It’s only a few blocks—and I try to get him talking. I try to get him to rank different hot-dog stands. I tease him when someone stops, asking for his autograph, and the only thing they have for him to sign is a dingy hat that looks like it’s seen better days.
He’s practically silent until we’re walking up the cement steps towards the aquarium, when he clears his throat, glancing at me almost nervously before he looks down again, asking, “So, uh, you applied to the job?”
“Oh.” I nod. “Yeah, I talked about it with Imani and thought ... couldn’t hurt. If nothing else, an interview is always good experience.”
Miller finally looks away from the cracked pavement, offering me a smile that seems almost sad. “Could be your sixth thing.” My brow furrows, but he clarifies, “You said you could only come up with five things for your list. This could be your sixth. You know, make us, uh, even.”
“Oh. Right.” It’s my turn to look away. My stomach twists and I blink furiously at the steps, focusing on moving my feet up instead of wondering what it would be like to do the sixth thing with last year’s sexiest shortstop. “Well, I think—it has to be my fifth. It might need to replace the whole ‘go back to school’ thing.The application cycle is closed until the fall, and if you request a trade after this season, and I get the job ... neither of us will be around to finish the list. And—” I wave a hand, trying to brush off all those old pieces of me I didn’t want to pick back up—the doubts Scott watered for years about whether or not I’d even be good enough to get into school after all. “You wouldn’t want to be stuck with me for that much longer.”
He looks at me like it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, to be stuck with me, but he gives a terse jerk of his head. “Are you”—he grips his jaw—“excited about it?”
“Sure,” I say shrugging, but my hands tense against my arms.
Miller stops mid-stride, one foot half raised, the muscles in his thigh popping underneath his shorts. He turns to look at me, slow and exaggerated, before he asks, incredulous, “Sure? That’s your ... ringing endorsement?”
“Yeah. Sure.” I blink, lifting a hand. “What’s wrong with sure?”
He gives a strangled sort of laugh. “Ren, I’ve seen you more excited about a package of cookies shaped like dinosaurs that you spotted on the shelf at the grocery store than you sound about this job.”
Ren.
It’s nice, the way his mouth moves to form the three letters that make up my name.
But I try not to focus on that and say, indignant, “I’ll have you know—I thought that particular brand of cookie was discontinued two years ago.”
His earlier smile comes back, shifting from sad to amused. “Excitement was called for, then.”
“It was.” I tip my chin.
“But, uh.” He lifts a hand, poking his tongue into his cheek. “You deserve ... to be excited about a job. You deserve an opportunity that ... deserves you.”
Just like I’ve been trying to ignore the sudden assault of the fact that he really is the most beautiful person I’ve ever laid eyes on—I try to ignore the way that makes me feel. The way all those petals I tried so hard to grow from scratch under the sunlight of my own love furl outwards, stretching and tugging against their roots towards his praise and compliments.
The idea that after all this time, someone—a man—thinks I’m deserving of anything.
But not just any man. Not someone like Scott.
Him.
Miller and all the things he is that he doesn’t even realize.
He saves me from having to play tug-of-war, and he jerks his chin back towards the steps and the looming entrance of the aquarium. “Come on, don’t want to miss anything cool in theKelp Forest.”
“Oh!” I bring my hands together, acting like I’m about to bound up the steps and push past all the children in the snaking line waiting to get inside. “Let’s strategize. Where should we start?Dangerous Lagoon?Ray Bay?Planet Jelly? Or the aforementionedKelp Forest?”
He stares again, like I’m worth something and deserve things and like he might like the way the three letters that make up my name sit on his mouth, too. “Think there’s supposed to be an order,” he starts, but he holds out his tattooed hand and a grin softens the sharp edges of his face. “But yeah, let’s talk strategy.”
I hesitate, but it’s only a fraction of a second because I let my fingers curl beside his, and the petals of the Ren Jacobs I want to be breathe in all the oxygen of being in his atmosphere. “You’re the strategic mind here. Imani tells me you’ve got a ‘wildly accurate read of the field.’” I squeeze his hand once, arching a brow. “You tell me.”
Embarrassment creeps up his neck in a pink flush, but he exhales a laugh, and his eyes cut up to the line of waitingchildren. “Start backwards in theDangerous Lagoonso we can see the sharks before all the kids crowd the best spots.”
“Excellent choice. Did you know sharks are older than dinosaurs? Earliest evidence in the fossil record is from about 450 million years ago.”
“No shit.” He grins, teeth biting down on his bottom lip. “Kinda like me and you then.”
I frown. “What?”
“You’re older. Makes you the shark.” He shrugs, but something amused sparks in his eyes. “I’m the dinosaur.”
