I remember that day.
Remember Flora snapping the photo. Remember Jaxon running down the beach like a wild thing, flattening our masterpiece into a lumpy mound in two seconds. Remember Miguel telling us not to cry, because sand castles aren’t meant to last forever. The incoming tide would’ve swept it away soon enough. And, after all, wasn’t the real fun in building it?
I set the frame back on my desk, swallowing hard to clear the lump from my throat.
Okay, Universe — you win.
Message received.
I asked for a sign.
No need to keep hitting me over the head with them.
Sinking down to the floor, my fingers curl tightly around the pendant hanging from my neck. The gold knot digs into my palm with a sharpness I feel all the way down to my bone marrow. With a screech, I drop my head into my arms and curse myself for ever seeking divine interference.
When am I going to learn to stop tempting fate?
I sigh. “Maybe when I start listening to it.”
TWENTY-SIX
archer
A low whistle greets me as I step past the chain-link fencing, onto the field.
“Well, well, well! Look at this handsome devil!” I can hear the grin in his voice. “Who are you and what have you done with my friend Reyes?”
I rub my clean-shaven chin, still not used to the sensation. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Tomlinson.”
“I’m serious! I almost didn’t recognize you.” He steps out from the dugout holding a bucket of baseballs, a bat tucked beneath one arm. He’s in a faded Exeter t-shirt and a black cap with the outline of a wolf — our old mascot — embroidered above the brim. “Not that the man-bun look wasn’t working for you. It’s just nice to see you looking more like your old self. Less scruffy. Out of rubber fishing gear.”
“Stop, you’ll make me swoon.”
“Is that a new Henley you’re wearing? Just for me? I’m flattered.”
In truth, the haircut was a spontaneous decision, made without any forward planning on my walk through downtown Gloucester this morning. I passed by the barbershop on a corner in the square just as the window sign flipped from CLOSED to OPEN. Before I knew it, I was sitting in a red leather chair with a warm towel wrapped around my after-shaven face as a cheerful, chatty man named Jerry trimmed a year’s worth of overgrown mop from my head.
When he’d spun me around to look in the mirror thirty minutes later, a stranger was peering back at me through the glass. With cropped brown hair and clear hazel eyes, he bore a striking resemblance to the guy once known around these parts as Archer Reyes… if you could overlook the faint scar at his temple and the new wariness in his stare.
“What prompted this radical change?” Chris asks.
“Radical? It’s a haircut, not a face tattoo. Relax.”
He rolls his eyes and walks toward home plate. “Grab those mitts in the dugout, will you? I need to get the field set up before the team arrives.”
I do as he says, ferrying the equipment toward the patch of ground reserved for home plate. There’s an uncomfortable tightness in my chest as I move across the infield, my sneakers smudging the fading white lines chalked on the dirt. It’s been a long time since I stepped foot on a baseball diamond — even a small one like this.
Owned and maintained by the city, the field at Stage Fort Park lacks the luster of the Exeter Academy sports arena, with its state-of-the-art overhead lights, solar-powered scoreboard, and imported astroturf. Here, the grass is overgrown, the bleachers are rusting, and the dugout benches are splintering. Obviously, not much was left over in the town’s beautification budget for little league parks.
Despite its somewhat neglected state, the location can’t be beat — perched beside the harbor, every player from shortstop to the distant outfield is afforded sweeping water views from just about every angle. I let my eyes scan the coastline, squinting against the morning sun. Early-risers stroll along the paved boardwalk, passing beneath a row of American flags waving proudly in the wind. An outdoor yoga class is gathering by the gazebo. Families meander toward Cressy Beach, folding chairs tucked beneath their arms and colorful coolers in tow.
“What are we doing here, Tomlinson?”
“I told you on the phone — my little cousins signed up for a summer tee-ball league. It starts in an hour.”
“And you volunteered to help with the gear?”
“Not exactly.” He grins wryly. “Their coach bailed on them. Something about unforeseen family commitments… Sounds like a bunch of crap, if you ask me. My guess is, the dude realized he was about to take on twenty-five hyperactive six-year-olds who’ve never held a bat before and got cold feet.”
“Can’t exactly blame him…”
“Guess not.” Chris shrugs. “Still, it sucks for the kids. They were excited to learn.”
“Can’t they find a backup coach? It’s tee-ball, not Red Sox spring training. I’m sure almost anyone could teach them the basics.”
“Glad you feel that way.” His grin widens. “Since I told them we’d do it.”
“We? As in you and me?”
“Yep.”
“Tomlinson,” I growl. “You can’t be serious.”
“I swear on Ted Williams.” He laughs. “After you called me last night and asked to meet, the idea hit me like a bolt of lightning! I hung up with you and called the league. They were thrilled to have two former varsity players at their disposal. Of course, at this point, they probably would’ve been thrilled to have just about anyone willing to wear a whistle and wrangle wild youths...”
My mouth opens.
Shuts.
Opens again.
No words come out.
“Before you say no, promise me you’ll at least consider it,” Chris continues in a rush. “It’s only a couple days a week. Think of the kids! They’ll be devastated if the camp is cancelled.”
My eyes swing around the empty field. In some ways, even now, even after everything… this dirt triangle feels more like home to me than any other place on earth. I’ve spent more cumulative hours of my existence standing on a pitching mound, hurling fastballs, than I have doing any other activity besides the autonomous ones, like breathing or sleeping. Being here again, inhaling that unique perfume of leather and wood and grass and chewing tobacco that permeates the air at every stadium in America, rattles my senses awake. Calls back a million memories. All the joy and sweat and blood and tears, all the tough-to-swallow losses and hard-fought victories. Every moment with my teammates — fighting and laughing and bickering and bonding.
Amazing how something like a scent can trigger flashbacks to things you thought you’d buried forever, six feet under in a cedar casket. I remember the first time I ever stepped foot on a diamond. I couldn’t wait to get back out there the minute practice ended. I saved every penny of my measly allowance for months until I was finally able to purchase a glove of my own. And once I brought it home from the sporting goods store, once it was mine, I’d refused to take it off — except to eat and occasionally bathe — until Jaxon started to notice my attachment and I realized it was far safer off my hand than on it.