Page 10 of Summer Romance
We dock and he cuts the engine. The new quiet is replaced by the sound of gulls and the crack of a bat hitting a line drive. He hops onto the dock and reaches to help me out of the boat. His hand feels strong and sure, and for a second, it seems like neither of us is going to let go. We make our way through the tiny marina, and the sound of cheering gets more distinct as we walk a block inland toward the stadium. We should be talking, I think.
“How do you know the pitcher?” I ask.
“He’s from Devon. That’s where I live.”
“Massachusetts?”Massa-Cheez-Its.I hear my mom snort.
“Yes.” He turns to me, and in this light, I can see he has a scar on his right eyebrow, but there’s no crease next to it now. His face is completely open and relaxed.
The stadium announces itself with a forty-foot rocket out front. A wooden sign encourages us toBlast Off into Summer. An elderly man takes our tickets, and we find our seats in the front row, right by third base. I’ve never sat so close at a baseball game, but then again this isn’t exactlyYankee Stadium. Half the seats are empty, and there’s a man a few rows back who is sound asleep. It’s the third inning, and the Rockets are down one to five.
“How long have you lived in Devon?” I ask.
“Six years.”
“And what do you do?”
“I’m a lawyer. You’re good at dating—I can see you’ve mastered this part.” He gives me a sideways smile and nudges me with his shoulder.
“Yeah, I’m a pro,” I say. “Want me to guess your sign?”
He puts his feet up on the concrete wall in front of us and relaxes back into his seat. I put mine up next to his and lean back, happy with this view of his legs.
“Leo,” he says.
“Knew it. Have you ever been married?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I’ve never really dated anyone I wanted to marry, and also I’m told I’m unreliable.” I turn to him and narrow my eyes. Unreliable. It’s a good thing I’m not in the market for a husband, because this would be a deal-breaker. I wait for him to say more about this, but he doesn’t.
A man comes by with a huge box strapped to his chest, and my unreliable date buys me an ice-cold beer and a hot dog.
“This may not have been the fine dining you were hoping for on your first date, but I promise the ice cream sandwiches are excellent.”
We clink our plastic cups together and drink to that.
“There he is,” Ethan says as a new pitcher takes the mound. We watch him warm up and then walk three players, followed by a grand slam.
“At least the beer’s cold,” I say. I take a sip and I can feel him smiling at me. I lean back in my seat and my arm brushes against his on the shared armrest. I am stunned by the feel of it, and I stay perfectly still to keep him there.
It’s the ninthinning, the Rockets are down by twelve, and I’ve had two hot dogs and two beers. Ethan shells peanuts and hands them to me, while we watch the Southport Rockets let in run after run. We talk about nothing. It is a free-flowing, easy stream of conversation that feels like it’s pulling me along, each topic leading to another. He tells me about the particular quirks of Massachusetts drivers. He likes San Diego but only to visit. It turns out we lived in the same neighborhood in Manhattan for a month more than a decade ago.
I tell him about my organizing business. “I’m running out of houses to organize in Beechwood, but I’m trying to make it a thing on Instagram.”
“Because you’re very organized?”
“Yes,” I say. And immediately think of the full year of my kids’ artwork currently on the floor by my front door. “Well, it’s not so much that I’m currently organized, but I like to bring order to things. It helps me relax.”
“Me too,” he says, and it surprises me. “That’s pretty much what my legal work is. I work mostly in housing andpersonal injury. Solving problems. Restoring balance. It feels good.”
“Yes,” I say. And before I’ve thought it through, I lean in toward him and say, “Yesterday, I took everything out of this woman’s mudroom, wiped the shelves clean, and only put half of it back in so that there was space between every pair of shoes.”
“That must have felt great. She must have been so happy.” We’re leaning on one another now, shoulder to shoulder, arms still sharing the armrest and heads nearly touching.
“Not as happy as I was.”
