“Right!” I agree readily. “So right!” More quietly, I say, “I’m glad you changed your mind.”
He gently bumps against my side. “Me too.”
Suddenly a ball comes rocketing toward us. I put my glove up, but Jude’s taller and manages to catch the opposing team’s homerun bare-handed.
“Mother fu—” he hisses, tossing it into his other hand so he can shake off the sting.
“Throw it back!” I shout at him.
“What?”
“You have to throw it back, to show the other team we don’t want their homerun ball!”
Quickly, as if the ball has cooties, he tosses it over the wall, where it lands on the centerfield grass. Everyone around us cheers. He grins so brightly his smile could have been used to illuminate a night game before Wrigley got lights.
“Yeah!” he yells, forcing a vein to pop bulge the middle of his red forehead and shaking his arms over his head. “Screw you, Cards!”
This outburst makes him the prince of our section. Guys around us slap his back and tousle his hair. I can’t stop laughing. The excitement eventually dies down as it sinks in that we’re still down one-zip, thanks to that homer. But I feel as happy as I would if we were winning with two outs in the ninth inning of Game Seven of the World Series. Well, maybe not quite that happy, but pretty close.
Marvin left in the middle of the eighth inning, claiming he wanted to beat the traffic, but we’d largely ignored him since he returned from the bathroom, so I have a feeling it had more to do with that than anything else. After we said goodbye to him, I told Jude, “By the way, true fans don’t worry about the traffic. We stay until the bitter end.”
Jude nodded. “Damn right!” he concurred. “I can easily see us coming back and getting eight runs in our next two at-bats. We’re not ready to jack it in just yet!”
He cracked me up pretty much the entire game. He knows a lot more about it than he was letting on, but I can tell he thought it was funny to be the clueless foreigner, especially around Marvin, who was visibly annoyed by his questions and ignorant comments. After his bare-handed snatch, I gave him my glove and said, “Here; if you’re going to be a hero, you’ll need this.” I knew any ball coming our way would meet his reach much sooner than mine anyway, and I hated the thought of him breaking his hand at his first (maybe?) baseball game.
Now the game’s over, and we’re sitting in the bleachers, waiting for the crowd to clear. A few other fans have the same idea, but we’re pretty much alone up here.
“This is how you do it,” I tell him. “You stay later, not leave earlier. Marvin.”
Jude laughs. “Absolutely.” He stretches his legs, resting his feet on the empty bleachers in front of us.
“This is my favorite place in the whole world,” I say, tucking my hands under my legs and shrugging my shoulders up near my ears. I don’t know why I feel the need to tell this guy such personal details.
He looks around. “Good memories here?”
I nod. “Yep. Never had a bad time in this park. That’s why I was dreading today so much. I couldn’t believe that Marvin was going to break my streak. And it was my own fault. Speaking before thinking, you know?”
“Yeah, but I really do appreciate your speaking up. I didn’t have anything to bribe him with. I don’t think he would have helped us as readily if I’d offered to get him into one of my rugby matches. Not quite the same attraction as this.” He motions to the field in front of us.
“You’re welcome.” I play with one of the laces in my ball glove. “Thanks for helping me keep my happy streak alive. Here. Today.” After an awkward pause, I add, “And I heard that the presentation went well Monday night, so I guess it was all worth it?” I don’t divulge that I only know this from eavesdropping on him and Lisa the day after the Art Museum Board meeting.
“Yeah. Definitely. For me, that is. I hope it was all worth it for you, too.”
I actually mean it when I say, “For sure. I wouldn’t change a thing.”
“Really?” he quickly asks, pulling his knees up and anxiously turning toward me. “Nothing? Even… what you told me?”
I swallow. “Even that. I guess. It’s kind of pointless to regret it.”
“Because I feel like you hate me for knowing.”
“I don’t hate you, Jude.” I stand up to lead the way down the bleachers and out of the ballpark, but he snags my hand. “What?” I ask, turning to look down at him. Why won’t this topic die?
“Did someone… hurt you?” Despite the slight sunburn on his cheeks, he looks pale.
I blink a few times, then laugh nervously. “If you’re asking what I think you’re asking, the answer’s no. Nobody hurt me… in that way.” I tug on his hand. “Come on. We should get going.”
And although it’s not necessary by any means, we continue to hold hands all the way to the street, where we reluctantly part ways.
14
“At the risk of getting my head bitten off, what’s going on with you and Jude?” Lisa asks me quietly in the bathroom.
Calmly and pleasantly, I answer, “Nothing. Why?”
“He’s been at your desk five times so far today. And it’s only”—she consults her watch—“10:12.”
I smirk at her but respond mildly, “Don’t you have anything better to do than count how many times people visit my desk?”
“Not really.” Now that she knows I’m not going to be defensive and angry, she moves closer to me. “Come on. Spill it. I know something’s up.”
The reality is, though, that it’s still not much. Definitely not enough to dish about in
