Chapter 21
Ren
He’s obviously very attractive.
Obviously—he was named sexiest shortstop last year.
The words burn across every inch of my skin when I see him standing there, waiting in the lobby of his building.
Hair damp from the shower, pushed off his face, save for that one piece that can never seem to behave.
The cut of stubble carving along his jaw.
The full lips that tip into a crooked grin when he sees me.
His shoulders stretch under the white T-shirt that makes the navy of his eyes even starker from here.
The swell of rounded biceps popping against skin bronzed from the sun, the ropes of muscle traipsing down his arms to the back of his hands, the maps of veins trailing along them, and his strong fingers tapping against the spine of our shared trophy.
I can really see, not at all objectively, for the first time, why a magazine might have named him the sexiest shortstop. They could have named him the sexiest anything, really.
More magazines should have, actually. He should be in the Journal of Vertebrate Paleontology. He should be in reputable journals everywhere.
Miller extends his arm, holding Victor out to me, dangling almost carelessly from his fingertips, and I try to blink away the way I start to wonder about how those fingers might feel carelessly moving down my skin.
“Our kid.” He raises his brows. “As promised.”
“Thank you.” I nod primly, shoving the trophy into my tote bag, trying to tamp down the tightening in my stomach with it.
Miller cocks his head. “I need him back, though. I leave again Friday.”
“Okay, we can do the divorced parent pass off in a parking lot somewhere,” I say, folding my arms across my chest so he doesn’t see the flush creeping over the neckline of my tank top.
“You have a car?”
“No.” I shake my head. “Do you?”
“Uh, yeah.” His smile turns sheepish, and he tries to shrug it off, rubbing a hand along the back of his neck. But all that does is pull his T-shirt up, just the tiniest bit, and I can see a ridge of abdominal muscle kissing the waist of his shorts.
“Miller.” I narrow my eyes, tipping forward on the balls of my feet. “How many cars do you have?”
“A few.”
“Are they stupid?”
“A few are, yeah.” A blush shades his cheeks, and he tugs at his hair. “But uh, Matty liked cars actually. His one indulgence. I have most of them.”
The line of my smile shifts from teasing to soft. “Are they here?”
Miller nods. “Some of them, yeah.”
“Can I see them?” I ask quietly before pointing towards the ceiling. “Maybe after I see your sweeping monstrosity. I haven’t forgotten about the sprawling, douchey King West penthouse above us, Miller.”
He rolls his neck, taking an exaggerated groan, but he’s smiling when he looks at me. “Aquarium closes at nine. You can, uh, come over after.”
“Traffic won’t be bad at that time. You can drive me home in one of your stupid cars.” I tap my fingers against my arms, tipping my head back towards the lobby doors. “We should get going.”
His eyes flash with amusement, and the corner of his mouth kicks up, but he’s uncharacteristically quiet on the short walk from his apartment to the aquarium.
It’s only a few blocks—and I try to get him talking. I try to get him to rank different hot-dog stands. I tease him when someone stops, asking for his autograph, and the only thing they have for him to sign is a dingy hat that looks like it’s seen better days.
He’s practically silent until we’re walking up the cement steps towards the aquarium, when he clears his throat, glancing at me almost nervously before he looks down again, asking, “So, uh, you applied to the job?”
“Oh.” I nod. “Yeah, I talked about it with Imani and thought . . . couldn’t hurt. If nothing else, an interview is always good experience.”
Miller finally looks away from the cracked pavement, offering me a smile that seems almost sad. “Could be your sixth thing.” My brow furrows, but he clarifies, “You said you could only come up with five things for your list. This could be your sixth. You know, make us, uh, even.”
“Oh. Right.” It’s my turn to look away. My stomach twists and I blink furiously at the steps, focusing on moving my feet up instead of wondering what it would be like to do the sixth thing with last year’s sexiest shortstop.
“Well, I think—it has to be my fifth. It might need to replace the whole ‘go back to school’ thing. The application cycle is closed until the fall, and if you request a trade after this season, and I get the job . . . neither of us will be around to finish the list. And—” I wave a hand, trying to brush off all those old pieces of me I didn’t want to pick back up—the doubts Scott watered for years about whether or not I’d even be good enough to get into school after all.
“You wouldn’t want to be stuck with me for that much longer. ”
He looks at me like it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, to be stuck with me, but he gives a terse jerk of his head. “Are you”—he grips his jaw—“excited about it?”
“Sure,” I say shrugging, but my hands tense against my arms.
Miller stops mid-stride, one foot half raised, the muscles in his thigh popping underneath his shorts. He turns to look at me, slow and exaggerated, before he asks, incredulous, “Sure? That’s your . . . ringing endorsement?”
“Yeah. Sure.” I blink, lifting a hand. “What’s wrong with sure?”
He gives a strangled sort of laugh. “Ren, I’ve seen you more excited about a package of cookies shaped like dinosaurs that you spotted on the shelf at the grocery store than you sound about this job.”
Ren.
It’s nice, the way his mouth moves to form the three letters that make up my name.
But I try not to focus on that and say, indignant, “I’ll have you know—I thought that particular brand of cookie was discontinued two years ago.”
His earlier smile comes back, shifting from sad to amused. “Excitement was called for, then.”
“It was.” I tip my chin.
“But, uh.” He lifts a hand, poking his tongue into his cheek. “You deserve . . . to be excited about a job. You deserve an opportunity that . . . deserves you.”
Just like I’ve been trying to ignore the sudden assault of the fact that he really is the most beautiful person I’ve ever laid eyes on—I try to ignore the way that makes me feel.
The way all those petals I tried so hard to grow from scratch under the sunlight of my own love furl outwards, stretching and tugging against their roots towards his praise and compliments.
The idea that after all this time, someone—a man—thinks I’m deserving of anything.
But not just any man. Not someone like Scott.
Him.
Miller and all the things he is that he doesn’t even realize.
He saves me from having to play tug-of-war, and he jerks his chin back towards the steps and the looming entrance of the aquarium. “Come on, don’t want to miss anything cool in the Kelp Forest.”
“Oh!” I bring my hands together, acting like I’m about to bound up the steps and push past all the children in the snaking line waiting to get inside. “Let’s strategize. Where should we start? Dangerous Lagoon? Ray Bay? Planet Jelly? Or the aforementioned Kelp Forest?”
He stares again, like I’m worth something and deserve things and like he might like the way the three letters that make up my name sit on his mouth, too.
“Think there’s supposed to be an order,” he starts, but he holds out his tattooed hand and a grin softens the sharp edges of his face. “But yeah, let’s talk strategy.”
I hesitate, but it’s only a fraction of a second because I let my fingers curl beside his, and the petals of the Ren Jacobs I want to be breathe in all the oxygen of being in his atmosphere.
“You’re the strategic mind here. Imani tells me you’ve got a ‘wildly accurate read of the field.’” I squeeze his hand once, arching a brow. “You tell me.”
Embarrassment creeps up his neck in a pink flush, but he exhales a laugh, and his eyes cut up to the line of waiting children. “Start backwards in the Dangerous Lagoon so we can see the sharks before all the kids crowd the best spots.”
“Excellent choice. Did you know sharks are older than dinosaurs? Earliest evidence in the fossil record is from about 450 million years ago.”
“No shit.” He grins, teeth biting down on his bottom lip. “Kinda like me and you then.”
I frown. “What?”
“You’re older. Makes you the shark.” He shrugs, but something amused sparks in his eyes. “I’m the dinosaur.”
“I don’t think—that’s not a particularly sound scientific comparison.” I tug my hand, tempted to fold my arms across my chest in petulance, but Miller’s thumb scores a line across the back.
Angling his head, he asks slowly, “You don’t think I could be the dinosaur?”
“Seeing as you aren’t 250 million years old and, you know, aren’t part of a diverse group of terrestrial reptiles—no, I don’t think you could be.”
He blinks, slow, and his mouth curves up at the edges with a singular, rough word. “Rawr.”
“Did you just—” I start, but a snort of laughter drowns out any words. “I’m sorry, did you just . . . growl or like . . . rawr at me like a dinosaur might?”
Cringing, he scrubs a hand through his hair. “Regretted it the second I did it.”
I try not to, but I keep laughing. I can’t stop, actually.
They’re mostly gasping snorts, tears burning the edges of my eyes, but I don’t slap my hand to my mouth to cover it up.
I keep mine in his, our fingers interlaced—maybe the roots of me I grew, and the finally awake roots of him, poke up through the soil towards the sunlight.
And when we decide to race up the steps, a bit like children too, my thumb taps across the back of his hand, right in the middle of the M.
My own Morse code, thrown out there where I hope Matthew can hear it, telling him even though I’m so sorry I’ll never get to know him, I’m so glad that because of him, I got to know Miller.