So instead, Mom and I focused more on the business, since that’s the only thing that seemed to help. We had a party on Thursday and did a test run of the new website, helping everyone to place orders online. The ladies loved the look of the site and there was only one minor glitch—a link to product videos that didn’t work. The folder for ASU’s broadcasting program stayed unopened in my pack while Mom sent me Pinterest ideas for a new desk to go in the office. My desk. On top of all of that, there was schoolwork and graduation announcements and my birthday plans and a boy who was trying to move slowly while I figure out where I’m headed.
How could I have been so sure of my future for so long and now, with graduation a month away, I don’t know what to do? Garrett’s been patient, but I know it bothers him that a week has passed since our talk and nothing has changed. I’m still keeping him at a distance, still putting off a decision about ASU, and I still haven’t introduced him to Mom. But he’s also still training with Kyle Masters. When I get to the booth on the following Tuesday, I wonder if maybe his patience has run out.
There’s a flower on my stool.
I take a quick glance around and see Garrett’s stuff and all the equipment.
But no Garrett.
The rose is pink, the petals still in a tight bud, the stem stripped of thorns. I close my eyes and inhale the perfume. Much better than anything that comes in an AromaTher bottle.
I open my eyes and take in the view through the window. The dirt infield that’s been smoothed out with brooms, the clean white of new chalk and the kaleidoscope of colors that dances on the edge of my vision from the bleachers. There’s a hint of tobacco mixed in with the scents of dirt and grass and something sharp that I think is pine tar.
That crackle of energy is in the air again, punctuated by the thwack of balls hitting gloves, and the chatter that filters in from the dugout below as the players warm up. Memories resurface, but the sting is gone, and it feels safe to go back in my mind. I used to love warm-ups when I was playing the game. The way my throwing arm would stretch and loosen. The joy of releasing a ball and watching it fly…feeling like you could fly yourself.
Starting a game on the mound with the chance that this might be the day when you pitch so well, you’re still standing on the mound at the very end. It occurs to me that I’m looking at a baseball field and not seeing my dad.
I’m seeing it the way I used to see it. The way Garrett sees it.
There’s a loud rattle as footsteps pound up the metal ramp to the bleachers and the booth. I know it’s him before the door opens. His presence is overwhelming in this small space. My skin warms, my heart skips—every part of me chiming in to say I’m happy to see him.
He plants a quick kiss on my cheek before walking past to his stool. He’s got a cable in his hand that he connects to the mixing board. “You’re late.”
“I am not.” I hold out the flower. “And what is this? A flower at a baseball game?”
“I thought the sport could survive one rose.” He leans out the window to adjust the mic.
“You know pink means purity and innocence?”
“What?” He yanks the flower from my fingers. “We don’t want any of that.” He tosses it over his shoulder.
I laugh and push him aside as I retrieve the flower.
He settles on his stool, looping his headset around his neck.
“Thank you,” I tell him.
He leans in to give me a quick kiss, which turns into a second, slightly longer kiss. “I thought the rose smelled like you,” he says, “but I was wrong. You smell better.”
There’s a bang on the wall of the booth. “Yo, G. Quit making out with your girlfriend.”
“I’m not his girlfriend,” I call back, but I’m blushing. The booth is completely open to the field and I can’t be sure I didn’t just moan a little. Oh God.
I busy myself with the job at hand. Garrett checks the feed and the audio levels and I’m kind of impressed now that I’m taking a second to watch him. “You had to learn all of this yourself, didn’t you?”
“What? The equipment?”
“All of it. How to handle the feed and upload the broadcasts.”
“It was the only way I could think of to stay close to the game.” He looks out the window, and I know all he’s seeing is the distance from here to the pitching mound.
“It’s still not close enough, is it?” I ask.
He shrugs and shifts his gaze back to me. “It’s turned out to have some positives. I never kissed any of the guys before a game.” He clicks open the screen to check video and sound feeds. “Did you look through the course catalog?”
I take a sip from my water bottle. “Not yet.”
“You’re going to get a dent in your ass.”
“What?”
“From sitting on the fence so long.”
“Ha. We don’t even know if we’ll win the contest.”
“That’s why we fill out the application. We get in the old-fashioned way. Like everyone else.”
“But if we’re not good enough to win a local high school broadcast contest?” I let the rest of my question hang in the air.
“We have to get better. But look at how much we’ve improved in the past month.”
He adjusts a black knob and then a red one. Absently, I wonder
