Hardball (29 page)

He looked at the screen. “I’m strong as a horse,” he mumbled, putting on his reading glasses. He looked at the screen again.

“Don’t scroll,” I said.

“He’s lucky.” He replaced the phone in the console and folded his hands in his lap. “I’ll let him live.”

I worked really hard not to laugh at the idea of my semi-mobile father murdering Dash Wallace—trained athlete—with anything less than a firearm. He loved me.

I dropped my hand over his and squeezed it. “It’s going to be all right.”

“Why do you have that look then?”

The most obvious answer was “what look?” but I didn’t want to lie. I knew what he meant. I changed the subject instead. “Do you want to eat at Café Sid?”

“No. I have a stomachache from that thing they called a frankfurter. It tasted like salted Styrofoam. Why are you the lucky charm? And why did you get a long face when he called you that?”

I made a left off Sunset so we could go home. “It’s a lot of responsibility. And I’m afraid if he has a losing streak or something, it’s going to be my fault.”

“Your fault?”

“Well… that he’s going to blame me.”

“
Oy
. I’ve never seen two people make up so many problems.”

We shot west on Beverly, but I couldn’t take it. I wasn’t making up a problem. If I was going to be in his life, I was going to be more than a rabbit’s foot on his keychain. I pulled over in a red zone and snapped up my phone.

I don’t want our relationship to be contingent on your batting average

I was a hundred percent sure he was still at the stadium, talking to the off-camera press. I tossed the phone in the back. I didn’t even want to be tempted by it.

“Oh, no,” I said, pulling around the corner of our block right around three in the afternoon.

A Volvo was parked in our driveway. Parking in someone else’s driveway was a big no-no in our neighborhood and usually the result of a sense of entitlement or an honest mistake. I could see someone leaning against the driver’s door, and once I got around the car, I could see who it was.

“Crimeney.”

“He’s fast, that guy,” Dad said.

I pulled up behind the Volvo. The car’s color was a deep, molten gold, and Dash Wallace was tapping on his phone. He put it in his pocket when we got out of the car. He ran to help Dad but was brushed off.

“I’m fine, Mr. Four RBIs.”

“I had a good game.” He looked at me with half a smirk.

“That’s a flashy car.” Dad swung his cane at it.

“It’s a Volvo.”

“It’s gold,” I interjected.

“It’s insoluble.” He fell into step next to me. “And it’s yours.”

He put his hand over mine, clasping it. I felt the hard box of the key in his palm. When I pulled my hand up, the key was in it.

I stopped. “Dash.”

“Let’s take it for a spin.”

I stopped, looked at it then Dad, who was at the door, jingling his keys. My mouth was open. I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to accept it. My car was worth four hundred dollars, and it needed a three-hundred-dollar tune-up.

“Go!” Dad dismissed me with a wave. “Go with your
khaver
. Buys you a car.” He shook his head, mumbling, “Couple of
mensches
here.”

“What does that mean?”

“A minute ago you were a
putz.
Mensch
is a big improvement,” I said.

Dad opened the door, waved, and shut it without even asking if I wanted to come in. I faced Dash, my
khaver—
boyfriend. Out of my league yet somehow in my life.

“I want to talk about my batting average,” he said.

“Me too. And I’m driving.”

Vivian

I’d never thought much of Volvos. It wasn’t a Mercedes or a Porsche or anything. But I got it. As soon as the engine hummed to life and the RPMs cooled a split second later, I knew why it was a gold Volvo. It was safe. The sweetness of his gesture melted my corners into curves.

The driveway went around the back alley and onto a side street.

“You know I can’t accept this, right?”

“Head north to Sunset. Take it east.”

“Hello? Did you hear me?”

I headed north. The turn signal had a low, deep clicking sound that felt more expensive than the high-pitched clack of my Nissan’s signal. The dash lights were crisp yet easy on the eyes, and the leather smell was ambrosia. All of the finest details—there to piss me off.

“Yes,” he said. “I heard you.”

“Well?”

“Well what? You’re just uncomfortable with the size of it. The expense. And I’m uncomfortable with you driving that piece of shit you have in the driveway. So one of us is going to have to get over it, and since it’s a matter of life and death over fifty-five miles an hour, I win. Left on LaBrea to Hollywood.”

“Where am I driving? Can you tell me? I was raised here. I might know the place.” My voice was saturated with irritation. When I looked at him, he was smiling. “What? Why are you grinning? Is there some kind of problem? Do you not take me seriously?”

“I do. I’m sorry. Barnsdall Art Park.”

He turned away and looked out the window. I knew it was because he was smiling. Even when he reached for my knee, then my thigh, he looked away.

“Stop smiling,” I grumbled.

“Can’t.”

“Were you this irritating when we met?”

“I was charming. Very charming.”

“Where did Mr. Charming go?”

“That guy didn’t have staying power.”

“But Mr. Irritating? He’ll stick around?”

“Unfortunately. Go up to the top please.”

I went past the gate at Barnsdall and up the hill. His hand crawled up my thigh, and my body had the usual response, which was something between highly aroused and melting into lava.

I parked.

Barnsdall Art Park sat atop a low hill in East Hollywood. Frank Lloyd Wright had designed and built a residence with a theater and art gallery overlooking two sides of the city. Because the parking lot was the only piece of the puzzle at ground level, the park was historically underused, making it a great place for a pro baseball player to walk around without being recognized.

He put his arm around me and led me over the grass. A few couples and trios sat in the stone alcoves, chatting and laughing in the late afternoon shadows. He led me to a ledge overlooking the north side of the park, in view of the Hollywood sign and the high contrast lighting of the setting sun over the hills. He brushed dirt off the top of the stone wall and offered me his hand.

I took it and sat on the ledge overlooking the city. He hopped over, onto the side of the hill.

“This is nice,” I said.

He stood and wedged himself between my legs. “Vivian?” He linked his fingers together at my lower back.

“Dash.”

“Seeing you behind the dugout meant a lot to me. I want you to be at every game.”

I put my forearms on his shoulders and locked my fingers together. “I want to be there, technically.”

“Technically?”

“I have work until the middle of June.”

His expression was hard to read it changed so fast. But with the narrowing of the eyes and the tightening of one side of his mouth, I knew he hadn’t considered my job an issue. Maybe he didn’t consider it a job worth staying at in money or satisfaction. Both. Neither. Something else entirely.

Then I felt his fingers tap on my back, and his gaze went deep into the middle distance.

“You’re counting,” I said.

“I have seven weekday away games between now and June 10th.”

“And? You think I can just take those seven days off?”

“Yes.”

“As what? Sick days?”

“And after that, you just travel with me.”

“That’s nuts.”

It was. How many red-eyes was that? How many mornings would I show up at school on no sleep? And how was I supposed to get away with that? Teachers only worked nine months a year, so unless we were actually sick, we were expected to show up.

“Listen.” He pecked my lips before continuing. “You give notice now, and they have all summer to find another librarian. They’ll be fine.”

I pulled back. “What? No. Dash, really, I’m not quitting.”

“Why not?”

What the hell? Had he lost his mind? How could he even pretend to not understand the issue here? It was so obvious to me that he was asking me to give him everything that mattered to me in exchange for… what? I didn’t even know what was on the table.

“I’m not ready to change my life all around,” I said.

“We change each other’s lives. That’s what we
do
.”

“A couple of months ago, you couldn’t even commit past March. Now you want me to quit my job and leave my father so I can travel with you?”

He couldn’t step back much because of the slope of the hill, but he backed up as much as he could and put his hands on my thighs. Mine were folded in my lap.

“I know,” he said. “I don’t blame you for being cautious. But I want to reassure you that I’m serious.”

I took his face in my hands and put my nose on his. He was a good man. A sincere and worthy man. I had a million reasons to drop everything and run away with him and only a few very important reasons to refuse. “I know you’re serious.”

“I don’t think you do. I think I’ve made mistakes with you, and that’s what’s making you balk. So I want to undo those mistakes. I want you to know how much you mean to me.”

“I get it but—”

“Marry me.” He reached into his pocket.

No. Oh no. I grabbed his hand before he could dig in there and pick out what I knew was a ring. A ring bought too soon and for the wrong reasons. Maybe the only ring I’d be offered in my life, but nevertheless, one I couldn’t accept.

“Don’t,” I whispered urgently. “Don’t do this.”

He’d obviously expected a different reaction. “Why not? I need you.”

I shook my head to get the thoughts out. The ones where he was using me to fulfill his superstitions, the ones that demanded I tell it to him straight and lose him forever. They pushed against the filter, bulging and pounding against it.

“You need me for the wrong reasons,” I said, pushing the rest of it back.

“What do you mean?”

That was all that thin membrane holding the truth back needed. The words burst out too fast, and they were hard and unkind.

“I’m not—”

Your good luck charm

Responsible for your failures

A toy

I bit it all back so hard I nearly coughed. I couldn’t do it that way. I couldn’t cut him down. The crux of what he was going through was lack of confidence, and I’d almost played into it.

“You’re a gifted person,” I said. “You don’t need superstitions to be successful. Me, I’m just a trinket right now. But the talent is with you. All you.”

“You’re not a trinket. How could you say that?”

Of course he picked the one thing that would deflect the conversation from the real problem. I wanted to talk about his confidence and his ability. I didn’t want to talk about what I thought of myself.

“You have to work on this idea that you’re not good enough,” he said. “You have to know that we’re that good together. That you’re different. Special. Better for me than any woman I’ve ever met.”

“And you love me?”

“Of course I do.”

Yeah. That was bullshit. I was honored and flattered. I was even tempted. His pseudo-declaration of love was the best he could do, under the circumstances, which were just awful.

“My father,” I said, then I corrected myself. “My
biological
father. He and my mother got married in a whirlwind. He was an actor on the verge. Clint Eastwood was casting this western. He’d directed stuff before, but everyone was talking about how this was going to be a big deal for him. My father thought he was getting cast in it. It’s hard to do forensics on a guy I never met, but he was vulnerable when he met my mother. His success was about to crush him, and from what my mom said, success was scarier to him than failure. She was that successful. She was in magazines and fashion shows. She’d survived it. She was a symbol of what he wanted to become and what he feared. He felt safe with her. They met and married in the space of two months.”

Dash shook his head as if to clear it. “Wait. Who’s your dad?”

“Nobody. Really nobody. Richard Harris got cast to be English Bob when my mom was pregnant with me, and my father flipped. Nothing she did brought him back to reality, and he blamed her. He said if she hadn’t been pregnant, he would have gone out more, made more contacts. And when
Unforgiven
did well, everything crashed. They weren’t strong enough to get through it, and he left her with nothing but a baby and a house she couldn’t sell.”

“That’s not me.”

I was torn. I felt the depth of his disappointment and disorientation, yet I couldn’t change my mind to soothe it. “No, it’s not you. Because you have real talent.”

He looked away from me, and only in that redirection did I see how confusing this was for him and how I couldn’t make it better. He’d exposed his deepest vulnerabilities, and I’d thrown them into the pit of his fears.

Well done, Vivian. Way to go
.

“I love you,” I said.

Those words should have come before he asked me to marry him, and he looked back at me as if he was shocked to hear them.