Chapter Seventeen #2
“Maybe send a text next time,” Dina says, frowning at him. But I notice she pats his arm, just briefly, before she turns away
to retie her sneakers.
Which leaves me and Nathan standing next to each other, each of us awkwardly trying to remember what you’re supposed to do
with your hands when you’re wearing athletic shorts that don’t have pockets. Or at least, that’s what I’m trying to remember.
I have no idea if that’s what he’s thinking about, but the way he pats the sides of his shorts and then puts his hands on
his hips makes me think it’s at least a possibility.
“Hi,” he says finally, with the barest hint of a smile.
“Hi,” I say back.
He’s breathing a little quickly, a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead. “Listen, I’m sorry I didn’t respond to your texts—”
But before he can say anything else, Sharon claps her hands together. “All right, everybody, huddle up!”
Nathan’s eyes skip to mine, and I think we share a silent look that says to be continued.
I hope we do.
I get pulled into the OUTfielders huddle between Dave and Bill, while Meryl grabs Nathan. In the middle of our tight circle,
Sharon stands with arms folded, turning to look at each of us.
“All right, team!” she barks. “We may not win this game—in fact, we probably won’t, since we’ve gotten our asses handed to
us every time we’ve played Ace of Base. But we’ve got Harlowe stepping in for Ruth-Ann today, and at least he has two real
knees.”
Bill looks mildly offended. “I have two real knees.”
“Plenty of us have real knees, Bill,” Dina says, waving him off. “The point is Harlowe’s still actually work.”
“I’ve got a good feeling about today,” Sharon continues. “Not that we’ll actually win, but that we might lose less badly.”
“Hear, hear!” Dave bellows, clapping loudly.
I spent a good chunk of this morning googling the rules of kickball, so I have a passing familiarity with how the game works,
but in practice, it doesn’t turn out to be very hard. Or maybe we’re just not playing a very intense version of it. The OUTfielders
kick first, facing off against a big, bouncy ball that doesn’t move very fast or in particularly unexpected ways—at least
not the way the players of the Cape Cod amateur LGBTQ+ leagues throw. I definitely had a nightmare last night that I kicked
the ball and managed to hit someone in the face, but when I step up to the plate—third in our lineup after Bill and Yan—I
manage to land a solid kick that sends the ball bouncing straight between second and third base. Meryl whistles on her fingers
when I slide into first, and I actually catch myself smiling.
I’m not exactly great at kickball, but I’m not terrible, which is more than can be said for most of the OUTfielders. Meryl’s sole move seems to
be to bunt, except she can’t get the ball to go the right direction so she ends up out every time. Dave kicks with so much
gusto that he sends the ball into the air like a pop fly, which unfortunately makes it very easy for the outfielders of Ace
of Base to catch. Sharon aggressively tries to steal bases, but her instincts are terrible, and she keeps getting tagged out.
The only people on our team who are actually any good are Nathan and, surprisingly enough, Dina. They aren’t enough to give
us a real chance against Ace of Base, but by the third inning, the two of them have started a running bet to see who can bring
more people home, with the loser apparently on the hook to buy the whole team postgame soft serve from a nearby truck.
“You sure you don’t want to back out now?” Nathan asks, raising an eyebrow as he walks onto the field for his turn at the top of the third inning. “You’re not gonna beat me, old lady.”
“Old lady?” Dina cries. “Age is meaningless and I’ve been playing kickball since before you were born, you little fucker!”
Nathan just grins at her and jogs to home plate. He lands a good kick, but a fielder from Ace of Base catches it midair.
“Out!” shouts the referee, an older gay guy named Gus, who (according to Meryl) trades off refereeing duties with his partner,
Phil. Phil is currently sitting in the stands, enthusiastically cheering for both teams.
Nathan grimaces and stalks back to the bench.
Dina raises her eyebrows at him. “Getting a little cocky?”
Nathan gives her the finger.
We’re solidly losing by the end of the fifth inning, but Sharon seems to be in good spirits. “You two should bet against each
other more often!” she says, mopping her forehead with a towel. “We’ve never gotten this many points in a game!”
“I don’t know.” Nathan unscrews the cap on his water bottle. He’s sitting next to me on the bench, and I can feel the heat
radiating off him, sweat standing out on his neck and darkening the collar of his shirt. He glances at Dina. “You look like
you’re ready to give up on me.”
Dina’s breathing like she just ran a marathon, but she waves him off. “Bullshit. I was just thinking maybe I should let you
win, just to be nice.”
“Just to be nice?” Nathan raises an eyebrow. “What kind of excuse is that?”
“Seems kinder than sticking you with the ice cream bill,” Dina says.
Nathan stills next to me. “I can cover an ice cream bill,” he says, a slight edge to his voice.
“Yes, yes, I know.” Dina sounds vaguely annoyed.
“Or I suppose I could let you win.” The edge in Nathan’s voice has turned razor sharp. “Instead of spending money on ice cream, maybe you could put it
into actually doing something for Queer Punx.”
There’s a sudden silence, a collectively held breath. I see Meryl and Yan looking at us.
Dina pushes herself off the bench and stands up. “And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”
But Nathan doesn’t look at her. He screws the lid back onto his water bottle, staring at the dirt under his sneakers. “There
are other art galleries and other T-shirt stores,” he says, voice even. “They seem to be doing just fine. That’s all.”
Sharon and Dave glance at each other.
“That’s not all, and you know it,” Dina says. “I’m not interested in changing everything my store stands for just so I can
sell some cheap rainbow shit or showcase safe, boring art on the off chance it’ll bring in a few more visitors.”
Her voice is rising, and now the members of Ace of Base are looking our direction too, eyeing us from across the baseball
diamond.
“Well, I’m glad to know you’ve got exactly the right priorities,” Nathan says in a biting tone. “Who needs a business to turn
a profit?”
“You do not get to talk to me that way,” Dina snaps, “when you don’t have any priorities at all.”
Nathan flinches, surprise and hurt flashing across his face. “At least I’m not hanging on to a house I barely rent out,” he
spits, “when I could be selling the whole place to support the store I supposedly care so much about.”
Dina reels back, her mouth open, eyes wide.
Sharon pushes between them. “All right, that’s enough,” she says in a low, forceful voice. “We’ve got a game to finish and
you fools are about to turn it into a scene. Nathan, get out there and pitch.”
He stands, looking once more at Dina, and then he slips past her and jogs onto the field.
Dina closes her eyes, slowly letting her breath out, and then she turns and stalks after him. The rest of the OUTfielders
follow.
“What was that about?” I ask Dave.
He only shakes his head. “I wish I knew.”
There is no postgame soft serve. Nathan and Dina are both in foul moods, and it clearly has nothing to do with the fact that
the OUTfielders lost, since nobody else on our team seems to care. If anything, everyone else seems pretty cheerful—we only
lost by a few points, instead of getting completely creamed.
Dina stalks past Nathan without saying goodbye to him, heading for her truck and rumbling out of the parking lot while Nathan
and I are still standing with Marcus and Katy near the bleachers.
Nathan looks after her, but he doesn’t say anything.
Marcus awkwardly clears his throat as Dina’s truck rounds a bend and disappears. “Well, that was a good game.”
“Yeah.” Katy tries for a smile. “We should celebrate. You know, mark the occasion of only losing a little bit. What about
the drive-in?” She pokes Nathan’s arm. “I saw that Jaws is playing at eight.”
I’m in the middle of taking a sip from my water bottle, and I very nearly do an actual spit take. “Jaws? The shark movie?”
Katy gives me an amused look. “Yes, the shark movie. Pretty sure there’s not another Jaws. Have you seen it?”
“Um . . .” I flash back to last summer—to Jackson, sitting on the floor in our apartment, arms around his knees, once again
telling me it was a classic. “No. I haven’t.”
“Well, that settles that!” Katy grins. “Tonight, we go to the drive-in. Nathan?”
He blinks, jerking out of his thoughts. “Yeah. Yeah, sounds great.”
Katy’s eyes linger on him for a moment, and then she nods. “Okay. We might as well just go in together in Marc’s truck. So
maybe meet in front of the drive-in at seven thirty? In that little parking lot?”
“Sure,” Nathan says.
“Great.” Katy grasps Marcus’s hand and the two of them start for the parking lot. “See you guys soon!”
And just like that, I am apparently finally going to see Jaws.
I suppose I should tell Rika. She’ll be thrilled.
Nathan pulls off his cap, running a hand through his sweat-darkened hair. Still staring after Katy and Marcus, he says quietly,
“Harlowe, about the Fourth of July, I—”
“It’s okay,” I say quickly, trying desperately to sound casual and failing completely. “We don’t have to talk about it now.”
He glances at me, and something goes through his eyes that I can’t read. “No, I . . . I meant what I said. I’m sorry I didn’t
respond to your texts. It’s just . . . I’ve kissed people, Harlowe, and I’ve dated and I’ve been in relationships, but . . .
nothing’s ever ended well. I guess I got . . .” But he trails off, a crease appearing between his eyebrows.
I swallow. “Do you want to pretend it never happened?”
The crease vanishes. His eyes meet mine, deep wells of blue. “No.”
My stomach turns to water. “Okay. Me neither.”
“So . . .” A tiny smile flashes across his face. “I could swing by and pick you up on the way to the drive-in, if that works.
Might make things simpler.”
“Yeah,” I say. “That works.”
“Okay.” He retreats a step. “I’ll see you later, then.”
And he turns away, heading toward the old Pontiac parked at the far end of the lot.