He should know. He knows the only thing that has ever thrown off my game, the one thing that can pull me out of my game mindset: Emory.
“At that check ceremony today, I ran into Emory.”
“Em—” He shakes his head. “Wait, what?”
“Yeah, she’s a fucking librarian at one of the elementary schools we donated to.”
“She lives in Chicago?”
“Yeah, she never fucking left.”
Carson lifts his hat and scratches the top of his head. “Holy fucking shit.”
“Yeah. Let’s just say, everything around me turned red when I saw her, and before I knew it, I charged into her office where I found her sobbing. I went from angry to furious. She drove the stake between us.”
“Shit.” The crowd cheers again and Kennedy takes first, drawing a walk from Pederson. Hell, one out, bases loaded; we might actually win this game. “What did you do?”
“What every other heartbroken fool would have done. I yelled at her, blamed her for everything, and then pressed her against the wall and fucked her mouth with my tongue.”
“Oh fuck.” He chuckles. “Dude, you made out with her?”
“Yes, and I’m not kidding when I say it was the best fucking kiss of my life, better than our first. It was like I’d been holding my breath for eight years, and I finally let it out. I was so caught off guard by how much she shook me, that I pulled away and swore up a storm.”
“Sounds about right.”
“What happened after that?”
Like two gossiping hens in the corner, I take a sip of my drink and say, “She asked me out on a date.”
“What? Are you fucking kidding me? She asked you out? After everything you two have been through?”
“Yeah.” I pick up a towel and drape it over my shoulders only to wipe my face with it.
“What did you say?” The crack of the bat pulls our attention to the field. The ball flies into the outfield, deep. Dunn tags up at third and barrels down the third baseline once the ball is caught. He slides into home, tying up the score.
The team congratulates him with fist bumps and high fives when he reaches the dugout. We join in on the celebration but once it dies down, I say, “I told her I’d think about it, and then I left. She texted me the address to her apartment and said if I felt like coming over after the game, I know where to find her now.”
“Damn, dude. Are you going to go?”
“I have no fucking clue, but my game tonight is a clear indication that I need to do something, I need to figure this out.”
“Do you want to see her again?”
“Fuck . . . yeah, I do. But I’m still so goddamn mad.”
“Understandable. I had to almost beat your sorry ass for taking so long to get your head in the fucking game when we were drafted. Then, and clearly now. But she’s the one girl you’ve never been able to get over.”
“What are you saying?” Out of nowhere, the crowd erupts and our teammates hop out of the dugout in celebration.
We won, I have no idea how, but we did. Carson and I follow closely behind as he shouts to me over the cheering fans. “You need to see what she wants. You owe it to yourself to do that much.”
As the team cheers and coolers of water are tossed around, I don’t feel anything but a dull thump beneath my chest, a pulse that’s trying to resurrect itself.
Seeing her will either be the best, or worst, decision of my life.
Fuck if I know what to do.
Truck parked, I glance up at the deli sign that reads Joe’s Meats.
What the hell is she doing living above a deli shop?
The streets are barely lit, there was a group of guys a few streets down partaking in what I can only imagine is some drug dealing, and there are bars on every single window on the road she lives on.
What the actual fuck?
I pocket my keys and head to the side door where Emory directed me in text and take the stairs two at a time, my feet falling heavily on the worn-out, rickety staircase.
After the game, I took my time showering and dressing. I didn’t text her to let her know I was coming, unsure if I could actually drive to her. I didn’t want to make a promise I wasn’t sure I’d keep, but somehow, my truck found her apartment.
There’s only one door at the top of the staircase, the wood painted so many times that the door actually looks goopy rather than smooth.
Before I can convince myself to walk away, I rap on the door and stuff my hands in my pockets. There’s some rustling, followed by the creak of a floorboard, and locks being shifted.
The door opens, and on the other side stands a surprised, tear-filled Emory.
Fuck, she probably thought I wasn’t coming.
Wearing white joggers and a grey tank top, she wipes her face quickly and clears her throat. “Knox,” she squeaks out, “I . . . I didn’t think you were coming.”
“Can I come in?”
“Yeah, of course.” She opens the door wider, revealing a very small but homey studio apartment. Her bedroom is separated by a small partition, and she’s made enough room to have a small loveseat across from an even smaller flat-screen TV. Incredibly modest, her apartment is the size of my bedroom, but it’s her.
I take a step in as she shuts the door behind me.
Still unsure what to do, I stand in her tiny entryway, hands stuffed in my pockets.
She’s the first to talk. “I watched the game.” She glances at the ground. “Congrats on the win.”
“Thanks. I did nothing to contribute.”
“You got hit by a pitch, that’s something.”
Shit, I hate that she makes me chuckle. “My grandma could stand there and do that.”
“Bet she wouldn’t have been able to walk it off though. Probably would have ended up with a cracked rib and a concussion, out for two weeks.”
I shake my head. “Don’t be fucking witty right now.”
Her lips thin out. “Why are you here, Knox?”
“Because you invited me.”
“But if you’re going to be mad at me, if you’re going to be mean, I’d rather you leave.”
My brows shoot to my hairline. “What the hell were you expecting? For me to flip a switch and be okay with everything between us? I don’t work that way, Emory.”
“Then maybe this wasn’t a good idea.”
“Are you kidding me? Throwing in the towel already?”
“If I was throwing in the towel, I never would have invited you over. And if I knew you were going to be a complete and utter ass, I would never have let you into my little world.”
“Yeah, little is right.” I scan the space.
Her voice grows angrier as she says, “Do not come into my home and insult it. I don’t have a multi-million-dollar salary like you. Mine is meager, and I often spend it on new things for the library when I save enough. And I’m fine with that, because I love those kids. I don’t have to smile for a camera and leave. I’m actually in the thick of things.”
Packing the punches: two can play at this game.
“Get off your soapbox, Emory. Just because you’re at the ground floor, doesn’t mean you’re Joan of Fucking Arc. I do what I can, given my schedule. And I show up to events like today because I want to, not because I’m forced.”