hair—I hid underneath a hat and behind some sunglasses and ended up here, joining a tour for children and found her at its helm.
Her head angles to the side, ponytail brushing across her shoulder. She lifts her brows, bottom lip dipping into a frown when she realizes I’m the only unaccompanied adult.
Amusement tips the frown into a gentle smile. “The fossils aren’t just for kids, you know. There’s no rule saying you have to be a child to enjoy them. This building is full of adults who find dinosaur eggs fascinating, too.”
“Are you one of those adults?” I ask on a swallow before shrugging a shoulder.
I finally extract my hands from my pockets, taking my hat off so I can run a hand through my hair, and her gaze snags on the back of my hand.
I glance at the tattoo like it’s suddenly appeared on my skin before flashing it towards her in greeting.
“Uh, hey, I guess. Nice to see you again.”
“Oh.” She blinks through a nod, something that’s not quite a smile and not quite surprise bowing her lips. “Nice to see you. I didn’t realize—are you a big . . . dinosaur fan?”
Scratching the back of my head, I rock forward on my heels. “As much as the next guy, I guess. Thought Jurassic Park was pretty cool when I was a kid.”
“Only when you were a kid?” she asks, hands fluttering at her sides, like she isn’t sure what to do with them, until she crosses her arms.
I nod, shoulders curving inward. This might be the most face-to-face time I’ve had with someone who wasn’t a teammate since Matt. I try to shrug again. “Haven’t uh, seen the new ones.”
“You’re not missing much. But the original holds up.
You should check it out,” she says, voice soft, like fingers trailing up my spine, setting the column straight and telling me it’s okay to stand upright.
Her lips shift into a frown again, the pout of her bottom lip round.
“What are you . . . did you come to get your jersey back, I—uhm, sorry, I . . . what are you doing here?”
Her heels click against the floor as she shifts back and forth on her feet, and I don’t miss the way her thumbs dig into her forearms, or the flash of nerves behind blue eyes.
“No, uh—” Palming my jaw as I shake my head, a dry snort puffs against the back of my hand. “I don’t want the jersey back. Keep it. I’ve got lots. Sorry, I don’t know what I’m doing here. My publicist told me who you were and where you worked because of the—”
“Educational partnership?” she finishes for me, the end of the word tipping up in a question, like she still doesn’t understand how a formal public relations partnership between two institutions would bring me here on a Saturday.
“Yeah,” I answer, even though I don’t really understand either.
But I do know there’s this quiet thing in my chest that hasn’t been there in months, and it’s all because of her.
“That. Anyway . . . this is kind of stupid because I’ll be seeing you again in two weeks .
. . but I guess I wanted to say thank you. ”
Her head cocks back and she blinks in surprise.
Before she can say anything, I shift on my feet, and try throwing her a grin. “Not sure if you check social media or follow sports at all—”
“Not really,” she interrupts with a soft laugh.
The grin shifts to a smile, and I nod along.
“Well, it’s been a hard few months for me, and after the game .
. . it was the first time people started talking about something else.
Big social media moment people ran with.
So . . . thanks for . . . spilling a drink and dropping a hot dog, I guess.
It’s been . . . quiet, and that’s been . . . nice.”
It sounds even stupider when I say it out loud. My eyes find the floor, and I drag a hand across the back of my neck. I’m not great with words—not the way Matt was.
I’ve only ever been good with a few things. Catching a ball and throwing it. Good at running with it. Good at playing alongside Matty. Good with girls, apparently. I’m not so sure about that one—that’s mostly just people making assumptions because no one’s ever wanted to stick around for very long.
A bit hard for them, maybe. When the only things I really cared about were baseball, topping the league, and playing with my best friend. And then he died so I stopped caring about anything, really.
But Ren Jacobs isn’t a girl, I don’t think.
A gentle sigh sounds, and I glance back up.
She might be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in real life, actually. And she makes me feel a bit like a boy.
A sad sort of smile softens her face, and I don’t miss the way her eyes cut to the empty space on my jacket, right above my heart, like she’s looking for a stitched number.
Or the way they skate over the back of my hand.
But she wrinkles her nose when she whispers, “You can thank my colleague then, Imani. Assistant curator of invertebrate paleontology. She’s the dropper. ”
My laugh, hoarse and dry, rings out in the space between us, echoing, slow and out of practice. “I’ve played with a few guys like that.”
It’s her turn to laugh, this sharp sound that turns into a snort before she claps a hand over her mouth, pink creeping up her cheeks.
“Sorry,” she mutters, wincing. She blinks back up at me, eyes shining a bit too much, but not with happiness or joy this time.
“I should make sure the kids haven’t destroyed anything.
But you’re welcome to stay. This is the last stop anyway.
A few fossils and egg nests behind glass and everything else is play based for the kids. ”
“Don’t have anywhere else to be,” I tell her truthfully, a strained smile pulling at the corners of my mouth.
Her eyes find my hand again before she smiles, waving me forward. “Well, come on in, then.”
“Do you usually, uh, spend your Saturdays like this?” I rake a hand through my hair, after watching Ren talk with various parents, accepting their thanks and waving goodbye to the horde of children she spent the day ushering around the museum.
I hung back all afternoon, hands shoved firmly into my pockets, walking around with feigned interest in displays and sandpits and recreated models of eggs you could touch and check out under a microscope.
She lifts a hand a final time as the little shit with the dinosaur bucket hat gets dragged away from pressing himself against the glass to get a better look at a fossilized raptor egg.
He spent half his day running between exhibits and glancing at me with suspicious eyes before his dad finally came over, a museum pamphlet folded in his hands, nervously asking if I’d sign it for his son—apparently as big a baseball fan as he was a dinosaur fan.
That wouldn’t usually bother me, kids have been the one exception to my no-autograph rule this season, but it was the petulant “I don’t think you’ll win the World Series again this year. Not without Matthew Burke” that had me putting him back into the little shit category.
“Me either,” I mumbled from behind my hand while his dad paled in embarrassment, muttering apologies.
Ren turns to me, straightening the lines of her blouse even though they haven’t shifted. “No. I’m the collections manager, but our vertebrate educator was sick today, and the invertebrate educator would usually cover, but she’s on vacation in Malta.”
“Must be nice,” I say.
She exhales a laugh, lifting a hand. “So, the kids were stuck with me.”
“Seemed like you . . . knew your way around.” I stumble over my words, corners of my eyes wrinkling with a cringe.
I’m not trying to flirt with her—but it’s one of the few things I’ve only ever been known for being good at.
Being the best shortstop in the league, being able to flirt my way out of anything, being Matt’s best friend and one half of the best generational talent the team had ever seen.
And now, I think I’m only one of those things, judging by the way her eyes narrow before she snorts another laugh.
“I’d hope so. I manage the collection. I should know more about it than anyone else.” Her mouth pulls tight before she mutters, “Not that it matters.”
“Mattered to the kids,” I offer, and something behind her eyes lightens. “Anyway, sorry for . . . interloping on your tour . . . but, uh, like I said—I just . . . thanks.”
She tips her head, ponytail spilling along her shoulder, strands of red painting a sunset against the black silk of her blouse. “Do you want to grab a coffee? The café’s just downstairs.”
“Why?” My back straightens, and instead of her fingers whispering permission for me to stand tall and be who I am, it’s my brain telling me it’s not safe, people only want one thing from me now.
But maybe Ren Jacobs isn’t people. She blinks gentle eyes at me and murmurs, “Because you look like you could use a friend.”