Bittersweet Homecoming (17 page)

“That’s Wisconsin.”

“Same difference. Don’t ignore the question.”

“There’s-there’s a girl,” I admit with some hesitation.

“You dog!” Anthony practically squeals. “You’re worse than me!”

I tap my phone against my forehead a few times.

“I want all the dirty details,” Anthony prods. “Ooh, where’s my popcorn?”

“Her name is Charlotte.” Simply saying her name aloud twists my stomach into knots. “She’s funny and charismatic and so incredibly sexy. Like, I never want to stop looking at her.”

“Is she smart?”

Anthony knows my biggest issue with Kambria is that beyond the beautiful exterior, there isn’t much substance. I’ve complained to him more than once about it.

“She’s really smart,” I confirm. “She reads all the time, but it’s not like a nerdy, introverted thing. She’s actually kind of sneaky smart, like you wouldn’t expect it.”

“And does Miss Perfect like you, too?”

“Well, we had sex.”

Anthony gasps. “Was this before or after you broke up with your girlfriend in a voicemail?”

“In between?” I grimace at my answer.

“So you cheated on Kambria, broke up with her over the phone, and then had guilt-free sex?”

I run my hand over my face. “I guess so.”

“I’m so mad that I’m just hearing about this now.”

“I’m sorry. I’ve been a little wrapped up with all of this.”

“I understand. So you totally like this girl, she likes you back, and you’re single through the help of technology. So what’s the problem?”

“Well, there’s obviously the distance thing. I don’t know what’s going to happen when I come back to Los Angeles.”

“What do you want to happen?”

“Long distance sucks. And I don’t even know if she’d be into it.”

“Forget about geography. That’s a paltry detail. What else is there to worry about?”

“She’s got a kid. Her name is Amelia. She’s six and she’s got an imaginary friend named Reggie.”

“Single mom? Oh, honey. You really know how to pick ‘em. Be careful,” he warns. “You can’t casually date single moms. There’s a whole different rule book for those ladies.”

“Do I tell her about Kambria?” I worry aloud.

“She didn’t know?”

“No. I didn’t say anything about having a girlfriend.”

Anthony whistles, long and low. “That’s messy.”

“You’re telling me,” I grunt. “What do I do?”

“If you like this girl—like if you see a future where she and you are a thing—you tell her the truth. The complete truth and nothing but the truth. If it’s just a summer fling though, you’d still better make sure the two of you are on the same page.”

“I was afraid you’d say that.”

“You know what you have to do, Abby. So go do it.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I sluggishly concur.

“Take care, girl. Miss your face.”

“I miss you, too, Anthony.”

I’m only back at my dad’s house for a few hours before I’m feeling antsy and in need of a reprieve from my family. “I’m going for a drive,” I announce. I grab my key ring from a glass bowl on a cabinet near the entryway.

I’ve always enjoyed driving. Growing up in a remote part of the country required a road trip for just about everything. Driving without congested traffic was not an option first in San Francisco and now in Los Angeles, however. I drive around Grand Marais and the surrounding area seeking clarity. I drive for hours without destination, ruminating about the future and listening to country music on the radio. The sun is warm, and I’ve got no place to be.

I like Charlotte. A lot—certainly more than I should after such a brief time. It’s more than a passing fancy or one of my stupid crushes. But I know my
modus operandi
; everything new is shiny and more desirable than what’s familiar and comfortable. But that’s what makes Charlotte so intriguing. She’s new
and
familiar at the same time. I want to discover everything about her, and yet she’s as comfortable as a favorite pair of jeans. It’s a troublesome combination, and I don’t know how to proceed with her. I’m going back to Los Angeles at some point—that’s where my friends and career reside—and she’ll remain in Grand Marais. And I don’t know what that means for us.

We haven’t talked much about this thing we’ve been doing. She says she’s having fun, and I’m inclined to agree. But I do know that I need to be transparent before anyone gets hurt. I need to tell Charlotte about Kambria.

My travels bring me out to the school where I attended kindergarten through high school. It’s a long, ranch-style building that had been dropped in the middle of an open plot of land sometime in the 1960s. The parking lot is filled despite it being summer due to a baseball game being played on the field behind the school.

I park my car and walk up to the field. The intermittent cheers grow louder as I approach. My fingers curl around the chain length fence that protects fans from foul balls. I don’t know any of the kids playing, but there’s something familiar and comforting about the unchanged baseball field and the sports uniforms. I remember the polyester outfits from my own years playing summer youth softball. I have a suspicion that they’re the very same jerseys I wore more than twenty years ago. Same grey stretch pants. Same yellow and black jerseys with the word “Angels” screen-printed across the chest. When I had been on the team, someone had misspelled the team’s name to be “Angles.” I’m happy to see nothing but yellow Angels now clumsily fielding their respective positions.

Someone in the bleachers whistles. It’s loud and shrill like a wolf whistle. My head turns away from the playing field to appraise the culprit, only to discover that it’s Charlotte. Our eyes meet, and I quickly take mental inventory of myself. She doesn’t wave, but she smiles, which is enough to make my stomach do flip-flops. I touch my hand to my hair. I’ve been driving around for hours with the sun roof open, and my hair is probably wilder than a banshee’s. She’s seen me though, so I can’t very well run away.

I climb up the bleachers to where she sits.

“Should I be worried about having a stalker?” she casually remarks when I take the vacant space beside her.

“I was just driving around, and I saw the game,” I explain. “What’s your excuse?”

She nods toward the field. “I’ve actually got a kid playing.”

Amelia’s a tiny yellow dot in right field, surrounded by dandelions the same color as her jersey. Her unruly blonde hair has been contained at least for the moment beneath a black baseball cap.

Someone makes the final out of the inning, and the parents sitting around us politely clap as the fielders change positions from defense to offense. Amelia jogs into the dugout with the rest of her teammates.

“You got her out of the rain boots,” I observe.

“Small victories,” Charlotte smiles. “I pointed out to her that she’d run faster with proper cleats on. My girl might be weird, but she’s also fiercely competitive.”

Amelia wobbles up to home plate wielding a metal bat that probably weighs as much as she does. There are black streaks beneath her eyes like a football player.

“Your daughter also looks pretty fierce,” I say with a chuckle.

“It’s the only eyeliner she gets to wear until she’s in high school.”

“What are the rules?” I ask.

Charlotte watches the playing field. “Three strikes and you’re out.”

“Wow,” I remark. “Even at this age?”

“We’re not raising entitled misfits who get participation trophies just for showing up.”

“Tell me how you really feel,” I laugh.

The coach on the augmented pitching mound softly tosses the ball towards home plate. Amelia takes a mighty swing, but misses.

“Choke up, sweetie,” Charlotte calls from the stands.

Miniature hands move up the handle of the baseball bat. She swings a second time, but the pitch is too high, and she swings underneath it.

“Keep your eye on the ball, Amelia. You’ve got this,” her mother calls.

Amelia’s cleated feet dig deeper into the batter’s box and her tongue pokes out the side of her mouth. On her third swing, she connects. The aluminum bat sings as the ball hits the barrel of the bat. The ball doesn’t travel very far, but it stays fair, and Amelia takes off for first base. The entire stands come alive, everyone cheering Amelia on or the players trying to field the ball.

The fielding player is a young boy, maybe seven or eight years old who throws a wobbly ball to first base only seconds before Amelia’s foot stomps on the bag.

“Out,” the home plate umpire shouts. There’s a combination of applause and groans from the people in the stands.

“Should I go slash his tires?” I mumble out of the side of my mouth.

“I think the ump rides a bicycle,” Charlotte returns with a smile.

Amelia trots back to her team’s dugout.

Charlotte claps her hands and calls out words of encouragement. “Good job, Amelia. Nice try.”

So hot.

“You and I might have differing opinions about what’s attractive,” she murmurs for my ears only.

I feel the heat of embarrassment on my cheeks. I hadn’t intended to speak out loud. I stare at Charlotte’s hand, innocently set on the metal bleacher. I ache to grab her hand and pull it on my lap—to sit with her relaxed and familiar, not rigid and uncomfortable.

“I know,” I hear her say.

I snap my eyes away from her hand. “You know what?” I ask, throat tightening.

“It’s killing me not to touch you, too.” She reaches over and gives my fingers a quick squeeze before returning her hands to her lap. “Follow me,” she commands.

I look up after her when she stands up from the metal risers. She straightens her long legs and picks her way through the other Little League parents. When she reaches the grass, her hands go to her hips and she stares up expectantly at me in the bleachers.

I hop up as well, and with a little less finesse, I make my way down the bleachers, mumbling my apologies each time I nearly trip over someone. Before I can even reach the ground, Charlotte is already stalking off away from the baseball field. I hazard one fleeting glance in the direction of the field where Amelia’s team is playing before following in the direction where Charlotte headed.

I somehow manage to lose her somewhere between the bleachers and the grassy alleyway I currently find myself in. The recreational park isn’t very large and most everyone is gathered around the two adjacent baseball fields.

“Charlotte?” I quietly call out.

“In here.” Her head pokes out of a large metal shed before disappearing again.

I tentatively follow, not sure what I’m getting myself into.

The large tool shed is filled with smaller, compartmentalized metal cages. The cement slab beneath my feet is cold and damp, and the air smells musty. Charlotte stands in the middle of the shed, wringing her hands in front of her.

“What is this place?” I ask.

“It’s where they store the summer baseball equipment,” she explains. “I used to smoke in here during high school track practice. I picked up a lot of nasty habits in high school.” Her rounded shoulders rise and fall. “I’ve straightened my life out a lot since then.”

“Interesting choice of words,” I remark. “Luckily for me not everything in your life is so straight.”

Her lips quirk into a knowing grin. “Yeah. Lucky you.” Her hands slide roughly beneath the bottom hem of my t-shirt, forcing me to suck in a sharp breath when short nails rake down my abdomen.

“I’m sorry about this morning,” she starts.

“You don’t have to apologize,” I insist.

“No, I do. You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m the one who made the moves on you, and then I made it weird this morning when you were only being kind.”

She kisses me then, and I’m left breathless from the force of it. My hands clutch tightly to her waist and slip down to her hips. I pull her against me and we simultaneously groan when our centers connect. It feels very much like high school, slipping away to make out on school property, fumbling over and under the other person’s clothes.

“I have to get back soon,” she says, teeth tugging on my earlobe. “Amelia gets to play first base after the sixth inning.”

“And we’ve barely gotten to second.”

“Tonight,” she promises as she pulls away from me. She fixes the bottom of my tank top and flattens the material over my abdomen. “Tonight, I’m predicting a grand slam.”

+ + +

I can tell Charlotte’s in a good mood. The music playing on the jukebox is loud and she’s half-dancing, half-walking behind the bar, making sure everyone’s drinks are topped off. Her tank top shows off round, bronzed shoulders, and her backside looks utterly squeezable in the tight jeans she wears. It takes an admirable amount of willpower on my part not to jump behind the bar and have my way with her in front of half the town’s drinking population. It also makes my decision to tell her about Kambria difficult, but even more prudent. I can’t anticipate how she’ll take the news, but I’ve been weak-willed and selfish for too long. That stops tonight.

I’m perched on my usual bar top making conversation with Old Tom. I buy him a soda with lime and he tells me his philosophy on life. Charlotte drops by when she’s not serving other customers and we share private, knowing grins.

“You’re awfully important,” Tom remarks.

“Huh?” I’ve been staring at Charlotte again and don’t know what he’s talking about.

“Your phone keeps lighting up.” He nods to the cell phone on the bar top that I’ve been ignoring all night.

My phone is set to silent so I haven’t noticed the missed calls from my sister. I should probably call her back, but if it had been an emergency, she would have at least left a voicemail.

Warm hands clasp around my head to cover my eyes, and my phone goes out of view. “Guess who?” a familiar voice says.

The bottom drops out of my stomach.
Oh no.
This is not going to end well.

The hands fall away, and I turn around slowly on the barstool. “You … I…” I shake my head, hoping it will rattle my brain back into commission, hoping I might wake up from this soon-to-be nightmare. “What are you doing here?”