She’s skittish and unsure and . . . did my arm over her chair really drive her away? I would love to ask her but even if I did, I believe I wouldn’t get the truth. Possibly a scone to the mouth before I could finish my sentence.
Finally, the elevators pop open and Milly steps out first, I follow closely behind.
“Well, have a good night,” she says, walking a little faster. I stay in pace.
“Yeah, you too,” I reply as she stops at a door and holds out a key card.
Completely oblivious—or possibly ignoring me to the best of her ability—she opens her door and I follow her inside. It isn’t until she tries to shut the door that she realizes I’m right behind her.
“Oh my God,” she shouts, bringing her hand to her chest. “You scared me. What are you doing?”
I plaster a smile on my face and say, “Visiting a friend.” I take in her small, one-person dorm.
The first thing I notice are the baseball-themed decorations on the walls, from posters to framed pictures, to pennants. Legends live on her walls, men I’ve looked up to almost all my life—at least most of it. There are some newer players on her wall like Dustin Garnett and Cory Potter. The two pennants hung above her desk are the Bobcats and the Storm. Interesting choices. Then again, she does have a Cory Potter poster.
On her shelf, there are a few signed baseballs, but I’m just far enough away where I can’t see who signed them. There’s a picture of her with Cory Potter—I think we have a superfan—and there’s a Bobcat blanket draped over the back of her desk chair.
But then there are feminine touches like her bed. Pure white and fluffy as fuck, it looks like her own personal oasis. Bottles of lotion and perfume are stacked together on her dresser. Colorful notebooks and binders lay on her desk next to a pink desk lamp and matching stapler. To the left is a small kitchenette with a microwave and a mini fridge with a vase of flowers brightening up the space.
Her room is an interesting contradiction of her tomboy tendencies and beautiful femininity.
It’s so Milly.
I turn to Milly, who’s twisting her shirt in her hands, and avoiding all eye contact. This has to stop. I take charge.
Setting my backpack down, I walk over to her bed and flop on top of it. Fuck, it’s more comfortable than I imagined and it smells like flowery shit . . . like gardenias or something. If I knew what those smelled like. Peonies maybe? Or roses? Who the fuck knows, who cares? It just smells really fucking good.
“This is where you live, huh?” I prop my hands behind my head and take in the rest of her room. “No posters above your bed? Nothing to fall asleep to?”
“What are you doing here?” Milly asks, sounding exhausted.
“Hanging out with my friend. Come on.” I pat the bed. “Come sit and talk.”
“I told you I have to study.”
“Yeah, about that.” I rest up on my elbows. “I think you were lying. And that’s okay, because maybe you had something else you wanted to do but didn’t want to tell me about. Are you binge-watching something embarrassing? Hmm, let me guess.” I tap my chin. “Are you obsessed with baseball documentaries?” I don’t let her answer. “No, that’s not it. Uh-oh, I know. You want to watch Michael Bolton’s Big, Sexy Valentine’s Day Special, right?”
“What?” She chuckles, and as her shoulders relax, she takes a seat at her desk. It’s not on her bed, but I’ll take it for now. “Is that really a show?”
I nod. “Romeo was watching it the other day, as he has a love for the soothing voice of the Bolt.”
“I never would have guessed that from his walk-out song.”
“You pay attention to those?” She nods as a small smile spreads across her lips. Of course she does. Milly misses nothing. “What’s that smile for?”
“Just thinking about your walk-out song.”
I sit up even taller. “What’s wrong with my walk-out song?”
“Nothing.” She shakes her head. “Just another song I wouldn’t have guessed you’d pick.”
“Seriously? It’s a classic baseball song.”
“It’s called “Centerfield,” and you play second.”
“Ah, but centerfield was my first position until my coach in high school switched me to second. Before every game, I played “Centerfield” by John Fogerty. Really pumped me up.”
She laughs out loud, the sound filling the small space.
“Are you hating on my song?” I ask.
“No, I actually love that song. It’s just funny that you jammed out to it before every game.”
“Like headbanging kind of jam.” She laughs even louder. “I know, it’s not a headbanging kind of song, but it works for me.”
“It’s more like a song you perform the twist to with your grandma.”
“Yeah, a groovy grandma,” I say, adding a little shake to my shoulders.
“Oh my God, you did not just say groovy.”
Just to prolong that smile and laugh, I pull my phone from my pocket and open up Spotify to play “Centerfield.” Tuned clapping plays from my phone and then there’s the entrance of a guitar, and that’s when I hop off the bed and start twisting back and forth, arms and legs all moving as I shimmy my butt in her direction.
Her laugh is contagious as she pushes my side to get out of her face, but I don’t budge. Instead I pull her up by the elbow and make her dance with me.
She sidesteps but that’s about it. Hmm . . . disappointing.
“Is that all you’ve got, Milly? Am I going to have to teach you the fine moves of a mom in her forties wearing high-waisted, camel-toe jeans?”
“Please.” She chuckles. “Please teach me.”
I motion to my body and say, “Watch and learn, Mills. Before you know it, you’re going to have all the moves.”
Three songs later, and she’s just as terrible as she started. No rhythm in those stiff hips of hers, then again, she would not stop laughing, so it’s possible her concentration wasn’t fully there.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she asks, eyeing me on her bed.
“Getting comfortable. What does it look like?”
“It’s eight o’clock,” she says, now changed into a pair of plaid shorts and a Storm tank top. She braided her hair when she was in the bathroom, and I’m assuming she brushed her teeth as well because she’s smelling minty.
“And your point?”
Her eyes shift back and forth. “Uh, aren’t you going to go back to your place?”
“Nah, it’s comfortable here. Thanks for the offer though.” I put my hands behind my head and her eyes narrow.
“Well, I want to lie on my bed.”
“What’s stopping you?” I ask nonchalantly.
“You. You are stopping me.”
I gesture to the full-size mattress. “There’s plenty of room. Hop up.”
“Do you really expect me to jump into my bed with you?”
“What?” I pretend to clutch imaginary pearls. “Heavens to Betsy, no. I’m not a harlot. Wash your mouth. I’m talking above the covers. Nice try though, lady. Nice fucking try.”