The grin shifts to a smile, and I nod along. “Well, it’s been a hard few months for me, and after the game ... it was the first time people started talking about something else. Big social media moment people ran with. So ... thanks for ... spilling a drink and dropping a hot dog, I guess. It’s been ... quiet, and that’s been ... nice.”
It sounds even stupider when I say it out loud. My eyes find the floor, and I drag a hand across the back of my neck. I’m not great with words—not the way Matt was.
I’ve only ever been good with a few things. Catching a ball and throwing it. Good at running with it. Good at playing alongside Matty. Good with girls, apparently. I’m not so sure about that one—that’s mostly just people making assumptions because no one’s ever wanted to stick around for very long.
A bit hard for them, maybe. When the only things I really cared about were baseball, topping the league, and playing with my best friend. And then he died so I stopped caring about anything, really.
But Ren Jacobs isn’t a girl, I don’t think.
A gentle sigh sounds, and I glance back up.
She might be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in real life, actually. And she makes me feel a bit like a boy.
A sad sort of smile softens her face, and I don’t miss the way her eyes cut to the empty space on my jacket, right above my heart, like she’s looking for a stitched number. Or the way they skate over the back of my hand. But she wrinkles hernose when she whispers, “You can thank my colleague then, Imani. Assistant curator of invertebrate paleontology. She’s the dropper.”
My laugh, hoarse and dry, rings out in the space between us, echoing, slow and out of practice. “I’ve played with a few guys like that.”
It’s her turn to laugh, this sharp sound that turns into a snort before she claps a hand over her mouth, pink creeping up her cheeks. “Sorry,” she mutters, wincing. She blinks back up at me, eyes shining a bit too much, but not with happiness or joy this time. “I should make sure the kids haven’t destroyed anything. But you’re welcome to stay. This is the last stop anyway. A few fossils and egg nests behind glass and everything else is play based for the kids.”
“Don’t have anywhere else to be,” I tell her truthfully, a strained smile pulling at the corners of my mouth.
Her eyes find my hand again before she smiles, waving me forward. “Well, come on in, then.”
“Do you usually, uh, spend your Saturdays like this?” I rake a hand through my hair, after watching Ren talk with various parents, accepting their thanks and waving goodbye to the horde of children she spent the day ushering around the museum.
I hung back all afternoon, hands shoved firmly into my pockets, walking around with feigned interest in displays andsandpits and recreated models of eggs you could touch and check out under a microscope.
She lifts a hand a final time as the little shit with the dinosaur bucket hat gets dragged away from pressing himself against the glass to get a better look at a fossilized raptor egg.
He spent half his day running between exhibits and glancing at me with suspicious eyes before his dad finally came over, a museum pamphlet folded in his hands, nervously asking if I’d sign it for his son—apparently as big a baseball fan as he was a dinosaur fan.
That wouldn’t usually bother me, kids have been the one exception to my no-autograph rule this season, but it was the petulant “I don’t think you’ll win the World Series again this year. Not without Matthew Burke” that had me putting him back into the little shit category.
“Me either,” I mumbled from behind my hand while his dad paled in embarrassment, muttering apologies.
Ren turns to me, straightening the lines of her blouse even though they haven’t shifted. “No. I’m the collections manager, but our vertebrate educator was sick today, and the invertebrate educator would usually cover, but she’s on vacation in Malta.”
“Must be nice,” I say.
She exhales a laugh, lifting a hand. “So, the kids were stuck with me.”
“Seemed like you ... knew your way around.” I stumble over my words, corners of my eyes wrinkling with a cringe.
I’m not trying to flirt with her—but it’s one of the few things I’ve only ever been known for being good at.
Being the best shortstop in the league, being able to flirt my way out of anything, being Matt’s best friend and one half of the best generational talent the team had ever seen.
And now, I think I’m only one of those things, judging by the way her eyes narrow before she snorts another laugh.
“I’d hope so. I manage the collection. I should know more about it than anyone else.” Her mouth pulls tight before she mutters, “Not that it matters.”
“Mattered to the kids,” I offer, and something behind her eyes lightens. “Anyway, sorry for ... interloping on your tour ... but, uh, like I said—I just ... thanks.”
She tips her head, ponytail spilling along her shoulder, strands of red painting a sunset against the black silk of her blouse. “Do you want to grab a coffee? The café’s just downstairs.”
“Why?” My back straightens, and instead of her fingers whispering permission for me to stand tall and be who I am, it’s my brain telling me it’s not safe, people only want one thing from me now.
But maybe Ren Jacobs isn’t people. She blinks gentle eyes at me and murmurs, “Because you look like you could use a friend.”
