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My next thought? I wish I could call Grant.
It’s interesting to look back on the pictures from this perspective because at the time, I didn’t think we were doing anything even semi-inappropriate, but whoever took the photos knew just when to snap them. They caught us walking down the stairs toward the street, a hair’s breadth too close for casual friendship. There’s also one where Grant is looking over at me with a devastating smile—maybe when I made the joke about the Escalades—and his hand is reaching out toward me. I’m looking at him with, let’s face it, unabashed love. Shiny hearts dazzle in my eyes.
We’re so obviously interested in each other. It’s blatant. We might as well have been full-on making out with how damning the photos are.
I’m expecting the phone call that comes the next morning.
Luke’s name illuminates my phone screen at 8:01 AM, and he chooses to open with, “Want to tell me what the hell is up with you and Grant?”
“What?”
I’m pure innocence.
“Tate.”
“Luke. Good morning. First, how’s Harper?”
“Fever free. She’s resting up in front of the TV.”
“Great. Let me talk to her.”
“Cut the crap.”
“Wow, real polite. Mom raised you better than that.”
“Fine. I’ll just call Grant.”
I sit up in bed. “Would you relax?! There’s nothing going on. Are you talking about the pictures from the fundraiser? They were nothing. Just him escorting me home like you asked him to. Or did you forget that part?”
“You don’t date baseball guys,” he reminds me.
“Yes, I know that!”
“And you know what? I’ve always thought that was a great policy. They’re assholes, every one of them.”
“Including the one I’m talking to right now.”
“You’re funny. Here, Harper wants to talk to you.”
My niece takes the phone from her dad and then her heavy kid breathing fills the phone.
“Sup,” she says to me.
I laugh. “Hey Harper, how are you feeling?”
“A little better, but I still have to stay home today. Think I can get Chloe to make me some cinnamon rolls?”
“If I know Chloe, she probably already has something delicious baking in the oven for you.”
There’s rustling on her end and then I hear a door close.
“Harper!” Luke calls out after her.
“We don’t have long!” Harper hisses. “I ran and hid in the coat closet. Now tell me, did you solve your boy problem? Last night, Dad was looking at some pictures on his computer with Chloe and they didn’t think I could see them, but I could! And Grant Navarro is so handsome! Chloe said something about you being a really cute couple and then Dad just grumbled like he was real angry. Do you like Grant? Is he your boyfriend, Aunt Tate?!”
Luke’s fist pounds on the door of the closet. “HARPER, if you’re downloading Barbie apps again, you’re grounded! Worse than grounded!”
The closet door swings open. Luke must have remembered there’s no lock on it.
“What’s ‘grounded’?” Harper asks.
“Hand me my phone.”
Luke’s voice has no venom behind it.
“I’m sick, remember.” Harper coughs Mean Girls style then there’s more rustling as she shouts, “Bye, Aunt Tate! I love you!”
The line goes dead.
I’m disappointed by how easily life continues on. The people in front of me in line for coffee the next day have the audacity to laugh as if this is any time to be jovial! We should be sulking, collectively, as a nation. I want mourning attire and funeral dirges trumpeting sadly on every radio station.
Back at the apartment, I’ve run out of wine. I’m low on ice cream. The last tissue went a few days ago so now I’m relying on toilet paper.
Sophia, Daphne, and I have discussed the situation from every angle, carefully examined and peeled it back layer by layer with a fine-tooth comb like we’re trained anthropologists. I know their patience with me wears thin, the expiration date for this dilemma looming. I have to throw them a bone, so when the Pinstripes have a home game scheduled on Friday and I find out Luke is pitching, I know I have to put on a cheery face and attend. It’d be crazy if I missed it.
I go through the motions of dressing in jean shorts and a Pinstripes t-shirt (not Grant’s jersey), and I do my hair and makeup like it’s any other day. At the stadium, I take my seat near the dugout sandwiched between my roommates and my family. We’re so close, we’re basically on the field. We can see the sweat dripping down the players’ faces as they hustle to and from the dugout. Hence my problem—WE CAN SEE THE SWEAT DRIPPING DOWN THEIR FACES. I haven’t seen Grant in days, not since our conversation on the park bench. I want there to be visible signs of distress like the ones I’ve been sporting all week, but that magnificent tan hides everything. He looks good as new. Handsome, sweaty, ready to conquer the world.
