I ferried Alice over this morning, trying my best to ignore her back-seat driving. “You know you can make a right on red here. No need to make a full stop. Keep it rolling, jittery Jack.”
“We’re not in a hurry,” I reminded her.
“I could drop dead at any second. I want a cheeseburger before I do.”
Having seen a sneak peek of the buns, I told her she might want to stick to the hot dogs instead.
I put on a short-sleeved blue button-down and my nicest pair of shorts, cuffed at the hem. I even dug out an old pair of boat shoes I never wear because they’re impractical for navigating the Wiley’s lot. Cologne, from a bottle I’ve never opened, got spritzed on my “seduction points” as per Mateo’s vehement instructions.
Dad’s finding the best adult-rock radio station to set the mood, which will surely play “Born in the USA” an exorbitant number of times. When he’s satisfied, he throws on theNetflix and Grillapron Mom bought him two Christmases ago and holds his spatula at the ready. I’d make a snarky comment exceptDrive-In and Grilldoesn’t exactly make sense, due to insurance liability issues, nor does it have a nice ring to it.
All the cul-de-sac neighbors descend upon our backyard in droves. Being one of the corner properties and with Wiley’s right there, we have the most space for mingling and Wiffle ball games. When I was a kid, even though social situations largely frightened me, this one didn’t faze me. I knew everyone coming. I knew I wouldn’t be left on the sideline for any team games and that I wouldn’t be left standing alone by the spinach dip.
I always say I was born in the wrong decade. In-person socialization is hard enough for me. Adding an online component makes it downright unmanageable sometimes. But it seems Derick is showing me how social media can be used for purposes greater than status updates and mindless scrolling.
I join my friends by the swings. A group of kids have begun a game of freeze tag nearby. I’m almost tempted to join them and unleash the child inside me I’ve been missing since going to college. This is the final summer under the guise of comfort, until I’m thrust into adult life—bills, budgeting, and finally learning how tax software works.
Leaving Wiley’s seems impossible. Not seeing Mateo and Avery every day is depressing.
Across the way, the gated fence glides open. Derick steps into the yard, and the future worries fade to black. He looks like a less built but more stunning Captain America, dressed in an American flag–patterned Henley, a pair of shorts, and trainers.
Heads turn in his direction, making it clear to everyone he’s not a usual guest at this event.
Since his eyes are focused on mine, he nearly stumbles over a stray Wiffle ball bat. With ease, he kicks it up from the grass and catches it. “Oh man. Are we playing or what?” he asks, looking around for the bases that are hidden in the grass.
“Looking to get your ass handed to you?” Claire challenges as she steps outside. She loves to talk shit. They built a good rapport over pancakes the other morning, talking RBIs and Damien Haverford’s MLB aspirations. Derick kept asking for my input, any opportunity to playfully throw my lousy excuse for sleep-talking back in my face. My baseball knowledge, unsurprisingly, does not extend beyondA League of Their Own.
“You’re on.” Derick gives us a snarl. He begins setting up the diamond. Life of the party, already taking the lead. I like it.
“I’ll sit this one out,” Mateo says.
“Oh, no you won’t,” Avery replies.
“Ugh! I don’t do baseball.”
“It’s Wiffle ball,” I offer. “It’s different.”
“It still involves running.” He glares at us. “The only running I do is running lines!”
Derick insists that I can be captain, keeping with the banter we’ve partaken in since the start of this absurd situation. At least in this scenario it truly makes sense. Mateo and Avery lead the opposing side, opting to be cocaptains since neither wants to let their ego take a vacation today.
“I’m not very good at this. I don’t even know all the rules,” I say to Derick softly so he knows in advance that my poor hand-eye coordination, exacerbated by my glasses, is not going to be an asset to our team.
He looks at me sideways, one brow playfully cocked. “Come on, Jeter fan. This is the perfect chance to show me your stuff. Make me believe all those major-leaguer dreams you’ve been having.”
“That’s, well, I just… You know, we can’t—”
Unbelievably satisfied, he jogs into the outfield without another word.
Around the fourth inning, Derick and I are waiting for our turns to bat. We’re down by two with no saving grace in sight. Surprising to no one, I’m bad at both pitching and catching. The only MVP on our team is Claire, who’s scored all our measly three points. Athletic prowess will never be my superpower. Even though that one is feasible for human beings. Just not this human being, apparently.
“I’m super stoked for our trip,” Derick says as we shuffle about on the sidelines.
We are officially booked to leave for Manhattan on July 13. Derick sent me a full itinerary.
I’ve been to Manhattan a few times before. My parents aren’t the city types though. They don’t like the traffic or the crowds. We didn’t do a lot of tourist-trap activities growing up. We spent weekends at sunflower patches and Claire’s rec softball games, where I handed out Capri Suns and clementines to grabby girls in New Balance cleats.
I’m excited to see what’s in store for us, maybe do some sightseeing, but also nervous about spending so much alone time with Derick. Are we at that friendship level yet? What does that mean if we are? Questions constrict my heart until I feel faint from the lack of circulation.
