Page 28 of Love at a Funeral and Other Awkward Conversations

Vince releases me suddenly and my weight moves forward, and I have to rebalance myself as if he’d been holding me up. I try to brush the thought away of how much I needed or wanted him to.

He steps around me to a bearded guy in a polo behind the counter. They exchange a few words, the worker’s eyes briefly drifting to me. I’m out of place in my boots and jeans. It’s obvious I don’t belong here, but Vince doesn’t mention anything about the thud of my steps next to him as we walk.

When Vince showed up the day after it happened, I hadn’t bothered to pay attention to what he looked like, not really. Now, though, I study him in quick side glances. He’s handsome in an old-school sort of way, like he walked out of a Rat Pack movie, with his slightly curly sideswept hair and square jaw and long nose. He should always be in his suit with a skinny tie because his sweats and sneakers look so out of place on him. And yet, he’s so at ease in his body, it’s impossible to ignore his confident gait. Same goes for that nagging little heartache I had for him as a young girl that’s suddenly rushing back.

He stops at a stand lined with bats and holds one out to me. “See if you like this one.”

I take it between my fingers. It’s heavier than it appears.

“Can you swing it? Try.”

I sway it in a downward arc around my legs, and he rolls his eyes at me then lifts a gray helmet from another rack. With a plop of it on my head, he smacks the top of it twice. “How’s that?”

I wobble my head back and forth. “Peachy.”

“Perfect.” He retrieves his own bat and helmet and marches up to a netted cage, opening the overlapping netting and motioning inside expectantly. “Wanna go first?”

“No, I’m good,” I say, and he raises his brow in a challenge, but I shake my head.

He clucks his tongue like he’s disappointed, but his mouth curves my way as he puts on his helmet before walking inside like he’s home. He inserts two gold coins into what looks like a plain metal box with a couple buttons, presses the green one on the top, and then takes his place outside of the plate. He wiggles his butt a little—my fourteen-year-old self collapses—and lifts his bat in the air. He swings and hits every ball that flies at him from the other side of the batting cage.

It’s clear he’s in his element. He’s so good at this—perfect, as far as I can tell. I remember him playing baseball with Ray, that he was really good. A catcher, which was why he and Ray, the pitcher, were such great friends. Like they were on one wavelength, spoke another language all their own.

I don’t know what happened after high school, probably what happens to a lot of people. They simply lost touch, and I’m suddenly desperate to know what happened for all those lost years. I need to fill in the blanks.

Especially why he’s here.

With me.

I’m intimidated by the whole scene, of this place and of him, but I pretend not to be with one hand on my bat and the other on my hip. When the balls finally stop flying at him, he pivots to me, and I whistle. He saunters out of the cage, grinning. A light sheen of sweat highlights his forehead, his flushed cheeks.

I lean dramatically against his shoulder. “Be still my beating heart. A man who knows what to do with balls.”

The line of his lips slowly curls up, his attempt at not smiling eventually failing. He taps my hip twice, the expanse of his hand finding me like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Your turn.”

“Eh. I’ll pass.” I stand upright, putting a few inches of space between us, uncomfortable being so comfortable with him.

“You agreed to meet me here. You’ve got the bat and the helmet, but you’re going to pass?”

I swing the bat over my shoulder, and it haphazardly knocks into my helmet. “Not really my scene.”

“Not really your scene,” he mumbles in his faux irritation that I remember so well from years ago. Bordering on flirtatious. He curves his hot palms over my shoulders and bodily spins me around, pushing me forward, through the netting, crowding me into the batting cage.

“Stand over there,” he says, indicating to place he stood. “Are you right or left-handed?”

“Right.”

“Okay.” He tugs me by the arm to stand outside of the plate. With light touches on my elbows, knees, hips, and shoulders, he moves me into the position of a real baseball player. Sort of. “You’re holding the bat too low. Choke up a bit.”

“Huh?”

He slides my hands up higher on the bat and keeps his fingers over mine. “You’ll have more control of your swing this way. How does it feel?”

I angle my head so I can turn to look at him. This close, I reacquaint myself with the individual gray and brown flecks in his eyes, the few freckles on the bridge of his nose, the mole he has on the side of his throat, right above his collar. His skin is naturally bronzed, and he smells new yet familiar, like pine soap and that waft of warm air when you first open the door to summer.

When he raises his brow, evidently awaiting my answer, I blink away. “Okay, I guess.”

He backs away from me and goes over to the box to insert more coins. With a press of the green button, he directs me, “Keep your eye on the ball and swing as hard as you can.”

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