She gives a nod of approval, trailing behind me towards the shed at the back of the yard where we kept the pitching net and all our old gloves hang from the wall.
It’s a bit like swinging open a door to a crypt, when the wood creaks ominously, and the sunlight stretches across the floor of the shed for the first time in almost a year.
Ren comes to stand beside me, and her hand slips into mine again, flexing uselessly at my side.
“What’s all this?” she asks gently.
My fingers squeeze hers. “Our old gloves.” I tip my chin towards the wall. “All from different seasons ... important games. And uh, random balls, the pitching net. An old speedometer that worked about half the time.” The corners ofmy mouth tilt. “One time, uh, Matty had a bad week—pretty rare for him—and when we came here for dinner, he didn’t want to play, he was just trying to figure out what went wrong. We dragged out the net and hooked that piece of shit up, and it kept telling him he was pitching at like, 70 miles per hour. He was so mad.”
She looks up at me. “That’s slow?”
“Yeah, that’s slow.” I laugh. “Matty threw fastballs anywhere between 95 and 100 miles per hour pretty consistently. His record was 105 when he died.”
“What’s your record?” she asks, fingers skating along the back of my hand, but I can feel them moving down my spine.
I give a jerky shake of my head. “It’s not really the same. There’re similarities, sure. Both positions need strong arms. But one’s precision and the other’s a quick release time. I throw forspeed and accuracy. Motions are different.”
But Ren widens her eyes, expectant and waiting.
Exhaling, I shrug. “Clocked me at 98.3 miles per hour last year on an infield assist.”
“Is that . . . good?”
“Yeah.”
“Record-setting good?”
I rub the back of my neck. “Uh, yeah. Fastest throw by a shortstop so far.”
“Oh, good hands and a fast arm,” Ren laughs, squeezing my hand once more before letting go again. “What can’t he do?”
“Lots of things,” I mutter.
Her shoulder whispers against mine, and her words echo through the home she made in my chest. “Thanks for telling me that story about him. And for indulging me when I was trying to get you to say something nice about yourself.”
“That what you were doing?” I ask over my shoulder, taking my first steps into the shed.
“Yes,” she answers, all resolute. “And for the record, I think it’s something you should do more.”
“I’ll try to keep that in mind.” I avoid my glove from last season and the World Series, picking one off the wall at random that I stopped using after spring training a few years back because it felt too tight. It’s still going to be too big, but it’s the closest to one that might fit Ren.
“Here.” I offer her the glove. “You can wear one of mine.”
She eyes it curiously, like it’s a fossil buried in a slab of rock and needs her careful study. But then she blinks up at me, laughing. “I don’t think I’ve ever worn one of these.”
“You’ve never worn a baseball glove?”
She shakes her head, and her braid brushes across the hollow of her collarbone. “I don’t think so. I was too busy with myNational Geographicto play catch on the schoolyard, remember?”
“Right.” I grin. “Well, hold your left hand up.”
“I’m right-handed.” Her brow knits, but she lifts her hand in the air, splaying her fingers wide enough to slide into the pocket of the glove.
“I throw with my right, so I catch with my left.” I poke my tongue into my cheek, stretching the heel a few times before I slide it gently down over her hand. It drops way lower than it should, a gap on either side of her wrist.
Ren shakes her hand, and the glove wobbles back and forth. “This seems unfair. You’ve got an advantage. I’m not left-handed, how am I supposed to be proficient at playing catch like this?”
“You think you were going to be proficient at playing catch?” I press my thumb to my bottom lip.
