“Would you like to try another favorite place of mine?” I ask as he stands and pulls out my chair.
“I’m up for wherever you want to go, but I’m not sure I have room for another bite.”
“How about another sip or two?” I suggest. “Brookhaven Wines just across the street is having a complimentary tasting. It’s always fun to try something new.”
Others might respond to this with a double entendre or something that hints at intimacy, but Derrick simply smiles as we stroll companionably across Dresden and into the wine store and the happy buzz of conversation.
Jeff, one of the owners, gives me a hug of greeting and shakes hands with Derrick. “Now this one looks interesting,” he teases.
“Did my sister call and tell you to say that?”
“Nope, I can see it with my own two eyes. Be sure to try the Barolo and the Cab.”
He passes us on to Eddie, who pours us generous tastes. Then we mingle with the mostly neighborhood crowd.
“They have a wine club, too,” I explain. “I’m never going to be an aficionado, but I like trying new wines. And on the exceptionally rare occasions when I entertain, I know I’ll be safe with whatever they recommend.”
“Very cool. I appreciate you sharing your hood with me.”
He takes my hand and matches his stride to mine as we amble back to my house in the crisp spring air.
On the porch, we stand in a spill of light. When he leans down, his mouth is curved into a smile, his features are dappled with light, his eyes are shadowed. Slowly, he angles his face toward mine, hovering briefly, and I realize he’s giving me time to object or withdraw.
There was no thought of a kiss after that first evening with Thea and Jamal. Our brunch was followed by a quick peck on the cheek before we went our separate ways. He’s the first man I’ve dated in so long, I’m not sure what rules apply—or even if there are any. And this doesn’t seem like the right moment to google it.
I close my eyes, eager to discover what he tastes like, how I’ll respond. Whether his kiss will sweep me off my feet and allow me to stop all this thinking.
One strong arm encircles my waist. I wait for the prick of goose bumps, a shudder of longing, a tingle as he pulls me close.
It’s been so long that I’m actually afraid I’ll incinerate on contact. To put it in symphonic terms, I want the clash of cymbals. A timpani roll that reverberates like thunder.
When his lips find mine, I brace for Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. What I get is a Brahms lullaby.
When he pulls away, I open my eyes, surprised that it’s over.
“Thanks for the lovely evening,” he says with a smile. “I had a really nice time.”
Twenty-Three
Erin
Everywhere I go, people are talking about Josh.
The name that was virtually never spoken or even hinted at in my presence is now on everybody’s lips. And there’s nothing I can do about it but pretend it doesn’t bother me. Kick-ass Disney princesses don’t run around with their hands pressed over their ears trying not to listen.
I’m at the office the day the Braves play their season opener in Houston. I know Larry’s at the game. So is Rich Hanson. If Josh and I had gotten married, I would have been there, too.
StarSports Advisors represents four key Braves players and several who are in the Braves minor-league system, so every office television I pass is tuned to the game.
I take my time pouring my coffee so that I can watch the break room television out of the corner of my eye. I’m punished with a camera shot of the dugout that zooms in and lingers on Josh while the analysts discuss the contribution he’s expected to make to the team, which has several of its starters on the disabled list. I edge closer just in time for an even tighter close-up on the face that used to be as familiar as my own. My heart pounds as I study him. He’s still clean-shaven, and his hair is still cropped short, but now I see subtle differences in the way he holds his head, his awareness of the cameras, the weight of expectation.
The camera pulls out, and I see the leg jiggle that I know signals anticipation, not fear. He’s sitting next to Tyler Flowers, a catcher who’s almost a decade older but also grew up in Atlanta.
I lean even closer so that I can hear as the TV commentators point out that Braves fans haven’t been this excited since hometown boys Brian McCann and Jeff Francoeur were drafted. Then they debate whether Josh is as good as people think. Whether he’ll prove his potential or be a disappointment. Brian McCann had a long and successful career. Francoeur not so much.
I feel eyes on me, no doubt both curious and pitying. I know I should act as if this means nothing to me, only I can’t stop watching the screen. Can’t stop imagining how much Josh must love being compared to McCann, who was always his idol.
They speculate about how many innings Josh might get. Whether they’ll give him innings on the road or save his major-league pitching debut for the first home game on April 2, which is just a little over a week away.
I have to keep reminding myself that this has nothing to do with me. That his life and mine are no longer connected. I am moving on, but how are you supposed to push someone entirely out of your mind when you can’t even skim through the sports section without seeing his name? Will I ever be able to watch a Braves game and see him as just another player?
At Sunday dinner, my entire family is practically oozing with excitement about the upcoming home opener while trying not to show it. All three of my brothers stayed away from Josh that first month or so after he called off the wedding, and they did offer to punch him out on my behalf. But now that the season is starting, hostilities have apparently ceased.
“Josh texted to say he’s leaving tickets at will call for the Friday night home opener,” Tyler says with a grin that only fades when everyone else’s eyes land on me. My oldest brother, Travis, cuffs the back of Tyler’s head.
“Oh. Sorry.” Tyler shoves Travis’s hand away. “I figured now that she’s not lying around in bed all day looking like a bag lady it was okay to talk about him.”
“Yeah. Isn’t it time to bury the hatchet?” My middle brother, Ryan, lifts one arm. He and Tyler break into the Braves tomahawk chop and hum the wordless chant that has been a part of Braves games since before I was born. (And which, despite its recognized and much discussed insensitivity to Native Americans, has not yet been banned. Don’t even get me started on Chief Noc-A-Homa . . .)
Travis huffs his disgust. “You two are such cretins. You should know it takes girls way longer to get over shit than it takes guys. You don’t want to send her back to bed, do you?”
“Oh my God!” I shout. “I’m sitting right here. Do I look like I’m headed back to bed?”