So, I say, “I’d like that, too.”
I make a fist against my thigh. “But I want to make something clear once and for all and then if you don’t want to, we never have to speak about it again. Or...you know, we can. Whatever you like.
“I never wished for a different mentor because you’re a woman. Richard was—is—a familiar face for me when I was trying to find my feet again, that’s all. Honestly, I was excited to work with you. And intimidated because you’re...” I gesture toward her. “You. Frankly, I’m still excited to work with you. And intimidated.”
She frowns and I want to smooth my thumb to the V over her forehead. “And I’m sorry for what happened between Mark and I on my first day.”
I turn to her, but there are only a few inches of space between us, so I turn away.
“I should have done more that day.”
Her eyes search my face. “You laughed. Why?”
I laugh again, that same stilted, awkward chuckle. “I laugh when I’m...” I shake my head. “Nervous, scared, worried, uncomfortable. Pick a card, any card.”
I shrug, trying to brush the memory away and the shame that comes with it. “I laughed the first time I had to give my mom a sponge bath.” To be fair, Mom laughed, too, after a bit. “And at her chemo treatments.”
I nod at her wince. “I even laughed at her funeral. It’s like my brain is deflecting, or protecting me, from things that make me uncomfortable. I don’t know. I wish I didn’t. I’m sorry.”
Her gaze feels heavy on my face. More than that. It feels important.
“The point is, I should have handled it differently. The second it happened I should have marched straight into HR. I can still do that if you want me to. And if it ever happens again, I will.”
I wish there was something I could do to make her believe me. But all I can do is show her. That day in the elevator plays back in an awkward, endless loop in my mind and the residual embarrassment makes me flush. That or the way her eyes keep tripping to my lips. Like when I accidentally make direct eye contact with someone’s crotch when I’m sitting down and they’re standing.
“Okay,” she says, and her voice makes me realize that we’ve been silent for a few long moments.
“Okay.” I nod. “I can go into the office and file the report right now.”
“No.” She shakes her head. “It’s fine.”
“Ms. Blunt, what Mark said was—”
“I know,” she says quietly. “But I like to handle it my own way.”
A swell of undeserved pride fills my chest. Not that she doesn’t deserve it but it’s not as if I’ve done anything to earn feeling it for her. But I feel it nonetheless.
She eats guys like Mark Gutterberg for breakfast. She works harder than anyone despite her boss sexually harassing her. Corrine Blunt is brave and strong and I want to be more like her.
I nod. “Okay. Totally up to you, Corrine.”
Birds make quiet twittering sounds in the tree next to the dugout and a dog barks somewhere nearby in the park. But otherwise it is quiet and the silence lends itself to feeling completely alone with her here. Like we’re the last two ball players on earth.
The smell of coconuts overtakes the familiar dugout smell, drawing my nose, my eyes, toward her. Her hair is in another high ponytail like on that horrible day, my first day, though a few wisps of hair fall loose, framing her face and the back of her neck. Despite the entire length of the bench, she’s so close and in these close quarters I notice things about a woman I’d never have taken the time to notice before.
Like how her eyelashes look like they’re reaching for her forehead. Or how delicate her nose is. It never occurred to me before that a nose could even seem delicate. I track a flush as it crawls up her jawline into her cheeks, realizing too late that she’s flushing because she knows I’m staring at her. I blink away, studying the diamond with intense interest.
I swallow against the collar of my jersey. I lied to Marisol before, I don’t exactly still fit. The jersey is a little tight in the shoulders, the pants in the thighs. But I wanted to wear it today because I wanted them to take me seriously. I wanted Corrine to take me seriously, even if it was only for softball.
“You called me Corrine,” she says quietly.
“I did?”
She nods. “Just now.”
“Oh...”
“You should call me that from now on.”
