18. LION
Chapter eighteen
LION
I turn the corner and head to the cafe to open up with Mary Beth and find a bunch of people already waiting outside. I instantly recognize them as Banana-Ramas. They all wear the same custom jerseys. A few of them got season passes like me, so I see them sitting in our allocated seating at games. They’re obsessed with Banana Ball. There must be a player or a bunch of them inside the cafe if they are all hanging outside. Ohh, could it be Tim?
“There he is,” someone says, and suddenly all of them look my way, their phone cameras flash, and I wobble, momentarily blinded by their lights, and turn my head to see who they’re talking about. But no one is behind me.
I climb off the bike as they approach, screaming at me all at once.
“Are you stalking Tim?” a man wearing a backward cap asks, holding his phone out.
“What?”
“You should be ashamed of yourself, tricking poor Tim into liking you?”
“I didn’t… What?”
“Were you the reason Casey Bourchetter left Banana Ball? Did you stalk him, too? Is that when you moved onto Tim?” another asks.
They’re boxing me in, holding up phones and mini microphones, flashing pictures. My heart is pounding, my legs wobble as the world behind them starts to blur. What is this? I can’t see a way through them. I can’t see a way out. I can’t breathe. My chest is tightening.
“Please, just let me pass. I have to get to work.”
“Tim. Tim,” a familiar voice, a beacon in the noise of them calls to me, and then Mary Beth shoves through them. “Fuck off, you lot. Leave the bike, we’ll get it later,” she says, grabbing my hand and pulling me through them and into the cafe. I sit at the nearest table, and she closes the door, pulling down the roller blind on the door glass and the window to block them out. “Are you okay?”
“I don’t… I… What was… that?” I ask, clutching at my heaving chest, willing the tightness away. But it won’t budge.
“They were there when I got in this morning, asking about you and Tim.”
“Tim.”
“Yes, hunny. The media released a story last night about your social media accounts. They say you stalked Tim and tricked him into falling for you.”
“I didn’t trick him. I didn’t stalk him. I was just posting about him so people… so everyone could see how awesome he is. I closed the accounts when Tim asked me to.”
“Tim knows about the accounts?”
I nod, and she sits in the chair opposite me.
“Ian found them. Tim said it was fine, he understood I was just posting about him, sharing pictures from games. I didn’t stalk him.”
“Ian, he’s the reporter, right?”
“He’s Duckie’s boyfriend.”
“Duckie, the ex-reporter.”
“Yeah, why?”
“I just think it’s a bit coincidental that they find out about your accounts and now there are a bunch of Banana-Ramas shutting down my cafe trying to get to you.”
“What?”
“Do you think Ian might have leaked this to some of his reporter friends, like the ones that followed the tour the first year?”
“Leaked what?”
“The information about the multiple social media profiles you had. Do you think Ian did this?”
Could he have? Duckie and Ian were at the bar last night when I was talking to Tim and there was that flash. That could have been a camera. But I wasn’t stalking him and Tim said they understand. They are his friends.
“They will see I wasn’t stalking him, and then they will leave me alone. The story will fizz out as soon as something else pops up. Remember when that guy jumped in the river fully naked every morning, he was the top story for a week, then no one cared. Once they know there is no story here, no one will care about me. But it’s going to be hard to sell people coffee if they can’t get in the door. Do you think we can ask them to leave? Maybe they can wait across the street so people can still come in?”
“I don’t think people will want to come to the cafe while they are out there.”
“You’re probably right. So, what do we do?”
“I’m not sure. I think we just need to close for a few days, maybe. But I really can’t afford to close. I have rent and the milk order is locked in, I can’t cancel, and the cakes, and the flowers, fuck. I hope this all dies down as fast as you think it will.”
“I can lead them away.”
“What?”
“I’ll tell them that I got fired because of them all being here, and then I’ll just go home. They will follow me, and they will stay away from here because I won’t be here.”
“I can’t ask you to do that.”
“You didn’t ask. Besides, if I don’t go, you can’t open anyway, so at least this way you can keep the cafe open and pay rent. Just promise me one thing.”
“What?”
“You’ll try to not screw up the display.”
“I can’t promise that.”
I stand and take a few deep breaths. I would go out the back, but I left my bike out there, and I need it to get home. Mary Beth gives me a tight hug.
“I’ll pop over later with some treats. We can watch the game at your place.”
“I’m not missing the game.”
“You’re still going?”
“I promised Tim I’d be at every game this year cheering him on.”
“But the Banana-Ramas.”
“They will be at the game and can see how awesome Tim is for themselves.”
She shakes her head, letting out a soft laugh. “Then I guess I’ll see you at the game.”
“See you there,” I say and take one last breath before pulling open the cafe door. The Banana-Ramas leap into action. Their phones held up, some of them look like they’re live streaming. I let their questions blur into white noise and focus on what I need to, my bike. Someone has propped it against the wall. That was nice of them not to just leave it on the ground, I think before grabbing the handlebars and looking at them directly for the first time since stepping out the door.
“I was fired because of you,” I say, trying to sound upset to really sell it. “Now I have no job, are you happy?”
They ask more questions, flashing their cameras, but I don’t answer them.
“Follow me home if you like, it’s the only place I’ll be now. No point staying here. I won’t be back because I WAS FIRED.”
I start to ride away, and a few of them follow for a couple of feet but drop off. I chance a look back as I turn the corner, and they’re all finally moving away from the cafe. Mary Beth will be able to open soon. It worked.
When I get home, the cats all greet me, even King, and I hang my bike up on the wall beside my door with the helmet and flop down onto the couch.
“Well, boys, Daddy is home for the day. What should we do?”
My phone makes the monkey noise I set it to for texts from Tim. I used to use it exclusively for when he commented on my posts, but this is way better.
TIM: I don’t know how the media found out. Are you okay?
LION: I’m fine. The Banana-Ramas were blocking the cafe this morning, though, so I told them I was fired. The boys are happy I am home. King has taken prime position in my lap and the others are having to sit at my feet and my side. How is your day going?
TIM: Wait, you were fired?
LION: They were stopping Mary Beth from opening, so I just said I was fired. She didn’t really fire me. But I guess if they keep following me, she won’t really be able to hire me back if she can’t open when I’m there.
TIM: I am so sorry. It looks like someone took a picture of us at the pub last night. I think they were listening to our conversation, and then they must have figured out the rest for themselves. It’s stupid that we can go anywhere in the country and not be recognized half the time, but here in Savannah, we’ve got them following everything we do. You would think in our hometown, people would just leave our private lives private. I meant what I said yesterday. I know why you did it. I can try to sneak over to your place after the game if you want.
Tim has never been to my place before. It would be nice for him to meet the boys.
LION: You’re always welcome over. I’ll head home right after the game, and you can come when you are ready.
TIM: You’re still coming tonight?
LION: Of course I am. I have the Big Banana season tickets. I plan to be at every game.
TIM: You don’t have to do it for me. There would be Banana-Ramas at the game and in the stands, too. I understand if it would be too much.
What does he mean by too much? I always come to his games. Before we were… whatever we are, I was there supporting him. I’m not missing the game.
LION: I’m not breaking my streak. Besides, you still have another home run to hit, and I want to be there when you do it.
TIM: Okay. But if you change your mind, I’ll understand. Duckie just walked in. I’m going to see if he found anything out.
I message back a thumbs-up emoji and run my hand down King’s fur, the sleek black covering his back shining in the lights from my window. Daffin nudges my elbow and meows.
“I only have two hands, guys,” I say, putting the phone down to scratch him under the chin with that one while still patting King.
King gets his fill of hogging my lap and jumps off to rest in the stream of sunlight coming in through the window. Daffin and Chip both leap into his place, and after a little help from me, they manage to share the space, half curled around each other. Reynolds is content between my feet, it seems. My phone chimes with a notification. Then another one. And another.
I pick it up and they just keep coming. Tag after tag. I open my phone and can’t believe what it is they are tagging me in. They say I’m dangerous. That I should be locked up. One person threatened to find me and make me pay for what I’ve done to Tim. They have it all wrong. I didn’t do anything wrong. I didn’t hurt Tim. Why are they saying these things?
I go to reply, but there are too many tags coming in to even know where to start. I wonder how Tim is getting on with Duckie. Though finding out how these silly stories started won’t do anything to stop it. I think when people see it’s nothing, they will lose interest. We just have to wait for that to happen. Until then, or at least for now to save the boys from the constant chimes, I flick my phone on to silent, switch off the vibrate function and send off a quick message to Tim.
LION: I’ve got my phone on silent, so might not see your message as soon as it comes in, but I’ll be checking my phone, just in case you worry if I don’t reply right away. I hope the warm-up goes well today. See you tonight.
I open my computer to check out what else these stories are saying without the constant buzz of the notification taking up the screen. It can’t be that bad. All I did was create a few profiles to support Tim. What I find is not what I was expecting. There had to be someone listening to us at the bar, how else could they know about the soup? There is a story saying I drugged Tim with soup when he was sick, that I pretended to be a food delivery guy to get inside his apartment building. What the fuck. How can they just lie like that?
Then there is the post I hate the most. The one claiming Tim paid me to inflate his popularity, it claims that Tim hired me to create buzz about him when rumors were flying that the Banana Ball executives were going to send him packing back to Aus. Like they would ever.
There is a picture from a few years ago claiming to be a secret handoff, when it’s really just him signing the cat vet card I have framed near my door. There’s another picture of a figure in the alley at night by Tim’s place. They claim it’s me, secretly watching him. I mean, it could be me. I’ve been in that alleyway plenty of times, and I did go over to Tim’s when he was away to make sure everything was okay. You know, that no one had broken in.
They are twisting everything into something it’s not. Tim doesn’t deserve this. He’s amazing and everyone knows he’s amazing.
I scroll through my social page, shocked by how many messages there are. Some people congratulated me for “snagging a Funky Monkey.” Another called me “horrible” and told me “I should be ashamed of myself.” There are even more direct messages and none of them so far are very nice at all. Wow, people can be… well, mean. They don’t know me. They don’t know Tim. They don’t know what really happened.
Then it hits me. That’s what we need to do. We need to tell everyone what really happened. They need to hear it from us that this is all just a gigantic mix-up. I grab my phone, ready to message Tim my idea but see he’s already messaged me.
TIM: Turns out there were Banana-Ramas at the pub. They gave the bullshit story to the media, and they’re the ones making all this shit up online.
LION: They have been tagging me in posts, too.
TIM: I saw. I’m so sorry they are saying all those things about you.
LION: Don’t worry about me. I’m fine, you just focus on the game. I’ll be right there in the stands cheering for you.
TIM: I don’t know. Maybe I shouldn’t play. The GM has asked to see me before the game. It has to be about all this stuff online, there were Banana-Ramas outside the gates with signs today picketing. You don’t have to come. You shouldn’t have to deal with them.
LION: It’s only words. You love baseball. Don’t let them stop you from doing what you love.
TIM: Maybe the GM doesn’t want me to play either. Maybe that’s why they are calling me in.
LION: I don’t think that’s it.
I can’t be sure. I mean, it could be it, but Bart would be benching his best player, so I don’t see it happening.
TIM: I wish you were here.
LION: I’m on my way.
TIM: Sorry. That was selfish of me. I can’t ask you to be here, to deal with them just for me.
LION: I’m coming to the game no matter what. You can’t stop me from supporting you. I can handle a couple Banana-Ramas being idiots for a few hours if it means I get to see you hit that homer.
TIM: Thanks. It might be more than a couple, though.
LION: I’ll handle a million of them for you. See you soon.
Nothing he could say could stop me from being there tonight. He’s trying to protect me, but I can tell he needs me. He needs me to make this okay. It was my multiple accounts that got these Banana-Ramas all riled up, it should be me that fixes it. Maybe instead of avoiding them, I try to explain it to them. They will see how wrong they are if they just listen, right? I have to try.