"I like it," Will said, grinning at her. "If you'll excuse me, I have to deliver thesebeverages."
"You never did explain that one to me," she murmured as Will headed back to the kitchen. "Shortstop. I assume it's at least somewhat complimentary but I don't understand the dynamics of baseball enough to really make senseofit."
"Hang on a second," I said, leaving Alex by the main staircase while I approached the bar. Making eye contact with the bartender, I dropped a twenty behind the ice bucket and grabbed two uncorked bottles of wine. "Have a goodnight,man."
"Same to you, sir," hereplied.
When I returned to Alex, I gestured with the bottle for her to follow me upstairs. "Basically, the shortstop covers second base on the third base side, and often sticks close to third because right-handed batters tend to drive the ball down that line. But they're also responsible for covering second in double play situations, and when a runner is stealing the bases in left-handed battingsituations."
"Yeah," Alex said when we reached the landing. "Of course. That clears itallup."
"The shortstop is the most skilled, agile defensive player on the field," I continued. "It's a difficult position to play and playwell. They aren't usually strong hitters so they don't make headlines and they rarely get any credit for the wins, but they're still responsible for covering the most ground and knowing all the moves beforeanyoneelse."
"Hmm.Okay,then."
Alex followed me down the hall and around the corner without further comment, which meant she'd probably missed my point. I firmly believed that understanding something meant being able to explain it, and I'd fuckedthatup.
"In here," I said, stepping into the last doorway on thisfloor.
I handed her the wine and then went to work on the window seat. The house was loaded with picture-perfect furnishings for this event, and that meant removing a pile of cushions and pillows before I could access thelevers.
"Old homes often have oddities like this," I said. "Hidden staircases, secret rooms, false doors. All kinds of strange things. But they also have typical things that seem strange because they're uncommon these days. Dumbwaiters, laundry chutes, little pass-through spaces between the interior and exterior for delivery of bottled milk, coal, firewood." The window seat popped open, revealing a ladder that led down to a dark corridor. It also brought a blast of cold, stale air and a cloud of dust. "This house has all of the above, and this"—I beckoned Alex closer—"is a passageway to theattic."
She stared inside, her brows arched. "You go down to get up? Is this a 'lift to lower'situation?"
"I never claimed it was logical," I said, peering at her shoes. Those fancy heels weren't right for wooden rungs. "I've climbed down this ladder, around the chimney, and up the stairs to the attic more times than I can count, but I don't think you're dressed for that, Honeybee. The attic's great but I think we'llskipit."
"What makes it so special?" sheasked.
"No one else went up there. I was free to do whatever the fuck I wanted and no one was the wiser. Or, instead of going to the attic, I'd follow the other passages into the basement. I could sneak in and out of the house from down there. I did that a lot," I mused. "Altogether, I probably spent more timepretendingto be holed up in here thananythingelse."
Alex swung her gaze from side to side, swallowing up the room in one quick glance. "This wasyourroom?"
With a firm shove, the window seat snapped shut. I tossed the decorative pillows back but didn't bother to arrange them. They were going to be boxed up and shipped off to a warehouse within a matter of days, and I refused to believe that the positioning of a pillow was critical to selling thishouse.
"It was," I said, my eyes trained on thefloor.
"I'm trying to imagine you as a kid but I can't get there. I don't know how to shrink all this"—she circled her hand at me—"into a small, innocentpackage."
"Not sure I was ever innocent," I said,chuckling.
"Maybe you weren't." Alex walked the length of the room, trailing her fingers over the restored plaster. "Did you have a lot of girlfriends in high school? Is that why you snuck out allthetime?"
"Not really," I said, scratching my neck. I had an idea where this was going, and I didn't like it. Growing up in the Walsh home was a lot like Fight Club. You didn't talk about it unless you wanted things to get ugly. "I was pretty fucked up back then. I liked weed, sandwiches, comic books, and football. In that order. I didn't have a lot of leftover brain space for the high school datingscene."
She glanced at me, smirking. "Really? You're trying to tell meyou"—her gaze ran up and down my body—"werecelibate?"
I stood, shoving my hands in my pockets, and shrugged. "I didn'tsaythat."
"Didn't think so." Alex stared out the window for a long moment. "What about college?" she asked, not looking back at me. "What aboutDorrance?"
"What about her?" I snapped, all the stress and frustration of this ridiculous night combining in three angrywords.
"I'm curious," she said easily, like I didn't just bite off her head. "It seemed like things were serious with her. I'm just wondering whathappened."
"Alex. Honeybee. I love you but this has to stop," I said, my hands shaking with agitation. "I don't poke and prod at you about the douche waffle all damn day, nowdoI?"
She reared back as my words hit her like a physical blow. "No,but—"
