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“No, not dating. I meant to practice with me talking stuff out.” She giggles, and fuck, if it isn’t the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard.
“Come on. Lay it on me,” she urges, completely unaware that I would love nothing more than tolay it on her.
Unfortunately for me, sex is the furthest thing from Lottie’s mind.
Just like Dr. Seymour, she wants me to confess all my sins and secrets to her.
That’s the only kind of intimacy I’m allowed.
Fuck.
“Fine. What do you want to know?”
“How about we start with something simple? Like how it was growing up in Brooklyn?”
Great.
She’s going there.
“Can we start with something else?”
From the way she shakes her head and crosses her arms over her chest, I can tell she’s not budging from doing a thorough inquisition.
“No judgment?” I ask, already knowing her reply by heart.
“Never.” She smiles softly.
“Okay. Well, the reason I don’t like talking about my life before I came to Boston is because I don’t really like to remember it. I didn’t have the best home life growing up. Things were… complicated back then.”
“How so?” she asks curiously.
“You can say that my old man had a bit of a temper. Guess I inherited that shit from him.”
“How bad of a temper?”
“Oh, you know, the usual. The kind that would get you a black eye just from walking across the TV set when a game was on. That kind of thing. No biggie.”
“Oh,” she whispers, her face falling.
“Yeah. Not exactly something I like to talk about.”
“But maybe you should. Sounds like you still carry a lot of weight on your shoulders about it.”
Weight?
More like a cement truck.
“Can we talk about something else?”
She nods, sensing I reached my quota of opening up.
“Thank you. You’re up,” I say and hand her the baseball bat.
I watch her take off her winter coat before going to the plate, scrunching her nose while she waits for the ball to fly her way.
When she hits it, she can’t hide the exhilaration on her face, doing a little victory dance.
“Good job.” I clap.
