Not sure if I should apologize at this point, I press my lips together and spin back around to grab a piece of paper and pencil. Staring blankly at the order form, the words all mix together, pastrami nowhere to be found in the meat section as my mind floats back to the girl behind me.
Hating that I’m letting this entire situation bother me—old Carson would have laughed it off—I turn back around and say, “I wasn’t trying to be a dick.”
She glances up at me, her phone still clutched to her chest. “Yeah, okay.”
“How come it feels like you’re not accepting my apology?”
“Well, technically, you didn’t apologize, you j-just said you weren’t trying to be a dick.” She adjusts her glasses again and looks away.
“That was an apology.”
She pushes her hair behind her ear, and that’s when I catch a glimpse of her pierced ear. Tucked against her soft lobe is a baseball earring. I think she’s the only other person besides Mama G that I’ve actually seen wear baseball earrings. She must be a serious fan.
Which means she really, truly knows who I am.
“You know”—she bites on the side of her cheek—“apologies usually c-contain an ‘I’m sorry’ in them s-somewhere.”
“Not necessarily. They can also contain an ‘I apologize’ if we’re getting technical.”
“Either way, n-neither were involved in your said apology.”
“But there was remorse,” I counter.
She pushes her glasses up again, round and brown, almost too big for her face and frankly, too boring. “There was complacency.”
“What are you, a social behavioral major?”
“Kinesiology.” She looks away and must spot her friends, because she shyly waves and then turns back to her fixed gaze on the ground.
It’s looking like this is a lost cause.
Digging deep and sucking up my pride, I say, “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry if I came across as a dick.”
“You didn’t until you turned around, but thanks for apologizing.” She eyes the order form in my hand. “Better put in y-your order or else I’m skipping you in line.”
“Brutal,” I say, trying to lighten the mood but instead of smiling, she looks off to the side avoiding eye contact with me.
Well, okay then. Looks like our interaction is over.
Back to the pastrami I’ve been craving all day.
Looking at the counter, I quickly scan the rest of the ingredients offered just in time to see one of the panini magicians put up a sign.
Out of pastrami.
Mother.
Fucker.
Isn’t that just the cherry on top of this shit cake of a day?
Chapter Thirty-Nine
MILLY
Before I can even set my tray down on the table, Shane and Jerry attack me with questions.
“What did he say to you?”
“Was he cool?”
“Did he offer to buy you dinner? I heard baseball players have huge dining card limits.”
“Did you give him any pointers about his swing?”
I drop my tray on the table, thankful for the simple roasted red pepper panini and bag of chips on my plate so nothing splatters.
I take a seat and set my backpack on the ground where I snag my water bottle from the pocket.
“How about we talk about something else?”
“No way.” Shane shakes his head. “You actually spoke to Carson Stone, so we want to know everything that happened.”
“You’re acting like a teenage girl who wants to know if their crush spoke about them during recess.” I pop open my chip bag and stick a jalapeno kettle chip in my mouth.
“Dude, when have we ever had a chance to talk to one of the baseball players?” Shane asks. “This is our fourth year on this campus and you talking to Carson Stone was the first time any of us have even gotten close to one of them. We are so not cool enough to be allowed into the baseball loft parties—”
“We haven’t even tried,” I counter.
“Because we’re not cool enough,” Shane reiterates. “We’re the kinesiology nerds who spend their nights reciting spelling cards for muscles and tendons. We don’t go to hip parties at the baseball loft. We also aren’t lucky enough to be on rotation in the training room when the baseball team is in there, as we always get the early morning shifts when we have to take care of the golfers. You had a glimpse into the legendary world of Brentwood, and you have to tell us about it.”
I take a bite of my panini, chew, and then say, “You idolize the baseball team far too much.”
Jerry laughs out loud. “Please, you’re the one who keeps score of every home game and puts smiley faces next to the players you like the best. Pretty sure Carson Stone has two smiley faces next to his name.”
“He does not. I don’t ever give anyone two smiley faces, but yes, he might be marked in my scorebook, but only because I think he has a very smooth fielding glove and when his bat is working, it’s a beautiful swing to watch.”
“Just tell us what he said,” Shane pushes.
Succumbing to his annoying pressure, I say, “It was stupid. I asked him if he was in line, he said yes, he thought he sounded rude, he apologized, and that was it.” I leave out the fine details because frankly, I’m still shaking from the interaction.
Carson Stone spoke to me.
The Carson Stone.
And I was so caught off guard that I really can’t remember what was said or how I acted. All I can remember is being so engrossed with texting the boys that I thought some other random person was trying to interrupt me. It wasn’t until Carson really grabbed my attention, that I realized he was speaking to me.
Talk about humiliated.
There is no doubt in my mind my face was bright red and blotchy while I stumbled over my words, trying to sound intelligent. I think I came off more bitchy than anything. Wouldn’t be the first time my shy and awkward personality came off as bitchy. I’ve hung out with guys my entire life, never really having any true girlfriends, so you would think it would be easy for me to talk to someone like Carson Stone. But that was not the case, not when those dreamy light blue eyes shone down at me, as he tried to carry a conversation.
Not my best moment. Probably goes down in history as one I’ll regret for a long time, because when he’s playing professional baseball and I’m sitting at home with a bowl of Cheez-Its on my lap—watching him make diving play after diving play—I can remind myself of the way I told him the line moved up. Rather than the in-depth conversation I would love to have about baseball and how he got his start.
It’s as if I was Baby in Dirty Dancing when she speaks to Johnny for the first time. “I carried a watermelon.” Yup, that’s me, the I carried a watermelon girl.
Despite the probing, there is no way Jerry and Shane are going to get the details of that conversation, especially the part where I argued with him about what an actual apology is. I blame my nerves and total shock.
“That was it? Seriously? You have one opportunity to talk to him and you didn’t even fish for an invite to one of the baseball parties?”
“That wouldn’t have been awkward at all. And you don’t need an invitation,” I say exasperated. “Anyone can go.”