by Linda Holmes
They kissed, and when he let her go, he saw that her eyes were a little watery, that there were tears gathering on her lower lids. At first, he held her shoulders, asking what it was, asking if she wasn’t sure. But she chuckled and said it was not that with a dry certainty that made it clear it was not, at all, that.
He tugged off his shirt, and she pulled the white sweater over her head. She had skipped her rituals. She knew she was a little bit sweaty and flawed, but he seemed unconcerned. He was sweaty and flawed, after all, and it didn’t stop her from feeling like her joints were dissolving when he kissed her, like every part of her that he touched was pulling her toward him.
He muttered—he growled—that he had missed her, and when she said she had missed him, too, it felt like she said it in a voice that no one else would have been able to hear from even six inches away, like she’d whispered it into herself and he’d felt it come out through her fingers on his back. She kept breathing; she kept listening to him breathing.
* * *
—
Later, so close to each other that they were sharing a pillow, Evvie and Dean lay face-to-face in her bed. “What do we do now?” she said. “Not right now. You know what I mean.”
“Evvie, I’m doing pretty well in New York.”
Her stomach dropped.
“I like my place. I like coaching. I like the clinics, and I like living around the guys that I’ve known my whole life. I love the city, I love being able to do a ton of things that aren’t playing, and even though I’ve missed you—and I missed you a lot—I’ve been pretty happy.”
All she said was “Ah,” and she was so glad to be in the mostly dark room, where the way she was sure she looked could remain a secret.
“And I think you’re doing well, too. This house is fucking great. You’re on the water. You’re where you love to be. And that’s a great dog.”
She smiled a little. This, she could not deny.
“It seems like you made up with Andy.”
“Well,” she said, “it’s not like it was. We don’t see each other every week. We don’t talk every day. He has the kids, he’s with Monica, he’s busy with everything. But I’m getting used to it. My therapist calls it grieving the first call.”
“What does that mean?”
“She says when something happens, good or bad, you can only call one person first. And if you’ve been somebody’s first call, it’s hard not to be their first call anymore. She says it’s one of the reasons why parents sometimes feel sad when their kids are getting married. It’s not just the empty nest. They’re not the first call anymore. I’m not Andy’s first call anymore. It doesn’t mean I want to be his girlfriend, and it doesn’t mean I don’t like her. But it was sad. It’s different. The doctor says it’s important to be sad.”
He reached over to kiss her forehead. “I’m sorry.”
Under the covers, she shrugged. “It’s okay.”
“So you’re good. And I’m good. And I feel like I could stay in New York and you could stay up here, and we’d be okay.” He pushed a bit of her hair behind her ear. “But I don’t think that’s what we should do.”
Evvie couldn’t keep from smiling. “No?”
“I don’t know a lot about…a lot. Where to live, what kind of job I want, what kind of family situation. But I am really in love with you. And, you know, unless I’m still throwing into the stands, I think that’s how you feel, too. So I think we should be in the same place and then work on all the other stuff. Because when we’re in the same place, I’m happier, and I think you’re happier, too.”
In the dark, Evvie closed her eyes and smiled.
“You should say something,” Dean prodded, nudging at her with his knee. “I’m kind of flapping in the wind here.”
“Sorry. It just…kind of freaks me out,” she whispered.
He frowned. “Why?”
“The last time I tried to go off and be happy, somebody died. I feel like if it’s too good, something terrible will happen.”
There was a pause. “That’s what you meant, that night when you were stinking drunk. I should never have tried to be happy.”
“Yes,” she whispered.
He grabbed her hand under the covers and pulled it up so their clasped hands were under their chins. “I mean, Ev, if you wait long enough, something terrible is always going to happen. But I don’t think that’s because you try to be happy, you know? I think it just is. You…you wake up one day and you need a whole new plan. Not to brag, but that’s my area of expertise.” He squeezed her hand tighter.
“There are just a lot of things that get taken away,” she said.
“I know. I know. But that happens even if you try to throw everything back first. You just have to hope in the end you’ll have enough left.”
She smiled. “I love you,” she said.
He seemed to stop breathing for a second. And then he let go of her hand and rested his palm on her jaw. “Good.”
She wriggled closer to him. “You want to live here for a while?”
He wasn’t even surprised. “Yeah.”
“I mean, you’d have to move all over again. What about your apartment?”
“Well,” he said, adjusting his head on the pillow, “I would keep it. We could have both for now. You never know what you’re going to want to do. You like history, New York has a lot of great museums. We can be down there part of the time if you want. It’s not terrible having a place to go in New York.”
“So you want to stay flexible.”
“I know I’m making it sound half-assed. I don’t mean to. Don’t get me wrong, Ev. I want to marry you, probably.”
She laughed. “Oh, probably.”
“But right now, I want to live with you, in your house, with your dog, and listen to boats and walk in the woods and maybe get my job back at school. And when something terrible happens, we’ll just figure it out.” He draped his arm around her waist. “I guess that’s my offer.”
“Yes.” She scooted over and kissed him. “I accept.”
ANDY’S WEDDING WAS IN THE middle of October, when the leaves had started to turn. They were having the ceremony at First Presbyterian and the reception at Kettle Bay Hall, a converted fire station that was used for the Lobster Festival in the summer. Evvie came with Kell the day before to put up the tables and cover them with silver linens that Kell had ironed herself. The girls ran around between the tables while Evvie put the favors at each place: a little net bag of candy and a pack of playing cards with the wedding date on them. Andy had said he knew he and Monica were going to survive planning a wedding when they agreed, early in the process, on one ironclad rule: no Mason jars.
Andy and some of his buddies, including Dean, went out that night for what Andy called Boring Dad Bachelor Party, which meant two beers at the bar at The Pearl, then a viewing of Caddyshack and a Madden tournament that went on until about one in the morning and ended when Rose had a bad dream and woke up in tears. Evvie had been to Monica’s shower a couple of weeks earlier and had learned that Monica’s mother had gorgeous silver hair and called Andy her daughter’s “intended.”
On the morning of the wedding, Evvie walked Webster while Dean picked up his tux. She and the dog got back in time to see Dean come out of the bedroom ready to go, and Evvie raised an eyebrow. “Hubba hubba.”
“I gotta tell you, this is not the most comfortable thing I’ve ever worn.”
“Welcome to Formal Occasions for Women: An Introductory Course in Empathy.”
“I feel dumb in this.”
“Yes, but you look so hot in it. Honestly, if I’m not allowed to wear a white dress, I don’t know why you’re allowed to wear a tuxedo.”
“All right, pipe down, horndog. Kell is bringing my parents to the church. I’m going to meet up with Andy, and I’ll see you there?”
He came over and gave her a kiss, then ruffled the dog’s ears. “Love you,” he called over his shoulder on his way out.
“Love you,” she sort of sing-songed back as she unclipped Webster’s leash and hung it on the post. She showered and dried her hair, and in the bedroom, she changed into her dress, which was emerald green with elbow-length sleeves. She put a gold pin in the shape of a maple leaf near her collar and filled her little bronze bag with tissues and lipstick and a vintage Volupté compact that Dean’s mom had given her to celebrate the summer day when she’d legally changed her name back to Eveleth Ashton.
Evvie gave Webster one last skritch on the ears (“I love you, too, puppy,” she said in her only-for-talking-to-the-dog voice) and got into her car. As she rumbled over the bridge into Calcasset, she beeped and waved at Morris, who lived two properties down and walked his dog, whose name was actually Fido, at around the same time she usually walked Webster in the evening. She passed the medical building, passed Tim’s little memorial trees that she could see from the road, and adjusted her hands on the steering wheel.
The Tim money, the death money, was gone now. Dean had taken her to see his lawyer in New York, and she’d fixed it so that Evvie could give the money to Dean, and Dean could give the money away, so nobody would ask why Evvie Drake—Evvie Ashton—was throwing money around like a…well, like a professional athlete. They sat on her deck on a late summer afternoon drinking beers with their feet up, and they drew up a list of the places to send it: a big women’s shelter in Portland, a tiny domestic violence prevention nonprofit in Calcasset, youth baseball, the food bank, the library, the ACLU, and the Ida B. Wells Society, which was helping train Nona’s niece to be a journalist. Public radio, public television, the zoo, the chamber orchestra. Shelter bought with death, symphonies bought with broken glass, jars of peanut butter and cans of soup bought with the catered wedding she never should have had.
There were plenty of cars at the church, including Dean’s truck, and when she got out, she felt surrounded. They all knew now, about her and Dean, about her selling the house. Tim’s parents had been very unhappy that she didn’t return to mark any more anniversaries of his death after that first tree was planted. Her father, unfortunately, had overheard them at the bank saying that it hurt to know she’d forgotten their son so quickly.
When she got inside the church, she ran into Kell, whose smart raspberry dress was overlaid with lace. “Oh hello, honey, welcome, welcome.”
Evvie kissed Kell on the cheek and looked around at the church as it filled up. “Good turnout.”
“And beautiful weather outside, too. Perfect fall day. I know he’ll want to see you, so why don’t you go on back?”
Andy was getting ready in a small room in the back of the church, and when she knocked on the heavy wooden door, the person who opened it was Dean. He leaned over and kissed her. “Hey.”
“Hey,” she said. “I thought I’d say hi.”
“Absolutely,” Dean said. “I have to step out anyway and talk to my parents, so you guys should talk. I’ll be back in a couple minutes.”
“Thank you. You still look hot,” she said as he squeezed past her. He turned and winked. Evvie stepped into the room and saw Andy straightening his tie. He spotted her in the mirror and turned around.
“Evvie,” he said. “I’m nervous.”
“Well, of course you are,” she said, walking over. “All these people are out there and they’re going to stare at you. Who wouldn’t be nervous?” She ran her palm down the front of his shirt. “You look great, though. And she’s great. And you’re going to be great.”
He turned around. “I love you.”
She took both his hands. “I’m not going to hug you, because I don’t want to squish your handsomeness, but I love you, too. And I’m very happy for you.” She squeezed to make sure he knew. “I am very, very happy for you.”
“I’m happy for you, too,” he said, flitting his eyes toward the door.
She shrugged. “Who knows? Fingers crossed.”
He smiled. “Fingers crossed.”
“Are the girls all ready?”
“The girls are dressed, they had their hair done, they’ve had about a pound of candy each from what we bought to make the favors, and they’re in with Monica giving her the whole ‘old, new, borrowed, blue’ thing. Everything seems to be taken care of.”
Evvie remembered when she’d gotten Rose ready for Halloween, helping her wriggle into a fairy princess costume and pinning on her wings. “Yeah, it sounds like…you guys have everything covered.”
“Can you do me a favor?” he asked. “My mom’s going to sit with the girls during the ceremony, but can you be nearby? Just…I’d feel better if you weren’t far.”
“I won’t be far.”
“Evvie! Don’t cry.”
She squeezed his hands. “It’s a wedding. Crying is allowed. Go get married.”
“Okay, I don’t care if we get squished, come over here.” Evvie went over and put her arms around him, avoiding the flower in his lapel, keeping her makeup off his tux. She had held on to him like this on the day his wife moved out, on the night her husband died, on the day he told her he was engaged, and on the morning she showed him her new house. They had, for years, marked their new chapters with her chin on his shoulder and his arms around her waist.
Dean came back in and said it was time. Evvie kissed Andy’s cheek and paused to swipe her pale lip-print off with her fingers. She made her way back out to the church, where she slid into a pew right behind Kell, next to Dean’s mom and dad on one side and her father on the other. “Well, you look pretty,” he told her.
“Thank you.” Evvie briefly laid her head on his shoulder. “Love you, Pop.”
“Love you, too, Eveleth.”
So Andy got married, and Dean stood next to him, and Evvie cried. After the ceremony, she waited by her car for Dean with her jacket wrapped around her. There would come a time, she knew—she supposed, she even hoped—when it would have lasted long enough with him that it would be relaxed and familiar. It would feel so beautifully ordinary that seeing him emerge from anywhere and move toward her wouldn’t turn her cheeks pink. But that time would not be today, as he walked out of the back of the church in a tux with his bow tie undone and his top button open. He came over and put his hands on either side of her, leaning on the roof of the car. He said nothing. He just smiled that third of a smile.
She busted out laughing.
To Nona, who always saw me
I AM BLESSED WITH MORE PEOPLE to thank than I can possibly mention, but I am determined to do my best.
My literary agent, Sarah Burnes, has understood me and this book perfectly from the minute we got on the phone. Her advocacy meant everything to getting the book into your hands, and her support meant just as much to my ability to both survive the process and enjoy it. My editor at Ballantine, Sara Weiss, was a joy to work with, as well as the ideal diagnostician who told me what the book needed but knew when to let me find my own solutions. She also helped me cut a lot of things that you will never have to know you didn’t need to read. (She could have improved this paragraph.) Thanks also to Elana Seplow-Jolley for her thoughts, and to everyone at Ballantine in copyediting and production.
I am so indebted to Stephen Thompson, my great friend whose adventures in single parenting informed my interest in it and my high regard for it. I regret any time he may have to spend explaining that this book is not about our friendship (it isn’t). To the Thompsley family, including my dearest Katie Presley: I love you all.
My thanks to Margaret “Hulahoop” Willison, who read the first pages of this book years ago and never lost her ability to throw handfuls of figurative confetti every time I picked it up again. Other early readers who helped me see things more clearly included Alan Sepinwall, Marc Hirsh, and
Sarah Wendell.
My friend Julia Whelan stepped in to help the first draft see the light of day, as did the generosity of Breck and Mary Montague and Carter Williams.
I was fortunate to have the wise counsel of people in and around publishing and writing who answered tricky beginner’s questions like, “I don’t know anything that happens after I write THE END.” They included but were not limited to Pam Ribon, Jennifer Weiner, Rainbow Rowell, Heather Cocks and Jessica Morgan, Rachel Fershleiser, Maris Kreizman, and Danielle Henderson. Thanks to Michelle Dean for the DMs and for being just far enough ahead of me in the publishing process.
I greatly appreciate the baseball and baseball-adjacent writing I read while I worked on this story. It includes all or parts of: Jason Turbow’s The Baseball Codes, Rick Ankiel’s The Phenomenon, John Feinstein’s Living on the Black, and Jeff Passan’s The Arm, along with David Owens’s 2014 article about the yips in The New Yorker. I also greatly appreciate the openness that guys like Mackey Sasser and Steve Blass have shown in talking about the yips. Thanks to Will Leitch and Joe Posnanski for writing about sports, always, in a deeply human and deeply entertaining way that has helped me stay connected.
A special thanks to Hilary Redmon. (Hilary, look what happened.)
Thanks to Sarah Bunting, Tara Ariano, and Dave Cole for their role in everything that has happened to me since 2001.
Thanks to all the friends: my high school friends, my college friends, my recapping friends, my law school friends, and the Minnesota friends I miss terribly, including my treasured Alexanders. Thanks to my NPR family, including Jessica Reedy, Gene Demby, Barrie Hardymon, Mike Katzif, Audie Cornish, and many others. Thanks, too, to my boss, Ellen Silva.
Thanks to the people who were once strangers who became readers and listeners as well as pals. Thanks to the sprawling collection of audio people who have taught me entirely new things about good stories. (And I hope PJ will forgive me for appropriating his dog’s likeness.)