Page 1 of A Fine Line

You know what sucks about being the youngest sibling? Other than being the most charming and attractive one, obviously. It was the fact that when one of my siblings, specifically my sister, asked me to do something for them, I couldn’t say no. Or maybe I could, but it would result in being nagged for an entire week until I did something to make it right. Which was how my sister, Calla, somehow got me to agree to come to a Phillies baseball game on my one day off a week.

Sunday was the only day that I didn’t have my head over a grill, chest drenched in sweat beneath an apron, being called ‘Chef’- a loose term that my assistant called me- I was pretty sure it was only because he could never remember my name. It was my one day of freedom.

Don’t get me wrong, I loved my little food truck. The tiny green trailer from the nineties that I renovated two years ago, with Stainless Steel and PVC walls and a large concession area. Lights strung around the outside and a fold out picnic table conveniently placed a few feet away. Menus and graphics designed by Calla plastered all over the outside. She was a dream.

When I drove all the way down to Tennessee to pay for the trailer in cash, my entire family swore I was going to make it five miles down the road before a wheel fell off and I would be stranded in BFE. I took my old assistant, Jose, down with me since none of the traitors I called siblings would go with me. Within twenty four hours I was back home with a beat up trailer and an extremely inflated ego.

To this day, I always called it my little green engine that could. Every time I figured it might be time to give up and attempt some normal cook job, she shined out time and time again. That being said, I still enjoyed a day off not having my hat-hair soaking wet and my shoulders crammed in the small window, taking cash from strangers. It was usually a nice, relaxing Sunday. Usually.

But being forced to watch some guys hit and chase balls on my one day off, while it was a million degrees out and my sister was next to me, shouting names and insults that would make our mother blush my version of a vacation.

"Hey ref you might want to check your voicemail,YOU'VE MISSED A FEW CALLS!" Calla shouted beside me, her hands waving wildly in the air as I slipped further into my seat and tugged my baseball cap lower. My sister needed a hobby. One that wasn’t competitive or involved in sports that had men in tight pants. Crocheting. She needed to learn to crochet.

I was going to end up with a migraine by the end of this game if she didn’t learn what her inside voice meant- which I had now told her twenty times to use. She shrugged one shoulder, her oversized white jersey flinging with it, and stuffed a fistful of popcorn in her mouth.

I shook my head and stood up. “I’m going to get a hot dog, I can’t take being next to you anymore.”

Calla shrugged as if to say fair, and handed me a ten. “Get me a pretzel too.”

I took the ten and decided she didn’t deserve a pretzel before climbing the concrete stairs inside the stadium. The sound of roaring fans died down the further I walked towards the partially air conditioned walk way, thankfully turning into a dull humming noise surrounding the different vendors inside.

Walking down the crowded pathway full of people in red and blue merch, I passed two pizza stands with nothing special to offer and one fish stand that smelled questionable at best, before settling in front of the one hot dog stand. My shoulders relaxed at the view in front of me, a short line of two people and a giant overhead sign of a vintage cartoon hotdog with legs and a bright smile with a speech bubble that said Franks a lot. Sold.

I ordered two hot dogs and a large fry before paying in my sisters cash and stepping back to where everyone else was waiting on their food. But when I turned around, I saw her.

Smooth auburn hair, a tiny nose with the cutest bump on the end of it. Long, pale legs that tucked into denim shorts and a white t-shirt that said ‘‘I can't remember that element, but it's on the tip of my tungsten.” in a swirly black font. Pink platform tennis shoes with an embroidered flower on the side of them. My heart beat picked up in my chest, pounding feverishly against the walls of my body like an animal begging to get out of its enclosure.

Light shifted, music slowed, the breeze stopped. Everything moved around her in .5 speed. She held a smile when one couple squeezed past her to the condiment table a few feet behind her. Staring off to the side, she appeared entirely clueless to the halo practically flying over her head or the spotlight that seemed to burst down from the heavens.

This one. I sent a quick message to the man upstairs. This one is mine, right?

The halo was sign enough. I didn’t wait for a confirmation back before making my way over, flexing my forearms a little as I crossed them over my chest.

“Hi.” I spoke, possibly forcing my voice to go a little deeper than its usual octave.

The red head turned my way with an instant smile, shining and so sweet it felt like my heart got hit by a jack hammer. “Hi?”

Her head tilted to one side, like she was trying to already figure out what I was going to say next. I wish I could say I had a sexy one liner to throw her way, or that I was as comfortable straight up asking if she was single. That probably would have been my best route. Instead, I lifted my chin to her and asked. “You come here often?”

Like that had been a line I used on the regular instead of being something I heard once in the early two thousands and somehow stuck in my subconscious brain until this very moment.

Thankfully, that pretty smile of hers only drew up further, the corners of her lips pulling into a grin so big that I wondered how I managed to put it there myself.

Her hands clasped together, the receipt between them folded neatly, as she swayed her body side to side. “No.” She snorted a little. “I’m not too into baseball, but my roommate is obsessed with the pitcher and swears if we sit close enough they can make eye contact and fall in love.”

Her accent. I don’t know why I didn’t notice it before. This slight twang on a few of her words, her ‘eye’ sounding more like ‘ah.’ It reminded me of that southern cooking show mom used to put on in the background when I was a kid. The one who would always put way too much butter in her pie crusts and used to show her family’s cows all the time. Made me think I could be some kind of cowboy back then.

I grinned back at her. “I like the way you say stuff.”

“Yeah?” She laughed and the sound was so perfect that part of me wondered if I ought to just drop on one knee right here. I didn’t have a ring but she could have both the hotdogs I just ordered if she wanted them.

“Y’all don’t get a ton of that up here, I guess.” She continued, standing there like sunlight was just radiating off of her. All the background noise around me seemed to just level out to a haze.

“No. I don’t hear it a lot.” I smirked at her. “I like it though. Where are you from?”

“Oak Ridge, Alabama.” She said it like she was almost shy of it, her chin dipping a little lower than before. “I lived on a farm growing up.”

“Oh…” I nodded along as if I had any clue what that entailed. As if I was raised in anything other than a middle class suburban neighborhood where the homes were stacked one by one. I leaned closer to her and her smile seemed to pull even bigger, making me wonder just how long she would let me even talk to her.

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