“Seattle,” I tell her. “Series against Seattle starts tomorrow.”
“Great, Seattle. There’s a new shortstop in town. She can really only catch underhand, but—”
“Look out,” I finish, but my words sound rough. I was going for funny, because anyone anywhere should really look the fuck out if they’re lucky enough to lay eyes on her.
She blinks, once, twice, and on the third time, her eyes settle on my mouth again before she gives her head a tiny shake. Her hands, still lingering on my back, tense against my skin before she takes a pointed step back. My glove drops from her waist, and I clear my throat, offering her a lopsided smile.
She takes a minute with measured inhales before she looks up at me, softer this time. “I’m sorry I wasn’t as good of a catch partner as Matthew.”
“I liked playing with you,” I murmur. “It was fun. The way it used to be.”
“When it was just the two of you, making bets on who was going to be so elite their piece of cardboard would end up worth more?” she asks, teasing.
I clap my glove to my chest. “Hey—those are laminated cardstock.”
She lifts her hands. “Oh, I misspoke. I’m so sorry.”
“You should be.” I point the glove at her before tugging it off. “Big baseball trading card community out there, and collectors take this stuff pretty seriously.”
“Oh god, don’t tell Imani. That’ll be next.” Ren frowns. “She’ll become assistant curator of a brand-new collection dedicated to rare baseball cards.” She flicks a finger back towards the house. “Make sure you lock the doors. She’ll be after the rookie cards.”
“Maybe we don’t tell her about those just yet.” I grin, grabbing the abandoned gloves and ball.
She shifts back and forth on her feet, teeth worrying at her bottom lip. “Thank you, for sharing this part of him with me.”
“Oh.” I fumble with the glove, thumb digging at the laces. “Thanks for ... making space for him. This is, uh, part of me too, I guess. And it’s been good to remember that.”
“Thanks for sharing those parts ofyouwith me,” she says, all of her soft, words tipped down with something I can’t quite understand. But as quickly as it came, she brightens, all smiles and wide eyes again. “What would you two usually do next?”
“Whoever looked the shittiest during our game of catch had to barbecue while the other one got to sit there and drink.” Instead of shredding open my throat, the memories tug at the corners of my mouth, lifting them upward. Matty and me fighting over who actually caught poorly—the answer was always neither of us—until one of us finally gave in.
Ren cringes, tugging on the end of her braid. “Well, I think we know who looked the shittiest during our game of catch.”
“Yeah, who?” I cock my head, grinning.
Her eyes roll skyward, but a fond smile blooms on her lips.
I think I love it when Ren blooms.
She couldn’t think of a sixth reason to be exactly who she is—but I could probably think of six hundred without even trying.
“I have a confession.” She glances around the yard before she dips her head with a whisper, “Miller, I can’t cook. The only time I turned on a barbecue, I burnt everything.”
“What do you eat?”
“A lot of takeout.”
“Every night?”
“Not every night.” She crosses her arms. “Imani comes over and cooks, or I go to her house.”
“So, you’re saying even if you looked the shittiest during our game of catch”—she gives me a flat look and mutters, “Unfair,” under her breath—“you wouldn’t be able to barbecue?”
“Unless you’d like everything to have the ever-popular undertone of charred to shit, no.”
“You wanna learn?” I lob the ball in the air, lazily snatching it before it falls to the ground. “How to do it properly? Without burning shit, I mean.”
Her smile stretches again, but it snags on something, and a sad wrinkle draws across her nose. “I’ve been told I’m not the easiest to teach ... anything to, really.”
