Announcing Trouble

by Amy Fellner Dominy

  The farmers market is winding down, and there are only a few people wandering the stalls. Mom is working a crossword puzzle when she sees me. “Josie! You’re early.” I don’t usually pick her up for another half hour.

  “Is that our garlic or his?” I point to the bread stand.

  “His garlic and his rosemary. I couldn’t compete.” She smiles so I know she’s done okay sales-wise.

  “Maybe we should join forces. Aromatherapy bread.”

  “Not a bad idea.” There isn’t an extra chair, but she turns over a plastic crate she uses to carry things and pads it with her cushioned laptop cover. “Five more minutes and I’ll start packing up.”

  “I can help. If we’re going to be partners, I need to do more of these.”

  She closes her book of crosswords and sets it on the table. “And are we?”

  More freaking tears fill my eyes, and I’m mad at myself. Mad at him.

  “Did something happen?” she asks.

  “He’s been getting people to tell me stories about comebacks or people doing impossible things. Why is he doing this?”

  Mom smiles in that knowing way of hers. “You know what he’s doing. He’s fighting for you.”

  “He’s also trying out for a coach today. He’s going to end up playing in Florida, and I’ll be the pathetic girl waiting with her suitcase.”

  “Josie, there are a lot of stories that start the same way. That doesn’t mean they end the same.”

  “But when do you find that out? Five years down the road? Ten? Fifteen?”

  “You don’t find it out,” she says. “You’re not waiting to see what happens in your life. You’re living it. You’re making choices.”

  “But…” I’m struggling to make sense of her words. This isn’t what I was expecting her to say. “What about Dad?”

  She grabs my hands and squeezes. “The first man you loved abandoned you. I know it changed you, because it changed me, too. You were right, Josie. I broke up with James rather than risk my heart. And though I want to protect your heart as if it’s my own, safety comes with risks, too. Risk of regret. Of opportunities missed. Of love lost.” Her thumbs smooth over the back of my hands, warm and comforting. “And I haven’t been fair to Garrett. He deserves the chance to be judged for himself. I was wrong to paint him with the same brush as your father.”

  I blink back tears. “You think I should give him a chance?”

  “I don’t know.” She releases a long sigh. “But it does make me think about Elizabeth Arden. How she wanted to start a makeup company at a time when makeup was associated with prostitutes. It was impossible to think that she could succeed in changing so many minds.”

  I cover my mouth with a hand, but it doesn’t stop a loud gasp. “You too?”

  There’s a hint of embarrassment in her shrug. “Me too.”

  “You…you met him?”

  “This morning. He was here as I was setting up. I knew it had to be him even before he introduced himself. All that nice hair and boyish charm. He has a finger gun. Did you know that?”

  I laugh in spite of myself. “It’s awful.”

  “Truly.” Her expression softens. “He came to tell me that he deserves a chance like Elizabeth Arden. That people can change your mind if you keep it a tiny bit open. He proceeded to tell me stories about Estee Lauder, Coco Chanel, and a chemist named Balanda Atis who started up the Women of Color Lab. He ended the whole thing with—” She pauses, and I make the air quotes with her because I know what’s coming next.

  “You gotta play it out.”

  My breath is coming so fast, I’m a little dizzy. It’s so much to absorb. Mom’s smile is almost more than I can handle. “So did you… I mean, do you… Could you like him?”

  “He’s very charming. I told him so, in fact, and he said he has a way with mothers. That’s when he pulled the finger gun.” She laughs, and the sound is better than a gallon of pralines and cream. “He was actually very sweet. And yes, Josie, I think I could like him very much. The real question is, how do you feel?”

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Mai texts Jason who texts Cooper who texts the location of Garrett’s tryout.

  It’s a high school about ten miles west. My heart is sprinting while I sit in the parking lot wondering what I’m going to do.

  I’m not positive, but I think that maybe I’m playing it out.

  Gathering my courage, I head for the baseball field, a diamond of grass beyond the school. With each step, the blurry figures come into focus, the colors sharpening, the smells of dirt and damp grass growing stronger. There are guys in various uniforms in the dugout. A couple of players warming up on the field and four men standing behind the fence. Two are wearing jerseys from the college in Florida, and I’m guessing the one with gray hair is the head coach.

  A man with a clipboard says something, his voice carrying my way but not clearly enough for me to hear what he says. The guys in the bullpen react, and one carries his bat to the plate. Not Garrett. But he’s there, standing in the dugout, and though I can’t see his expression, I can imagine it. Determined. Focused.

  He’s going to get his chance.

  A lump forms at the base of my throat. He’s fighting for what he wants. A life in baseball.

  But he’s also been fighting for me.

  I’ve reached a berm, too far from the field for Garrett to see me but close enough that I can watch. I sink down on the crabgrass, crossing my feet in front of me and feeling cold even with the sun beating on my shoulders and the back of my neck.

  What am I fighting for?

  As the first player takes his cuts, my mind travels back. After Dad left, I’d had enough of dreams. I became a planner. A practical thinker. College. A good job. A guy down the road who wanted a house with a wall where we measured our kids’ height. I didn’t think about whether that sounded fun or exciting or challenging.

  A new hitter is up; the first one wasn’t bad but wasn’t great, either. This one seems to be more of the same. I listen to the soft slaps of balls being fouled off or hit weakly to the infield. My thoughts drift again.

  Plans not passion. It’s always my line, but is it also an excuse? Is it really easier to put cream on people’s necks than it is to figure out what I like? What I might love?

  Am I willing to love anything?

  I see now how careful I was to protect my heart. AromaTher wasn’t a passion and I liked that. Even when I shifted to broadcasting, was it something I loved? Or did I love that Garrett was my partner? Would I love it if it were only me?

  Another batter comes to the plate, and I hold my breath, but it’s not Garrett. There’s a sharp crack of the bat and I watch a ball fly deep. This guy has some power. My gaze follows the next few crisp, well-struck balls and try to remember what it felt like to play myself. To stand behind the fence and watch my dad play. My gaze shifts to the man holding the clipboard. To coach the kids’ teams.

  I’m waiting for my heart to answer, but it’s my stomach that pipes up with an unpleasant rumble. I realize I’ve been feeling sick ever since I left the bookstore this morning. The only two jobs I’ve ever loved were coaching Little League and running story time.

  Why did I quit that job?

  Before the question can circle my head a second time, I answer myself: because it wasn’t a real job.

  But could it be?

  My breath stills as I watch Garrett climb out of the dugout. Something flashes in his hand—something metallic—and I bite my lip when I realize what it is. The key chain. The M.

  The reminder to keep fighting.

  I’m up on my feet as he rubs his back foot over the chalk line in the batter’s box and then settles in his stance. God, he looks good. Shielding my eyes from the sun, I watch as he hits three balls deep, working the ball to right and left field—not something every hitter can do. He takes the same dozen swings as the others, and I see the coach gesture to the pitcher. He wants to see more. My heart surges in my chest, prid
e for Garrett, for how much he’s improved. Sometimes, the universe gets it right, I think. Persistence pays off. Garrett has worked for this. He’s fought for it.

  Maybe it’s time I started fighting, too.

  Each crack of his bat is one more swing at the obstacles standing in front of him. I’m not sure where his path will take him, but he’s brave enough to go after what he wants.

  Even if that includes a girl too afraid to listen to her own heart.

  It’s time I focused on where I’m going. I can’t stay stuck in place for fear of getting lost. I have to find my own way. And I have to stop planning for the worst and open my heart to risk.

  Even if that includes a stubborn baseball player.

  I square my shoulders, commentary running through my head as if I’m in the broadcast booth. Walters, you’re up to bat. What are you going to do with your chance at the plate?

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Garrett told me that Coach Richards starts every week going over the baseball accounts, so I know where to find him on Monday morning. He’s in an office in the basement of the gym that’s a lot of gray cement and cheap metal furniture.

  The door is open, but I knock anyway. He looks up from his computer screen, and for a second I’m not sure if he remembers who I am. Then he smiles. “Josie Walters. We missed you last week at our first playoff game.”

  A blush prickles up my neck. “Sorry about that. Nice win, though.”

  “It was.” He rocks back in his chair. He looks older without the baseball cap on, the gray more obvious in his hair. “So what brings you to the dungeon?”

  It is a little dungeon-esque, right down to the colder temperature. Unless that’s my nerves. “Garrett told me some things about you. Including that you run summer baseball programs.”

  His smile grows warmer. “Garrett told me some things about you, too. Why don’t you have a seat and tell me what’s on your mind.”

  And so I do.

  …

  Cholla’s second playoff game is scheduled to start right after school. It’s a home game, the last one of the season, because if the team wins, they move on to the quarterfinals and neutral territory. I skipped the first playoff game, but I’m not going to miss this one.

  I use the excuse of “girl issues,” which is embarrassing because it lacks originality, but I don’t have time to be clever. Mr. Evans actually rolls his eyes, but he releases me fifteen minutes early. I’ve never missed a minute of class, so I don’t feel too bad about it. Besides, I’m a girl and I have an issue, so it’s not even a lie. I’ve got to run to my locker, grab what I need, and reach the broadcast booth before Garrett does.

  When I get to the field, the visiting team is loosening up in the outfield while pitchers are warming up in the bullpens. There are the usual noises from the dugout below—players organizing their equipment and Coach Richards barking advice. I give Scottie a quick wave; he’s raking the dirt infield like an artist—creating swirls in the freshly watered earth. Someone mowed earlier, working the angle of the blade so the grass looks like it’s striped in deepening shades of green. The sun is a bright golden ball streaming over the top of the bleachers like a spotlight from the heavens. It seems like a holy place. For Garrett, I know it is.

  Today, it is for me, too.

  The booth is cooler, protected from the direct sun, but with the front completely open to the field, the slight breeze has kept the air fresh. I move quickly to get everything set up. I’ve only barely finished when the door flies open.

  Garrett pulls up short when he sees his stool. I’ve moved it to the center of the floor so it’s hard to miss. He sets the equipment on the counter, and then his gaze finds me where I’m standing against the wall.

  He cut his hair and his tan looks deeper and his eyes seem bluer and I’m so happy to see him, it hurts. My heart is going crazy and I want to launch myself at him. I want to grab him by the ears and kiss his face off. A sense of relief sinks all the way to my bones. This is who I want to be with, no matter what.

  Does he still want to be with me?

  My nerves choose that moment to make an appearance. I watch as he walks to the stool and picks up a rose. The petals have begun to open, the color as vibrant as the scent is sweet.

  He raises his eyebrows. “Yellow?”

  “Apology.”

  He picks up a second rose. “White?”

  “Forgiveness.”

  He adds the third rose to his small bouquet, his teeth working a dent in his bottom lip. “Red?”

  “It’s actually orange. Just looks red in this light. It means enthusiasm.”

  “Liar.” He steps closer. The hope in his eyes makes my knees wobble. “Does this mean you finally came to your senses?”

  “I saw your tryout on Saturday.”

  “You did?” He breathes in the roses. “Then you saw it went okay.”

  “Better than okay.”

  “You’re a good coach.”

  “You’re a fast learner.” I glance out the window. Our team has taken over the field now. Not much time before warm-ups will be over. “You’re going to Florida?”

  He nods. “If I want to.”

  “And you do?”

  He leans back against the counter and crosses his legs at the ankle. “I do. I just have to figure out how to convince this stubborn girl not to break up with me.”

  “Stubborn, huh?”

  “And not very bright, honestly, because if she had a bit of sense, she’d see that she’s got me so messed up that even baseball doesn’t feel right without her.”

  “Not very bright?”

  “Did you hear any of the rest of that?”

  I step closer. “Maybe you should say it again.”

  “I’ll say whatever you need to hear.”

  “Five minutes!” The voice booms loud enough to drown out the growing noise of the crowd. It’s getting close to game time, but I don’t move and neither does Garrett. “The day when I threw you those pitches…when I left…you didn’t come after me. You stayed. To practice.”

  He nods. He knows what I’m talking about. “A lot had just happened. You know? And part of me was trying to make sense of it and part of me was mad.”

  “Why mad?”

  “Because you gave me back my dream. You don’t do that for someone unless you love them. And then you walked away.” Hurt flares in his eyes. “You don’t want to follow me, but I’m supposed to chase you.”

  The words strike deep, the way hard truths usually do. “That’s what the white rose is for.”

  He looks at the bud and then glances out the window. The umpires are meeting with the coaches in the center of the field. “I want to keep playing baseball,” he says. “And I want to keep seeing you. Even if we have to see each other on a screen for a while.” He worries at his bottom lip again. “I know I promised I wasn’t going anywhere, and Florida is across the country. I haven’t figured that out yet, but I’m going to work on it. In the meantime, I want to support you, too, Josie. I’ll get the whole team using essential oils if you want. We’ll be one big ocean breeze or whatever you want us to smell like.”

  I smile at the thought, at the sincerity in Garrett’s voice. He would do it, too. “I’m not going to be selling AromaTher. At least, not full time.”

  “You’re not?”

  “I’m switching my major from business to education. I’m going to be a teacher.”

  His eyes brighten. “That feels right.”

  “And I spoke to Coach Richards. I’m going to help coach his summer leagues.”

  His cocky grin has never been so wide. “Told you I’d get you to love the game.”

  “Really?” I say drily. “Because someone recently told me that you can’t predict outcomes. You have to play it out.”

  “I hope more than one person told you that, or I’m taking back the chocolate bribes I passed out.”

  I laugh. “I can’t believe you got to my mom, too.”

  “It wasn’t how
I wanted to meet her, but I’m glad I finally did.” His smile fades. “You know I’ve got a top one hundred list, and that’s always been number one. Other sports, there’s a clock. You can hold on to the ball and wait. You can stop trying, give up or hold out. In baseball, there’s no clock. You have to play the game to the very last out. It’s the only way to know.”

  I join him at the counter, seeing what he sees. Seeing a future I would never have imagined a few months ago. A future so bright, I’m filled with its light. “My number one favorite thing about baseball is you.”

  “Well, that goes without saying.” He throws an arm over my shoulder.

  I tip my head into his neck. “I’m going to regret telling you that, aren’t I?”

  “Oh yeah.” He pulls me closer until we’re touching in too many places to count. His hands are warm around me, so solid. Like Garrett. “All the time my uncle Max was teaching me about the game, he was really teaching me about life. You never quit on the people who count on you, and you never quit on yourself. That was the lesson of baseball. If it matters, if it’s important, then it’s worth everything you’ve got. You, Josie Walters, matter. You’re more important than I can say.”

  My eyes feel full. My throat is so thick with emotion that I have to swallow twice before I whisper, “I kind of love you, Blondie.”

  He pulls back until our eyes meet, and everything I’m feeling is reflected in the shiny blue of his gaze. “Yeah?” His smile breaks my heart.

  “Way too much.”

  He brushes his lips over mine.

  I brush my lips over his.

  Soft, patient kisses. The kind you give when you know there are going to be more. A lot more.

  “Garrett!” There’s a pounding on the door. “You’re putting on a nice show, but people are here to watch baseball. You ready with the national anthem?”

  He curses under his breath as I flush and pull back. “One second.”

  Cheers come from the crowd as he takes out the soundboard and I turn on his laptop. It only takes a minute for him to cue up the recording. As it begins, we stand side by side, hands over our hearts.