Page 10 of Triple Play

What is Melody doing here?

Closer, she looks more like if Melody had a twin sister. Her hair is pulled back. A gold pendant rests in the dip of her clavicle. Her nails are short, not the long coffin set she used to rock. A term I only know because I’d Venmo her money to get them done.

I must be staring. No, I’m definitely staring, because Melody looks up and catches my gaze. Her brown eyes widen in panic.

I’m still sporting my dusty farm beard. Having facial hair in Vermont in the winter just makes sense—but it’s definitely not how I wanted to look when I saw Melody again. I—literally—bite my tongue to keep myself from saying something like, I haven’t seen you in eight months.

Meanwhile, Forsyth clears his throat like he’s waiting for me to stop gawking and introduce myself. I do, sticking out a hand that encompasses his as we shake. Even if we play the same position, he’s built like more a third baseman—a few inches shorter than I am and naturally lean. Shaved and trimmed and shiny. He glances at my hand—at the few chips of black polish remaining on my thumbnail—and his lips part vaguely in surprise.

“Felix Paquette,” I say, before he can comment on that.

“Hey, nice to meet you, man. I’m Blake.” Said like I don’t already know. I resolve right then to call him Forsyth if only to make it clear we’re not going to be friends.

Melody is staring at me, her olive skin gone pale like she’s seen a ghost. I need to say something. All I can manage is, “Too bad about the flights.”

Forsyth snorts amiably. “I tried to charter a plane, but everything was grounded.”

Without thinking, I shoot Melody a Can you believe this guy? look the way I would sometimes if a club patron was being particularly obnoxious.

Normally she’d laugh and say, It’s a business in that accent of hers.

Now she just tugs the cropped hoodie she’s wearing closer to the waistband of her joggers like she doesn’t want me to see even that little strip of tanned skin. A reminder I’ve seen her in less clothing—much less.

It’s possible Forsyth is the jealous type. Even if he’s not, I shouldn’t be looking at her. Not at the point of her chin, the soft pout of her lips. I try to find someplace on her that won’t evoke that same feeling I had in June, but I can’t pull my eyes away. The strap from her bag left a small red mark on her neck. I focus on that, on how, in the right light, it looks like stubble burn.

Of course, Forsyth must see me staring and swoops in. “Here, let me take that, sweetheart,” he says to her.

“Oh.” She says it like she’s surprised to find the bag on her shoulder. “It’s not heavy.”

“It’s the least I can do given the flight situation.” As if he’s manfully shouldering the blame for the weather along with her bag.

Hey, asshole, she can hold her entire body weight upside down on a pole.

For a second, I expect the full volcano of her temper—Melody was always quick with an opinion, quick to laugh. Quick to breathe something incendiary in my ear that left me aching.

“Um, I guess, if it’s not too much trouble.” She hoists the bag and lets him peel it from her. A process only slowed by him kissing the tip of her nose.

Of course he would. Of course he’d be showy and perfect, as if he was built in a lab that produced baseball players. Handsome as a model. Or a Ken doll.

And better than you. At everything.

I clear my throat, trying not to sound impatient.

If it bothers Forsyth, it doesn’t show, and I hate him for that as much as anything else.

“Oh, sorry,” Forsyth says. “Shira, this is Felix Paquette.” And he says it through a slight Georgia drawl, like packet and not pah-khet, the way it’s actually pronounced. “Paquette, this is Shira.”

Shira. Right. Of course she was using a different name at the club. I guess I don’t have much room to criticize. It’s not like I told her my real name either.

“It’s nice to meet you,” I say.

Melody—Shira—doesn’t offer her hand. She presses her teeth to her bottom lip. In the months we’ve been apart, I somehow forgot she did that—as if she’s trying to bite back something she shouldn’t say. How that always made me feel like we were in on a secret together.

“It’s nice to meet you too, Felix,” she says quietly.

Who are you and what have you done with Melody? As if she took her personality off along with her makeup. “Looks like we’re driving to Florida,” I say. It comes out loud, like I’m shouting over the crowd at the club. My face starts to burn above the straggles of my beard. Shira takes a fraction of a step back.

Fortunately, Forsyth doesn’t seem like he’s picked up on any awkwardness. “Looks like.”

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