Baseball Has Never Been This Fun
I squeaked at the same time as he grunted.
It was immediately obvious we were both surprised as he jumped up and turned to face me. I tugged the earbuds out of my ears by the wire. “What are you doing?” I managed to blurt out around my heart, which had lodged itself in my throat. I glanced up at the window to my flat but Robert wasn’t standing there, so he obviously hadn’t heard the commotion.
So much for being my protector. Though a tiny part of me was glad he wasn’t going to come running—something told me the courtyard guy wasn’t actually dangerous, unsolicited lap landings aside. Not that my lap was going to suffer any permanent damage.
But back to the courtyard guy. He cursed, his voice gravelly and deep (a detail I would remember later) and then said in an unmistakably American accent, “I’m so sorry; I didn’t know you were there.”
“What are you: blind?” fell out of my mouth, but the second it did, I realized the truth.
He confirmed it only a second later. “Uh, yeah, I am. Mostly, anyway. I have about ten percent left in my right eye, but...” he shrugged.
It was my turn to curse, which I followed up with, “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.” Nice going, Brooklyn. I looked up into his scarred face, noticing how dark his sunglasses were and how they were trained somewhere over my left shoulder.
He shook his head. “Don’t be. I’m the one who should be apologizing for sitting in your lap. I hope I didn’t hurt you.”
“No. I’m fine. It was a bit...surprising, that’s all. I had my earbuds on and my eyes closed and I guess I didn’t...” I broke off, suddenly very aware I was babbling and he’d apologized for something that really was his fault. “Anyway, I’ll leave you to it.” I stood up, glancing at my watch as I did. I still had eleven minutes, but I couldn’t exactly spend them here with this guy.
“Don’t go,” he said, adding playfully, “I don’t bite.” He was now smiling toward the bench I’d vacated and I felt bad for having moved from where he thought I was. He really is blind, I thought as I quietly sat back down.
“Well that’s good to hear,” I said lamely.
“And even if I did, you could just run away from me. Zig zag, a little; I’d never catch you.”
I laughed at that.
He smiled. “Mind if I sit?”
“Not at all,” I said, pointing at the bench beside me and then quickly retracting my arm, feeling like I was inadvertently mocking him.
“I uh...I don’t want to make the same mistake again,” he said, suddenly frowning and not moving toward the bench. “Sitting on you once is probably forgivable, but a second time would probably make me something of a creeper. My hearing’s not perfect and I’m not always great at triangulating. Also, thanks to all this excitement, I’m a bit turned around. Can you direct me?” His voice was a bit strained and I had a feeling this big, strong ex-military guy didn’t love having to ask for help just to sit on a bench. I wondered what exactly had happened to him and what he was doing here in London, but quickly put my questions on the shelf; I could hardly think about that stuff while the guy was right in front of me.
“Sure,” I said. “But here...” I stood up and gently put my hands on his arms. Even through his jacket I could feel muscular forearms, which I forced myself to ignore as I guided him. “Turn around and back up a step...one more. Okay there you go. It’s right behind you.” He sat down tentatively and I removed my hands from him as I took my own seat on the bench.
“Okay, I’m on your left.”
He shook his head. “No. That’s no good. You should sit on my right.”
“Oh,” I jumped up. “Okay, move over a bit. Do you hear better on the right?” I asked as he shuffled over and I sat in the spot he’d opened up for me.
“No, actually, my hearing is slightly worse on the right, but I’m still good-looking on that side. I’m all Phantom of the Opera on the left.”
I didn’t quite know what to say to that, so I looked at him, trying to figure out where to go from here because: awkward.
“Sorry. Not funny?” he asked.
“Kind of funny,” I said. “Just maybe a bit awkward for a first meeting.” A bit being the understatement of the century.
He nodded. “Of course it is,” he said without humor. “I’m the king of awkward these days. Would you believe back in the day, I used to be smooth with the ladies?”
“Yes,” I said, my voice little more than a gurgle. I imagined this guy had been more than smooth. I imagined this guy had been devastating. I was desperate to know what had happened—the questions coming back to the forefront of my mind—but wasn’t about to ask.
He cringed. “Okay, that was a joke. Still not funny, I presume?”
“Again,” I said. “We really don’t know each other. Try it again after we spend the summer in the Hamptons and I’m sure it will land much better.” Where did that come from?
He laughed, a low chuckle that did something strange to my insides. “Point taken,” he said, reaching up to scratch at his jaw, the rasp of it drawing my eyes and making me want to feel the stubble on my palm. Settle down, Brooklyn, I told myself. This guy is definitely off limits. You’re not even supposed to be here right now.
“But for what it’s worth,” I began, because why apply a filter now? “You’re hardly Phantom of the Opera.”
“How can you say that?” he said, pausing for effect before adding, “You haven’t heard me sing.”
I laughed again. “I suppose that’s true. Though let’s save that for the second meeting.”
“It’s a date,” he said, making my heart knock around in my chest at the mention of a second date. I didn’t see how it was possible, but I wasn’t going to correct him.
After a moment of crackling silence between us when I couldn’t think of even one thing to say, he went on, “So, assuming you’re still there beside me and haven’t run off, which I guess would be pretty funny from the outside looking in, I suppose I should introduce myself. That way, you’ll have something to say to get my attention when I’m about to sit on your lap again. I’m Tristan.”
Then he stuck out his hand toward me.
Which is how I got to first base with The Terminator. Or should I say, The Terminator got to first base with me.
We both froze. Then his index finger poked a bit—like maybe he was trying to figure out what his hand was on—while I watched, equal parts horrified and incredibly amused. I mean, I was wearing a coat, so it’s not like he would really get a feel of much other than fabric, but he was obviously poking a boob. Wait. Wasn’t it obvious to him that he was poking a boob? That my boob didn’t have distinctly boob-like properties enough to make it unmistakably a boob was suddenly even more horrifying than him poking said boob.
“Uh...” I said.
“Sorry,” he said after clearing his throat.
“It’s okay,” I said, comforted by the fact that he was blushing adorably, no, devastatingly. “As long as you really are blind and this isn’t your game to cop a feel.”
He laughed and I wanted so badly to see his eyes, to see them crinkle at the corners, but I didn’t expect him to take off his sunglasses anytime soon. But then his smile was mostly gone and he said, “I assure you, this is not my game. I used to have game, but that was a long time ago.”
I struggled for a moment on how to respond to that when he said, “Though, I have to admit that’s the farthest I’ve gotten with a woman in a long time.”
Even though all the saliva had suddenly dried up in my mouth, I was still able to chuckle at that, albeit awkwardly.
He must have picked up on it. “Sorry,” he said. “Inappropriate and way TMI. Anyway as you can see, my game is completely gone. Now all I have are dark glasses and a face full of scars.”
I couldn’t see much of the left side of his face, since he’d made me switch sides, but I had seen it through the binoculars and it had looked pretty bad, especially the way it disfigured his m
outh and made him look like he had something of a sneer on his face. Still, he had to know... “Are you kidding? Girls love scars,” I said. “Even more than they love tattoos.”
He grinned. “Hmm. So if I had a few of those, too?”
“That whole badass thing?” I said. “Swoon city.”
“Really,” he said, cocking his head. “How badass?”
This was going down a dangerous road. I didn’t exactly want to let on that I suspected he was former military, but I also didn’t want him to think I was into actual bad boys. Nor did I want to push him too far to make him upset since I was having the best time I’d had since leaving Rosewood and didn’t want it to end.
“Oh, you know, badass like a guy who takes care of his body and knows how to use it.” I meant like a soldier who is super-fit, but the second the words were out of my mouth, I realized how very not innocent they sounded. Oh well, it’s out there now.
He swallowed audibly as the smile dissolved from his face.
There was something really empowering about knowing he couldn’t see me blushing furiously. It was almost like how boldly I’d been flirting with Jared by text, but this was about a thousand times better because I could see the reaction immediately on his scarred but still expressive mouth, while he couldn’t see me at all. If only I could see those eyes...
“I mean...” I said, when he didn’t respond and I began to think I’d gone too far.
“Wait,” he interrupted, frowning.
“What?” I said, slightly panicked. I glanced up at the window to my flat. Still no Robert, though now I had only four minutes left. Two if I wanted to be safe and make sure I didn’t give him reason to come to the window. I took a breath and looked back at Tristan.
“You’re flirting with me,” he said.
“What?” He’s just cluing in now? “Are you kidding? You started it.”
“True. But I should really know who I’m flirting with; obviously I’m at a disadvantage since I can’t see you. You’re not a married grandmother of eight, are you?” He cocked his head again, as though he was looking at me sideways.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Grandmother of twelve—I’m made of sturdy stuff.”
He barked a laugh. “You’re quick-witted. I like that.”
I smiled, but a glance at my watch told me I was playing with fire.
“I have to go,” I said reluctantly.
“Was it something I said?” he asked, his face just serious enough that I could tell he was only half-joking.
“Um,” I began, laughing. “If it was anything, it was that you copped a feel. Or maybe that you sat on my lap. I’ve had very few first dates where the guy got so far.”
“So this was a date,” he said. “Don’t go, please.” He wasn’t quite begging, but his tone tugged at my heartstrings.
“I have to. Really. It’s nothing you did or said.”
“Promise?”
“I’m crossing my heart,” I said, even doing the motion, because it seemed inherently dishonest not to.
“You’re not a grandmother, are you?”
I stood up. “No.”
“Married?”
I laughed. “Nope. I’m not old enough to be married.”
“Really? With that voice? It’s so...”
“What?”
“Mature. Confident.”
Really? Maybe it was the shameless flirting I’d been doing and his positive reaction that made me seem confident, but I’d never thought of my voice as being mature.
“Wait,” his body stiffened and he frowned, his dark eyebrows almost disappearing under his sunglasses. “How old are you? I’m not flirting with a tween, am I? Please tell me you’re not planning to marry Justin Bieber someday.”
I barked out a laugh. “Hardly,” I said. But there was no way I could tell this guy I was seventeen. “Don’t you know it’s impolite to ask a lady her age? How old are you?”
“Twenty-six,” he answered. “And there’s nothing impolite about making sure the lady I’m talking to isn’t going to land me in jail.”
I had to give him credit for that, though talking wasn’t going to land him in jail. I chose to ignore his innuendo. “I’m twenty-three,” I lied, cringing as I did. Lying to a vet—a blind vet—ugh. Was there anything more heinous? It felt like I was stoning kittens. I almost took it back, but realized quickly it was too late. It was out there and I’d make myself into an idiot of I went back on it now. And for some reason, I wanted to leave the door open to be able to talk to him again: date number two held a lot of promise.
“Right. Well, nice to meet you...you didn’t tell me your name.”
“I have to go,” I said, avoiding his question and looking up at the window, relieved at not seeing my brother. “I’m already late. It was nice meeting you. I’ll see you around.”
“Cinderella it is, then,” he said, stopping me cold.
God, this guy... “I’m keeping my shoe, though,” I said, walking away.
“Just as well,” he said, raising his voice to follow me as I began to jog toward the door. “I’d just trip over it anyway.”
~ ♥ ~
As I opened the door to the flat, it was immediately obvious that Robert had been completely absorbed in the show. He wouldn’t even have noticed if I had been late.
“Did you forget something?” he asked.
I just stared at him, incredulous. He did a double take. “What?”
I shook my head at him and hung up my coat. “Never mind. Watch your show.”
Poor Impulse Control
A man, of average large build, sits on a bench in Mayfair. What is he doing? It appears that he is doing nothing, but that’s not precisely true. He is waiting. For love. For his destiny.
He is a man of strength in body and mind. Even his name, Hunter Brick Stone, Tristan tells the world of his unwavering strength. He is also a man of honor; his [???] three tours of duty in [?] Afghanistan are testament to that. But now he has returned to his home on British soil to rebuild his life outside of the military. Today, Christmas Day, he is trying not to think of the death and destruction mayhem he left behind on his tours. Instead, he is enjoying the peace of a drizzly day in London: his [new] home.
His blue azure [?] eyes were injured in battle are sensitive after months of being in the desert [note:Google sensitivity to light] but more than that, he is haunted by what he saw in combat and wears the glasses to hide his vulnerability and discourage fellow tenants from engaging him in conversation. What he thinks he wants right now is peace. But what he needs more than anything, is love.
He is about to get up and leave when a figure enters the courtyard from the side of the building opposite to his. He is suddenly struck by the beauty of the woman in front of him; she walks with such grace, her chestnut hair flowing in the wind where before he hadn’t even noticed a breeze. It was as though it blew just for her. Her eyes are unwavering and he knows she is here for him and him only, as though the gods had put her on the earth just for him.[note: he’s blind, so how would this happen? Maybe he smells her perfume? Roses? Lavender?]
His heart pounds in his chest as she closes the gap between them. He stands, his large and muscular frame towering over her, but looks down into her eyes, suddenly knowing with all of his being that instalove love at first meeting sight does indeed exist. She smiles up at him and opens her mouth to speak. He knows this is it; her words will be imprinted in their lives forever as the ones that brought them together to spend eternity in each other’s arms. “Hello,” the woman says, her voice as beautiful to his ears as the sound of a nightingale. “I saw you from my window and wanted to tell you that I find it curious that you sit here day after day. What are you about?”
The man smiles down at the lady. “I have been waiting.”
“For what?”
“For you, my lady,” he says. “I have been waiting for you my entire life, but only realized it just now.”
“And I you,” the woman says. “Never before
have I seen a man in such attractive pants.”
As one, they look down at the man’s thighs, honed by hours of riding horseback in Her Majesty’s Army. “They are but riding breeches, my lady,” he says, befuddled.
“Yes, merely that,” the woman says, yet in her mind, she thinks: but sir, you are so hot in them! you are the handsomest man I have ever seen.” She gently pulls his glasses from his face. “But your eyes, they seem are haunted.”
“My eyes are useless,” he says, turning his face away, not wanting her to see his vulnerability, “I am sorry,” he says. “And as for handsome, I know that you tell falsehoods, for I am scarred of battle.”
The woman feels she should be angry at his accusation, for she does not lie, but instead feels pity sorry sympathy for the man that he not believe her. She is saddened that he cannot see himself as she seems him. “You are a warrior who has survived battle, and that to me is handsome. But also, you have a strong jaw and obvious strength,” she says, eying his masculine physique.
I put down my pen and looked out the window for about the thousandth time that morning. But no matter how hard I tried to conjure him up, Tristan still wasn’t there.
It had been two days since we’d met and I was itching to talk to him again, but he hadn’t come outside yet today.
Yesterday I’d been stuck inside, back to my schooling with Mom while Dad went back to work, taking Robert with him to show him off at the agency office. I’d seen Tristan out in the courtyard while I was at the table doing my work in the living room, but didn’t want to draw attention to him out there, so forced myself to only look when Mom was in the bathroom or making lunch.
Not that I missed much when I wasn’t looking, since all he did was sit there and listen to his music. Still, I had trouble dragging my eyes away from him.
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