“I, well, I don’t know what to expect. All my expectations for tonight flew out the window when you pulled up to the stadium. Are we going out somewhere?” I ask cautiously.
“Of course not. I brought dinner to us.” Walking into the locker room, Ryan pulls me with him to grab the smaller bag he brought in with us earlier. “Can you hold this for a moment?” he asks, holding it out to me.
“Sure,” I say, taking it from him.
Still holding my hand, he digs through his bat bag until he pulls out a rolled-up blanket. He tucks it under his arm before reclaiming the bag from my grip.
We head back out through the clubhouse until we’re walking into the home team dugout and onto the field.
“Are we allowed to be out here?” I ask.
“Don’t worry, we’re fine.” I eye him warily, but his confidence melts my concerns away. We carry on until we’re well into the outfield where he drops the bag and reluctantly releases my hand.
“Have I told you that I really enjoy seeing you in that dress?” he asks me as he begins to unfold and shake out the blanket for us to sit on. “I don’t mean that in like a sleazyI’m checking you outkind of way. It’s refreshing to see you in something different than your usual work attire. Not that there’s anything wrong with your work clothes, I love your pantsuits. They’re so fun, all the different colors.” He’s rambling and I chuckle to myself as he talks. I think his nerves around tonight are finally showingwhich is hilarious to me since my nerves have all melted away after making a fool out of myself in the batting cage.
I settle onto the blanket once he has it laid out. “I understand what you mean. I appreciate the not sleazy compliment,” I say with a laugh that trails off as I weigh giving him a truth.
“Is everything okay?” he asks me as he lowers himself next to me on the blanket, clearly sensing the way I’m lost in my thoughts.
“Yeah, I’m fine. I love dresses and skirts. They make me feel feminine and powerful in my own way, but I would never wear them to work.”
“Why not?” he asks with a curious tilt to his head.
“I don’t even know. I think it’s a me thing. I’ve kind of internalized that I’m not allowed to dress like a woman in my line of work. I won’t be taken seriously if I show up dressed too much like a girl, you know? You saw how that guy treated me at the St. Louis game. Imagine I had been wearing a dress? It would’ve been so much worse. But the pantsuits are like my own little act of rebellion. The pastels and the colors instead of a plain boring black or gray. It’s my own way to let my personality show without leaning too hard into the feminine end of the scale.”
A crease forms in his forehead as his brows draw together. “That’s not alright though, Isa.” He reaches out and places his hand on top of where mine is planted behind me. “You shouldn’t have to change yourself to try and fit in. I’ll admit I haven’t seen you in action all the time, but from what I have seen, you’re good enough at your job that your clothes shouldn’t have any impact. Your work should speak for itself. And I love that I get to see this side of you, finally. It shows me more of your personality.”
“Yeah.” I let out a deep breath. “I know I shouldn’t let it get to me. I know it’s irrational, but it’s something I’ve always done, and I don’t think I can change it that easily. It’s the mindset I have toward it all now,” I say with a shrug. “The fewtimes I’ve worn a dress into the office, not even on set, I felt so uncomfortable like I was trying to claw out of my skin.” I take a quick centering breath and cut in before he can speak again. “Wow, this conversation really took a depressing turn.”
He watches me for a few beats but thankfully senses my need to change the subject. “Well, I know what we can speak about instead,” he says, pulling away from me to begin unpacking the food that was momentarily forgotten.
“And what’s that?” I ask.
He looks at me with a smirk. “We still have a game of twenty questions to finish.” He winks, returning to pull Tupperware containers from the bag.
I groan. “Oh, come on. I thought we threw that out the window when I finally caved to being your friend.”
“Excuse you. I have a list of questions I still need to ask.”
“You do not,” I argue as he takes the lids off the containers and pulls out a few final things from what I’m now realizing is one of those lunch box cooler bags.
“Do too. I put them in the Notes app on my phone.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I would never kid about my Notes app,” he replies with mock horror, his hand planted over his heart.
I laugh at his theatrics. “Fine, fine. Hit me with the first question on your list,” I say as I let my eyes finally take in everything he’s unpacked.
Diced up steak that is somehow still giving off steam. I’m impressed he was able to keep it warm.
Chopped onion and cilantro.
Guacamole.
Tortilla chips.
A variety of salsas and hot sauces.
