“Thanks?” Iggy adored the random statement, though. In bright daylight, he better saw her resemblance to Malcolm. “It’s nice to meet you without alcohol being involved. This is quite the setup.”
“I’ve got four active kids and a full-time job.” She waved at the wagon-bench. “Monte bought this for me last Christmas, and it’s a lifesaver.”
Iggy’s eyebrows rose on their own accord, still a touch miffed that someone else called him Monte.
The national anthem began playing, so they had to hold off on introductions for a few minutes. Amy was the oldest at fourteen, and Melissa’s only child with her first husband. Sofia was eleven, followed by the youngest, Nelo, who just turned seven last month. Nine-year-old Tommy was on the team. “He’s number twelve, and I think he’s fourth at bat.”
“Excellent.” Iggy didn’t know much about baseball beyond three strikes, three bases, and a few lines from that Abbott and Costello skit, but he settled in to watch anyway. Melissa was on her feet more than she sat, and Malcolm cheered the team like a proud papa, even though the Blue Jays kind of stunk. The opposing team wasn’t much better, but they were kids.
The point was having fun, right?
Sometime in the second inning—the top? The bottom? Why did innings have those designations, anyway?—Malcolm invited him to the concession stand. Melissa had been passing out juice boxes and snacks from the cooler, so Iggy appreciated the excuse to get up and walk. The score was 0-0, so the game wouldn’t be won or lost in the next twenty minutes.
They silently joined the line for the concession stand, which carried the scents of popcorn and hot dogs. Iggy hadn’t eaten lunch, so he debated braving a hot dog with mustard, and if it would play nice later when he was at the saloon. Maybe he should wait and get a burger when he went into work.
“Hey, guys,” a vaguely familiar male voice said, directly behind them in line. Iggy didn’t assume it was directed at himself, until Malcolm turned around.
“Oh, hey, Clive,” Malcolm said.
Clive Denison. High school classmate. At the saloon Thursday night. Iggy glanced over his shoulder and yep, that was him. Unwilling to reminisce about the past, and irritated he didn’t have a bar between them, Iggy gave Clive a vague “hey” in greeting, then angled forward again. Rude but whatever. He wasn’t here to make friends.
Iggy wasn’t particularly eager to make small talk with Clive, but Malcolm was too damned polite to ignore the interloper. “Do you have a kid on one of the teams?” Malcolm asked.
“Nah, my cousin’s kid is playing on field two in about twenty minutes,” Clive replied. “Wanted to get my red Gatorade before it starts. For luck.”
Iggy’s stomach clenched, and a bizarre, phantom pain jolted through his wrists from being cinched too tight.The zip ties are cutting off circulation. Then it’s gone, and his throat’s parched, and he’s sipping red Gatorade, but only because someone left it there still sealed—Iggy stalked away from the line, not payingattention to where he was headed, determined to find a private place in case he hurled.
He found a privacy fence and, behind it, a long row of porta-johns. The smell wasn’t going to do his roiling stomach any favors, but he found one with a green “Available” on the lock and went inside. Turned the plastic lock and closed his eyes. Breathed through his mouth. Ignored the tepid air and the obnoxious mix of bleach and urinal cakes.
He hasn’t had a flashback like that in a long time, not since he got a bad stomach flu once while he and Darren were living in Atlanta. Darren had brought him saltines and red Gatorade, and it had been an uncharacteristically thoughtful gesture. Iggy hadn’t been able to do more than symbolically sip the sports drink before throwing up in Darren’s favorite mixing bowl.
Stupid, stupid, calm down, you didn’t even taste the stuff!
Maybe it was being back in and around Chance after all these years, because hearing the name of a drink should not have brought up those ancient memories.
The moment was passing, though, and Iggy hid in the porta-john for as long as he dared. The thing had a hand sanitizer dispenser on the wall, and he used that out of habit, even though he hadn’t done more than exist inside the bacteria factory for five minutes. He wasn’t surprised to spot Malcolm lurking nearby, pretending to do something on his phone.
“Dude, you feeling okay?” Malcolm slipped his phone into his back pocket, forehead creased with concern.
“Yeah, I think it was just a little nausea from being in the sun and not having eaten.” Not altogether a lie, and the middle of a sports complex full of adolescents and their families wasn’t the time to mention a memory of That Night he’d never shared with Malcolm. Only Uncle Howie and, later, one of his therapists.
No one ever questioned a grown man’s aversion to fruit punch, not when he rubbed elbows with celebrity chefs and created high-end cocktails for a living.
Iggy made a show of checking his phone. “You know what, I should probably go so I can get to the saloon.”
“Do you wanna go get lunch someplace with a bigger selection than ballpark dogs and nachos?”
“No, I don’t want to pull you away from your nephew’s game. I’ll grab a sandwich or something on the way.” Iggy turned on all the charm he could muster when he felt so sweaty and unkempt. “I did say I’d only be able to stop for a little while. Thank you for inviting me to hang with your family. It means a lot.”
Malcolm’s frown turned right-side up. “Means a lot to me, too. If you’re still feeling bad later, text me, and I’ll bring you whatever you need.”
I need you to take me someplace quiet and hold me like you did after the flood. Hold me until everything is okay again.
“We’ve got Sprite and crackers at the saloon, but thank you.” Iggy resisted the impulse to reach out and hug Malcolm. A handshake felt dumb and impersonal. Nothing seemed appropriate for the situation, so Iggy shoved his hands into his pockets and cocked his hips. “See you later, Monte.”
“Yeah, see ya.”
Iggy forced himself to walk, not run, back to his car.
