Page 35 of Curveball: The Baby and the Grump

And that’s what makes it so frustrating and weird that he hasn’t texted me to tell me that he’ll be late.

It’s not that I mind him being late. Shit happens to everyone — there’s no use holding that against him. But it’s the way that we specifically chose today to hang out because I don’t have to work and we could spend all day together. And here he is nowhere to be seen, and not even a word to say where he is.

I pull out my phone, half-hoping for a notification but not really surprised when there isn’t one.

This is so stupid. It’s not like we’re actually dating, not in the true sense of the word. And sure, I’ve spent more time with Jackson over the last couple of months than I have with anyone apart from Matt and my colleagues. And, worse than that, he’s made me feel really special. But none of that has meant we’re dating. That’s an intense word.

And he cares. I know he does, and that’s what makes it so annoying when he goes and does this. We might not be dating, but the way he makes me feel is very real. And now I’m standing here like an idiot. Feeling like I’m about to get a broken heart.

I shoot him another text, not even that worried about sounding pushy. Part of me feels like I should feel bad for being angry with him, because what if he’s been delayed for reasons totally beyond his control? What if he’s run into someone else and been knocked in the head and is unconscious in some hospital somewhere? What if he got killed by accident? Anything could have happened — and I’ll never know, because I’m not even that important to him.

He could have been hit by a car or be passed-out in the street somewhere, hemorrhaging, and I’m here thinking bad thoughts about him.

Why won’t he just reply?

It seems to take hours, but at long, long last, I spot a figure in the distance and Jackson comes bounding over, grinning like a lunatic. “I’m so sorry,” he says, sweeping me up into his arms. The shock of him doing that in broad daylight startles me into silence. I’m so surprised, I can barely even hug him back.

He doesn’t seem to notice, though. “I was just on the phone to Doctor Minogue, and guess what she said! She says that I should be okay to go back and start playing again! Like, as soon as tomorrow!”

“Wow, Jackson,” I stammer as his words sink in. “That’s really great.” I squeeze him tightly, my arms remembering how to move. This is everything he’s wanted for as long as I’ve known him.

“I know! I’m so relieved. We only have a couple of weeks before playoffs, and they’re really going to need me if we’re going to get to the World Series.”

“I’m sure you will,” I say, a lump forming in my throat.

But before I can ask him another question, he launches into telling me all about how excited he is to start training again, when he’s going to go down to the pitch, and how he’s been thinking up new plays in his mind for last few weeks while he’s been out of action. I barely even get a word in.

And sure, it’s nice to see him so excited about something. God knows this isn’t a normal amount of emotion for him to be showing, and I’m happy for him. But this is turning into quite a different walk from the one I was expecting.

I try to focus on how nice it is to be here with him instead of really listening. He’s happy, and that makes me happy.

Tentatively, I reach out to take his hand, and he doesn’t even really seem to notice. Usually he reacts awkwardly, like he’s got no idea how to handle real affection. But today, here he is, just letting me slip my hand into his and squeezing my fingers.

For a second, I almost feel like we could be any other real couple wandering around, happy together as we enjoy the sunshine and trees in the park. And in a way that is what we’re doing. I’m just also getting the baseball monologue at the same time.

I shouldn’t be grumpy with him about it. He’s worked hard to get here, and I’m proud of him.

I guess I just wish he had stopped for a second to ask how I am.

“So, what are you doing tomorrow?” I ask in a vain attempt to change the subject.

“Well, we’ll have practice in the evening. But I was thinking about going to the field a few hours earlier, just so I can get some extra time in,” he says, still lost in his bubble.

“Oh,” I say, not even bothering to hide my disappointment.

“Well, actually, now I think about it, maybe I should go in the morning instead. Because a couple of the guys usually go to the field in the morning on practice days to talk over tactics and stuff, and I also really want to meet with the manager because I want to make sure I’m going to be in the starting lineup when we play against the Peacocks. We’ve only ever beaten them a handful of times, and if we want any chance of getting through, we absolutely have to make sure we win against them.”

“Oh,” I say again, nausea rising in my throat.

“Yeah, that’s a great idea actually. Thanks!” he says, as if I’ve actually added something to the conversation. “I’ll go in the morning. I’ll speak to the manager, and I’ll do some personal practice. Really ease myself back in and feel great about it all. Then I’ll go for lunch at the bagel shop near the field. Do you know it? It’s really good.”

“Um, where is it?” I ask, even though I know I have no idea where it is.

“Like two blocks from the field. You should try it sometime. I think they make their own cream cheese, or something like that anyway, because whatever they do to it, it tastes phenomenal.”

I take a hard breath and put my nurse face back on. “Don’t you think maybe you should keep resting a little bit as well?”

That earns me the blankest stare I’ve ever seen from him. “I’ve rested enough these past few weeks. Why do I need to do any more resting?”

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