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I’m panting as he says, “Goodbye, Finley.”
And he’s gone.
Twenty-Six
Finley
Every time he throws the ball, a cold sweat prickles my skin.
“Did you see that?” Anna laughs. I curve my hand around my forehead.
“I’m not looking! Someone’s going to lose an eye.”
Anna chuckles, and I peek around my fingertips to make a face at wee Kayti. She gives me a gummy smile, and I peek at the field. Declan’s pulling his arm back to throw. My belly flips so hard, I fear I might be sick, so I look at my feet again.
A moment later, Anna says, “You can look back up, you ninny! Mayor Acton struck out.”
I lower my hand, forcing my gaze to sweep the mayor first. The tactic is a bit of a fail, though, as he’s exchanging words with Declan. I school my face before I dare examine his, finding he looks sheepish underneath the bill of his Sox cap. Sheepish and utterly delectable.
The afternoon is gray and misty. He’s wearing a baseball shirt—white at the torso, dark blue on the arms—that stretches over his chest and shoulders. Paired with it, cargo-style khaki shorts and sneakers. Every time he throws, his strong calves bulge and his forearm muscles tauten.
I can’t watch without a flipping feeling deep down in my belly. It’s like an illness. I can’t shake my automatic response. It’s not just my body, either. My mind is like a train that’s confined to a circular track, running as fast as its engine will allow but never getting anywhere new. I feel dazed. Hyper-focused on him. I’m lost in the shape of him, the way he moves. The way his mouth curves at the corners a bit shyly. The way he laughs.
Near the game’s end, Declan hits the ball off Daniel Smith’s comparably snail-paced pitch, and it sails high into the milky white sky. For a moment, he hesitates before he runs the bases. Then he’s moving like a golden god, and I have no good excuse not to watch.
“Quite amazing,” Holly says, echoing my thoughts.
“Might be more amazing if he wasn’t any good.”
The minimizing comment is designed to deceive. The truth is, I feel shaken by the force of my ardor. I’ve never felt this way before. I fear my voice could tremble at the mention of him. So I try desperately to appear nonchalant.
I pick at a cuticle as Holly and Dot cook up a plan to offer him some homespun cotton candy after the game wraps.
“You two are horrid,” I murmur, and turn around to patty-cake with Kayti.
Anna whines about the casserole she promised Freddy she would cook, and then she’s tucking Kayti back into her wrap so she can greet him by the field.
“I’ve got a check-in call coming from Doctor,” I say, by way of an excuse for myself. I can’t bear—indeed don’t dare—to walk down to the field with Dot and Holly.
And yet, I can’t quite tear myself away. I chat with Molly Green, a school girl, aged fourteen, who wants to learn to throw clay. I explain my wheel is still at Gammy’s house and Declan’s staying there.
“When it’s time for him to go—that’s in near two months—we can get started. How does that sound?”
She beams. Over her right shoulder, my traitorous gaze hones in on Dot, Holly, and him.
Someone taps me on the shoulder. Anna. She’s gotten caught up gabbing before going down to Freddy. Since I’m still about, she wants me to walk down to the field with her to congratulate him. He got a poor hit—but still a hit—off one of Declan’s supersonic balls.
I feel robotic as we file down the wooden bleachers to the makeshift fence, where I stand beside Anna feeling like a flashing light. I try to fill my lungs with air, but I can’t seem to. I focus on Freddy and then on Mark Glass as he stops over to chat. Declan’s not in sight. For that I’m grateful.
Finally, with a glance at my watch, I break away. I walk behind the bleachers, clutching my unused umbrella’s handle, chewing harder than is strictly necessary on a bit of gum, and start toward the Away dugout. Everyone is congregating at the Home side, so it’s good I need to head away from it to amble toward the clinic.
Much as I crave an encounter with him, I don’t need one. Certainly not with so many others about. Who knows what might be said?
Thinking of that weighs on my heart. It’s only a matter of time really. All of this—this infatuation—has an expiration date. I feel a horrid swell of empathy—of sorrow—for Mum; surely, she felt similarly. My eyes blur and I wipe them.
The sky has darkened with encroaching evening, and no one’s walking near me. I take a few measured breaths and start around the rear of the Away dugout.
And there he is.
