“That’s not the problem.”
“Then what is?”
Calm as can be, he walks over to where I’m standing in front of my apparent new desk. There’s barely an inch separating us, and with the way he’s licking his lips, gently biting the bottom one while staring me dead in the eye, it feels as though we’re on top of each other. “I don’t regret a single thing I made you feel that night. Or last.”
It takes me a minute to figure out what he’s referring to.
Horror must paint my face since he is now clicking his tongue at me. “Don’t be embarrassed. I could think of worse things than to hear a beautiful woman, such as yourself, moaning my name on repeat to come.”
I really am a hazard to my damn self.
What is the matter with me? How do I keep accidentally calling and FaceTiming people?
A lump lodges itself in my throat and my pulse feels like fire in my veins. “Then what’s the problem?”
I know he wants to respond but words have escaped him, forcing me to step up and fill in the blanks.
“You’re such a rule follower,” I say it like an insult, but it’s not. I love that he has awareness and morals he wants to uphold. Though I’d be lying if I said that the complexity of our situation and how badly he is forced to behave himself isn’t turning me on like it is.
To my surprise, his reservation cracks as he breaks the stoic barrier created between us. He takes another step closer, causing the edge of his shoe to brush against my heel.
My knees buckle as he takes my chin into his palm, tipping it upward causing his lips ghost over mine, barely brushing, but the faint contact has me reeling. “Only when I have to be.”
A knock at the door disrupts our moment and the smooth air he had about him shifts as he flees back to the mess he has on my old desk, sitting at it. “Come in,” he calls out, and Grace opens the door with a manilla folder.
He thanks her and dives into whatever she gave him, as if that moment between us didn’t happen.
Curious as to what has his attention —and admittedly jealous because I want his attention where it belongs…on me—I walk over to see.
At first, words clumped together in dense paragraphs jump out at me. There’s so much to take in, my eyes are having difficulty choosing one thing to settle on. It takes a few seconds, but eventually I settle my stare on a picture of what appears to be an abandoned baseball field. Or at least what I think is one. If I squint long enough, I can make out a worn home plate, though the rest is covered in unkempt grass and vines sprawling their way up the chain-link fence.
“Baseball fan?”
“I am.” There’s a faint crackle in his tone. He clears his throat to try to speak again, but it’s still there. “Goddamn it, today,” he huffs out. “Yes. I was.”
“Was?”
He lets out a sigh that tells me all I need to know before he begins to elaborate.
I remember Lorena telling me one day in passing how she hasn’t been able to watch baseball since their dad died. It was his favorite sport, and something is telling me that the field Tomás is looking at has a story linked to their dad there.
I may not have a strong, loving attachment to my dad, but I know how much Lo and Tomás loved and admired theirs, so ifrubbing his shoulders to help ease the tension stiffening them is what helps him get his feelings out, I’m going to do it.
Sure enough, the moment I begin rubbing his strong, broad shoulders, the words pour out of him.
“Baseball was my dad’s favorite sport, not only to watch but to play. I’d meet him here often and we’d catch up on life while playing catch. And here.” He points to the photo. “Is where I decided to turn my life around.” The words become caught in his throat. I continue rubbing his shoulders and a few seconds later, he continues. “My dad told me, in this very spot, that he was dying. I swear, I replay that day in my head far too often. And once he passed, I haven’t had the courage to go back there. Now I wish I would have because all the memories I have tied here are about to be gone, since a developer wants to turn it into condominiums. Exactly what the area doesn’t need.”
“I’m sorry,” is all I’m able to say, wishing I could say or do more.
“Don’t be, it’s not your fault. It’s theirs.” He lifts a piece of paper with a familiar logo on it.
I motion for him to give it to me.
“What is it?”
Shame grips me as I reply, “It’s my dad’s.”
“What is?”
