Page 60 of When The Rain Falls

"Where's Ruby and Julie?" Aimee asks.

"Downstairs," Vivian says, leaning on the doorknob.

"Well, what are you waiting for? Go get your shoes on.Pumpkin lattes await!" Aimee exclaims in a sing-song voiceas she sweeps her arms in the air like some demented fairy godmother.

"I don't like coffee," Vivian wrinkles her nose.

"Well, hurry anyway. If we don't get your dad some coffee soon,he’ll turn into a beast,” Aimee exclaims in the same sing-song voice as she mimics her arm-sweeping motion from before.

Vivian and Aimee laugh. The mixture of their laughter sticks to my ribs. Weighty and substantial. I don't hear Vivian laugh enough, I realize. No one in this house really laughs enough. There's hardly anything to laugh about anymore. At least that was the case. Until Aimee.

On her way out the door, Aimee wanders over to my dresser. She peruses the framed photos displayed there. She glances over our wedding portrait, a picture of Ruby and Vivian in the bathtub together, then her gaze settles over a picture of me in my college baseball uniform, beaming next to my pitching coach after throwing my first and only perfect college game. My coach's messy handwriting is sprawled across the bottom in Sharpie."Life's not perfect, but this game was. Hold onto that feeling."

"You look cute in this picture," she says.

"You mean I look intimidating and athletic," I tell her, buttoning up the last button on my flannel shirt and adjusting the collar. "I look like the West Coast Conference Pitcher of the Year, to be specific," I continue. "I look like I just threw a perfect game."

"Seriously?" she asks. "That sounds impressive."

"Have you heard of John Olerud?" I ask. I'm sure she doesn't care about baseball. But I can't help it. I feel compelled to share. Aimee shakes her head. You can't be from Seattle and not know who John Olerud is.

"Played for the Mariners from 2000 to 2004?" I try.

Aimee winces. "I don't really like baseball," she says. I widen my eyes in disbelief.

"Fuck, Aimee. Did you just say you don't like baseball? Baseball is so...American."

She just shrugs. I notice that she has freckles. Just a light dusting. Just over her nose and the top of her cheeks. They’re barely visible. You’d only notice if you were looking for them.

"You might as well have just said you don't like apple pie,” I scold. “Or golden retrievers,” I add. “Or cheese in a can."

"Cheese in a can?" she asks, the corner of her mouth turning up playfully.

"You don't think cheese in a can is American?"

"I think cheese in a can is disgusting.” She criss-crosses her arms over her chest, making a perfect shelf for her dainty breasts. Reluctantly, I peel my eyes away.

“Ok, Miss Piles,” I tease. “Olerud was one of twenty-six players in all of baseball history to hit for the cycle multiple times," I explain.

"Yeah. I don't really know what that means." She wrinkles her nose. I don’t know how she does it. How she can transform her face from sinful temptress to pure innocence with just a wrinkle of her nose.

"For God's sake." I feel the passion rising in my chest. "It means he hit a single, double, triple, and a homerun in a single game. And he did it multiple times. It's one of the rarest feats in baseball."

"That's...cool?" she says, unimpressed. I pick up the picture of me in my college baseball uniform.

"Olerud was a Cougar," I explain, pointing to the picture.

"Um…" She folds her arms loosely in front of her chest. "He was a middle aged woman who hit on younger men?"

"Christ." I raise my eyes to the ceiling and bite back a smile. "No," I say exasperated. I point to the logo on my baseball uniform. "He was a Cougar. Washington State University."

"Oh!" she says, lightbulb going off in her brain. "So you both went to the same college," she says, understanding dawning across her face.

"Yeah. Not at the same time, obviously," I say. "I just think it's cool that my baseball hero and I both wore the same uniform at some point in our lives."

"Aww," she coos. "Cute."

"No, Aimee. Not cute. Intimidating and athletic," I remind her, setting the picture back down on my dresser. She pats my arm reassuringly.

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