Chapter 5
Dear July,
I’m so sorry I couldn’t pick you up for work. Did you get there okay? Are you okay?
Joe
I know I should give her some space. I don’t know how long it will take her to read the letters or what she’ll need or want afterward. But it’s Wednesday, and I don’t know whether those softball team practices start today or Saturday or next week…
So after a long run and another goddamn scrub-and-spray in my old tub and a trip to the home store for wall-patching supplies, I go back to July’s for food and information. I get there in the lull between breakfast and lunch.
The waitstaff is starting to look familiar to me. One woman gives me a big smile and leads me to that booth near the kitchen, then leaves to get my iced tea.
July brings it out to me, and I’m stunned. She looks like she hasn’t slept in days, her face pale, shadows under her eyes.
“Are you okay?” Stupid-ass thing to say, but I’m off-kilter.
“I’m fine ,” she snaps and then pauses, closing her eyes, looking like she might wilt to the floor in exhaustion. “I’m sorry. So many people have asked me that today, I know I must look terrible. But I’m fine. Just tired. And you’re the last person I want to yell at.” She perches on the bench across from me as if she’s not sure whether to go or stay.
Don’t know what she means by that last part, but I’m glad she doesn’t want to yell at me. I want to run my thumb over the curve of her cheek. Hold her and let her rest. Do that skin-to-skin bonding thing like people do with babies. Warm her with the heat from my body. But…boundaries, Joe. “I just came in to check about softball. You really okay with me joining the team?”
Her smile starts in her tired eyes. “Yeah, I’d like that. Want to ride with me to practice tonight?”
This whole second-chance thing is a goddamn roller coaster. But, woman, I would ride with you anywhere. “Yeah. That’d be great.”
We sit gazing at each other until the waitress comes to take my order. Then July stands, slowly. “Come back with your stuff at five forty-five, okay? I’ll be ready to go.”
I watch her all the way back into the kitchen. Takes me a minute to realize that the waitress is standing there watching me , a little smile on her face.
***
July’s got a sporty blue Subaru Crosstrek in her own alley parking space. It suits her.
I toss my bat bag in the back and climb in.
Sitting beside her in a car is different from being across from her in a booth. Her scent—still soap and baby shampoo—surrounds me. Teases me. Every part of me leaps in recognition and joy. I’d loved everything about her when we were sixteen but she’s even more beautiful to me now. The years have carved away some of the baby softness from her face, but I know the exact feel of those long, strong, smooth arms and legs. Her breasts, which I’m doing my damnedest not to stare at, are fuller now. I remember everything about how she used to look and feel and taste. My hands twitch on my knees, and I tear my eyes away so I can concentrate on what she’s saying.
“I think you’ll like the team. Especially my friend Andi.” She signals her turn and pulls out of the alley, heading away from the square. “She’s amazing at first base. She won a full ride to college.”
I study her clean profile. “What about you? Did you play in school?”
Her smile fades, and she darts a quick glance at me before refocusing on the road. “Um, senior year of high school, yeah. My schooling after that was culinary and business hospitality classes here and there. No degree. Just what I needed to run a restaurant.”
I’m hungry to hear about every minute of her life since I left. Why mention just senior year? I know she played sophomore year—she was in her uniform the first time I saw her—but why not junior year? Something in her expression keeps me from prodding.
She pulls into a four-diamond park on the east side of town. Two diamonds have practices already going on, and on a third, my pal Tom is walking the infield, dropping temporary bases at the proper places. A woman is putting on a catcher’s mask, and a few other people are warming up their arms.
“There’s Andi.” July points to the tallest of the women. “Try not to drool when I introduce you two, okay? Obvious drooling pisses her off.” But she’s grinning as she cuts the engine.
Andi could be Sarah Shahi’s younger, bigger, curvier jock sister. “Joe.” She’s got a firm handshake and a cool, all-seeing gaze that sweeps over me as July makes introductions.
“Joe, go on out to left field. Let’s see how you do.” Tom’s voice is brusque. He grabs his glove and trots himself to shortstop. Because of course he does.
Once the whole team arrives, we’ve got enough players to have three in batting at a time while the rest of us field. The team’s pretty good. Tom’s decent at short and July is poetry on third. Her arm is amazing. At first base, Andi catches everything aimed in her general direction, stretching full length for wild throws and scooping balls out of the dirt with equal ease.
I’m loosening up, not embarrassing myself in the field, and trying to keep my eyes off July’s fine ass in front of me when a hot grounder makes it past Tom. I scoop it up a few steps behind him and throw to Andi.
“Hit the cutoff, Joe.” Tom’s face is red.
I imagine he didn’t like me fielding the ball he missed. I get that.
So I try to reassure him. “I will whenever I’m farther out.”
If possible, his face gets even redder, his blond eyebrows bristling like pale little caterpillars. “You gotta do it every time.”
“Dude, I was right here. I could’ve handed it to you. But that would’ve wasted time, and we might not have gotten a runner out.”
“If you don’t do it consistently , Anderson,” he says, loud and slow like I might have trouble understanding, “nobody can trust you to do the right thing.”
Was that a jab? Sounded like a jab, maybe for July’s benefit. But it doesn’t hold any truth, so it doesn’t hurt.
He wants a pissing contest. Maybe whip out a ruler to measure our dicks right here. Asshole. But I’m brand-new to this team, and I don’t want to embarrass July or any of the others. I shake my head. “Okeydoke. Next time I’ll hand you the ball and let you throw it.”
July’s come over and she’s frowning. “Tom, that’s silly when he fields it so close in. You saw him make the throw. You know he can do it. Let him go for the out.” She calls over to first, “Andi, was it a problem that Joe threw directly to you?”
Her friend waves her glove. “Naw, I was ready.”
Victory. But I don’t want to cause trouble, so I turn to Tom. “I’ll get it to you if I’m more than a few feet back.”
He ignores me, his face the color of a beet as he moves back to short and waves his permission for the pitcher to carry on. It’s clear we will not be friends.
And later, when we all go to Lindon’s for after-practice beer, he sits close to July and directs most of his comments into her ear. And when he sees me heading to the bar for another round, he asks her, just loud enough for me to hear, “Wanna come over tonight? I’ll make it worth your while. Been a few days…”
She turns and says something too quiet for me to hear. He glances up at me and smiles as I pass.
I bring back two pitchers and, as soon as I can, excuse myself and walk home, gut churning.
I want her to be happy. I do. It doesn’t have to be with me. But that asshole? Really?
***
July
I’m in dire need of sleep. No way could I rest the night I talked to Joe and learned what happened. Or the next night, with those letters. All I could do, reading them, was picture my sweet, young Joe all alone in a strange country with abusive parents, writing the only person he thought he could count on but never getting any response. By the second letter, I was in tears. By the fifth, I could barely see his writing. By the twentieth, I was sobbing out loud, and by the time I finished the hundredth letter, it was 4 a.m. My eyes and throat were raw, my head throbbing, my heart shattered into a million pieces.
Night three of no good rest brings nightmares. In them, a big evil force has hold of Joe and is pulling him away. I’m trying to get to him, but Tom keeps showing up, stepping between us, talking about things that don’t matter, making it so I can’t reach Joe’s hand.
I drag myself through my morning work on autopilot, my mind full of Joe’s clean, fresh-air scent in my car, his eyes, his unruly hair— Is it still as soft as I remember? —and the flash of his smile whenever he caught my eye. It’s impossible to play third base while staring out into left field. I swear, I let one ball go by just so I could turn and watch him field it with his effortless speed and grace, T-shirt riding up his lean side as he threw to first base.
And then my brain was fixated on that patch of taut skin I glimpsed. He’s put on some muscle since I knew him, but he’s still thin enough that I want to take him in and feed him. Lay him down and kiss and nibble all those intriguing new ridges and hollows. Hold him tight until he feels loved and cared for. I want all his passion and tenderness and his smile just for me, and then I want to cover his smile with mine…
I fumble a plate and almost lose the omelet off of it. Catch it just in time and reposition the orange-slice part of the garnish.
Last night was another missed opportunity. It was so nice walking over to Lindon’s with him after we parked my car behind the restaurant; I hoped we’d walk home together afterward. Maybe sit in the gazebo on the square and talk some more.
I wouldn’t mind getting no sleep if I were with Joe.
But he slipped away early while Tom was pulling that possessive crap. I turned to Tom to tell him to stop that shit, that if he kept acting like we were together, next time I’d call him out publicly. He played innocent, but I saw his little smirk as the door closed behind Joe.
Andi walked me out later. “Talked to your boy Joe.” Straight to the point. “I like him. I see why you fell for him. And he’s a fine-looking man, isn’t he? A little skinny, but you do own a restaurant…”
Now I put up an order for Sonya, and she asks if I want her to add the side to one of the dishes. Because I’ve forgotten. Shit.
I know which building is Joe’s now. He had me pull up there to drop his bag off before Lindon’s. After the third nightmare woke me up, I seriously considered going and knocking on his door. Seeing if he’d let me spend the night with him, just talking or…whatever. I pictured him pulling me inside. Locking the door behind us. Leading me up to his apartment, holding me on a couch, on a bed. Talking like we used to, him teasing and nuzzling me, making me laugh as we undressed each other. Joe looking delighted as he kissed the smile he raised.
A long, slow, delicious night of learning each other again.
Bacon sputters and pops and catches me on the arm. I jump back and try to refocus on what I’m supposed to be doing. This obsession is dangerous.
***
I watch for Joe to come in, but he doesn’t.
The only thing I’m actually able to concentrate on is the young girl who asks if she can submit a job application. Usually I hire straight from Andi’s women’s shelter, but we’ve been shorthanded lately, and this girl has perfect timing. And I remember her from a couple of months ago.
She had come in with her mom. I brought out their food—because we were, as we so often have been lately, a person short that day—and the two of them were giggling in a booth over their terrible driver’s license photos. They’d just moved to North Carolina, they told me, and had gone to get new licenses that morning. They asked me whose picture was worse. Both were god-awful—eyes closed, expressions like they’d just sneezed or maybe had someone vomit on them—so no way was I answering their question. I said, “I’m just gonna send out a couple of complimentary desserts, okay, as a welcome to Galway and an apology for your photographer, who clearly has some personal issues to work through.” They both laughed, the mom looking not much older than the daughter.
But today the girl’s alone, no smile in sight. I get her a glass of tea and have her fill out an application, and then I go ahead and interview her.
“Got any restaurant experience, Maisie?” I don’t expect her to say yes. She looks young enough for this to be her first job.
“No, but I learn fast. I can do dishes and I’m learning how to cook and I have good manners…” Her brown eyes are huge and serious in her pale face.
“You’re still in school, right? So you’re looking for evening or weekend hours?”
She nods. “I can do anything after three thirty on weekdays. And anytime on weekends. And when school’s out, I can work whenever you want. As much as you want.”
She’s beyond earnest. She seems almost desperate.
I study her. “Maisie, you okay?”
Her eyes widen even more. She nods fast. “Yes, I just…really want a job. And I remembered how nice this place was—how nice you were—when Mom and I came in. I was going to put in applications a bunch of places, but I wanted to try here first.”
I tap her application on the table. She watches as solemn as a judge.
“Well, you have excellent timing. We’re a little short-staffed, and it’ll be warm enough soon to set up the patio tables outside, and then we’ll be even busier.” Something about her tugs at my heart. Makes me want to take her under my wing. “Usually I hire older women, but I’m willing to give you a try.”
Her eyes light up, but she still doesn’t crack a smile. “I’ll work really hard. I promise.”
“Good. Here’s the most important thing: We’re a family here. We treat each other right. We treat the customers right. No matter what might have gone wrong at home or in the kitchen, we treat people right here. Think you can do that, even when you’re in a bad mood?”
She nods, never taking her eyes off my face.
“You got reliable transportation?”
“I ride my bike to school, and it only takes me a few minutes to get here from there.”
I shake my head. “I don’t want you riding home after dark or in bad weather.”
She’s speaking almost before I finish my sentence. “I can use Mom’s car. She says we can work it out to get me to work. I’ll just ride my bike when I have daylight shifts.”
“Okay. One more thing. School comes first. If your grades start slipping, you tell me you need to cut back on your hours. This is not more important than that, all right?”
She nods. She’s perched on the edge of her booth bench. I’d bet she’s got a white-knuckle grip on the seat.
“Let me get you a menu to take home, then. Learn as much of it as you can. Can you come in Saturday morning at eight? We’ll go ahead and start training you this weekend. Be prepared to learn a little bit of everything.”
She shoots up out of the booth, her energy filling the room. “Thank you so much! Saturday at eight. I’ll be here.”
“Wear comfortable shoes. Nothing with open toes, nothing slick on the bottom. Kitchen floor’s usually wet. Jeans are fine, and plain T-shirts, no holes, no stains.”
At last she gives me a hint of the brilliant smile I saw when she was with her mom. “Okay! Thank you!”
She takes the menu I hand her and practically skips out the door, lips moving as if she’s repeating my instructions to herself.
And I go right back to obsessing over Joe.