by Ney, Sara
Sort of.
Miranda is silent, as if she’s picking apart the sentence, deciding which part to respond to. She chooses the first.
“What do you mean it happens all the time? You still haven’t told me what you do—is this because of your job? Are you on TV?” She groans. “Please do not tell me you’re the star of a reality TV show.” She feigns a gag.
“I’m not on a reality show.”
That she thinks I’m the type of guy who would do that? Laughable.
Like a police interrogator, I can see she’s determined to let the quiet stretch between us until it’s uncomfortable, or until I crack and start spilling my guts, whichever comes first.
We sit staring at one another until she raises an eyebrow.
Cocks her head. Sips at her tea.
Picks at the bread.
Dear god how long is she going to sit there not talking?
I clear my throat.
Adjust myself in my chair, rearrange the napkin on my lap.
Miranda sighs. “You’re really going to make me come out and ask?”
“Ask what?”
My date rolls her eyes. “What you do for a living that has everyone staring?”
“Not everyone is staring.” I can’t help myself. “That guy and that guy and that guy couldn’t care less.” They’re either blind and can’t see me sitting here or aren’t baseball fans.
“I’m not going to play guessing games with you, but you’re obviously on TV.”
True.
“I am on TV.” I’m proud of my career and everything I’ve built, so why is telling her so hard? It’s not like I’m bragging. It’s not like I’m trying to impress her. It’s just…facts. “I play baseball. For a living.”
The servers come and take our appetizer plates, replacing them with our entrees.
“For a living?” I see the wheels turning, a bit resistantly, it seems. “Like—professionally?”
I hold back a laugh, not wanting to piss her off. “Yes, professionally.”
“Like—how professional?” She’s got that pretty little head of hers cocked sideways at me again.
“As professional as it can get.”
Miranda blinks as if she’s not quite sure what that means. “What team?”
“Chicago Steam.”
Her lips twist in thought, making it hard to read her face. “What position?”
“Shortstop.”
“Shortstop.” She inhales. Exhales. “That’s a good position, isn’t it?”
I bust out laughing. “Yes, that’s good.”
Miranda is quiet after that, clearly mulling this news over, piecing together the bits of what she now knows about Noah Harding, and I let her ponder, uninterrupted.
After a few tastes of her dinner, a tender piece of ribs on a bed of rice that looks insanely delicious, she rests her fork on the edge of the plate. Swallows. Leans back to study me, arms crossed.
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner that you’re a ballplayer? I kind of feel like an idiot.”
I fidget, as if she’s the teacher and I’m the student, who’s just been busted doing something naughty.
“I wasn’t sure how to tell you and honestly? I didn’t think I would have to.”
“Because you weren’t planning on seeing me again?”
Bingo! “Sort of.”
“Hmm.” She hums low in her throat, but it makes its way across the table.
“The baseball thing—it’s just a job.”
Just a job? Wow. No bigger load of bullshit has ever left my mouth and I want to take the words back immediately. She and I both know it was a ridiculous thing to say.
“It’s not just a job—don’t lie. It’s a big freaking deal.” She glances around at the people watching us like we’re their entertainment for the evening. “Look around you…everyone is watching us.”
That actually makes me blush. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Just…” She huffs. “I don’t know what to say right now.” She sets her napkin next to her plate and pushes up out of the chair, rising. “I’m going to go to the bathroom, okay?”
“Promise you won’t crawl out the back window?”
At least she laughs. “Please, this is Chicago—I’d fall into a dumpster occupied by a homeless person and a dozen rats.” Her finger taps the table twice. “Be right back.”
I’ll be waiting.
12
Miranda
“I’m sorry, can you repeat that?” The reception on my call to Claire is terrible. The sound was breaking up when I stood near the sink in the women’s bathroom, so I’m in a stall with my hand cupping the receiver and pressing my body against the cold, tile wall.
Four bars when I hover.
Two bars when I stand up straight.
Shit.
“Did you say Noah Harding?”
“Yes. I thought I already told you his last name—why do you keep repeating it?” She’s being a weirdo.
“Eh, I don’t remember—but like, Noah Harding?”
“Yes, Claire—focus! This is DEFCON-1 level shit! What do I do?” Only my best friend can help me get out of this mess. Or help me fix it.
“What do you do? Girl, you’re at dinner with a freaking major league ballplayer—why are you in the bathroom whining about it?”
“Because he never told me! He lied!”
“Lies by omission? Big deal! Are you listening to yourself? If I were there I would slap some sense into you.” I hear her rip open a bag of something—chips, probably. “Everyone knows who Noah Harding is, Miranda. Even my six-year-old brother.”
“Well I didn’t,” I declare snippily. “He should have told me.”
“Uh, what could he have said that wouldn’t have made him sound like a total douchebag?”
Okay, true. “I don’t know. Anything.”
“Oh hey, by the way, I play baseball for the Steam and just signed an 80 million dollar contract for three—”
“What!”
“What are you shouting about now? Read the google, for crying out loud. He’s worth a friggin’ fortune.”
80 million dollars.
Well no wonder he could afford those baseball cards—forty-five grand is less than he pays in income tax!
“I’ve never dated anyone with a decent job, let alone a professional one.”
“Yes, well—welcome to adulting.”
“Could you dial down the haughty attitude? It’s not helping.”
Claire snorts. “What do you want me to tell you? To go in there and throw water in his face because he’s AWESOME? No. You’re the one who needs a bucket of water tossed on you. Get a grip.”
I sputter. “Claire!”
“No. Put on more lip gloss and get your bony ass back out there. Do all us single girls a favor and give the guy a chance. I’m hanging up—goodbye.”
I stare at a blank screen, the line dead.
A few seconds later:
Claire: Don’t forget to call me later, whore.
I do what she says. Dig into my purse for the lip gloss I tossed in before leaving home and put some on before leaving the restroom stall. And, on second thought, I should probably try to pee while I’m in here, since I’m in here.
Finish up, wash my hands, stare at my reflection in the mirror.
“You never would have known if he hadn’t told you,” I say to myself. “He is a nice, sweet guy.” Shy and a bit aloof, but I can see he has a good heart. “Give him a chance. Don’t judge him because you’re intimidated—he doesn’t deserve it.”
I acknowledge that last thought again: I am intimidated. Who wouldn’t be? Fans. Women. Reporters. Lack of privacy. Nice things, but at what expense? Not even being able to have dinner without being interrupted by strangers? Having your photo taken without your permission while you stuff your face?
Tabloids writing about you, getting in your business.
Is that the kind of life I would have if I dated him?
It’s not like he chose it, either. But in a way, he did!
I stand there debating with myself until a woman walks in and glances at me, doing a double take. Smiles a little too wide as she drifts to the sink to wash her hands—without using the toilet first.
Weird, but whatever.
“Hello,” she says pleasantly.
I smile back, pulling a terrycloth towel from a small stack in a basket on the counter, and hand it to her.
“Thank you.” She grins, opening her mouth to say something—but I cut her off.
“Have a good night.”
She knows I’m here with Noah; I can see it in her eyes.
Suddenly, I’m furious for him, marching back to the table with purpose.
“Do you want to take this food and get out of here? We can eat it at my place.” We need to talk and it won’t be happening here, in a room full of gawkers.
He looks up at me. Nods. “Yes.”
Good. “Let’s go.”
“Are you sure?” His expression is a mix of relief and uncertainty, but he’s already taking the napkin from his lap and setting it on the table before flagging down our server to box up our food.
“Yes, Noah, I’m sure. C’mon.”
He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a stack of cash, peeling off a few hundred-dollar bills and laying them on the table before standing.
Holy shit—that must be a thousand bucks! What the hell is he doing walking around with that kind of cash?
“And you were trying to convince me you aren’t in the mob,” I tease, grabbing my jacket from the back of my chair and letting him help me slip it on.
Such a gentleman.
He chuckles, close to my ear as I shrug into the jean jacket. “You’re really something else—do you know that?”
I shiver. “All I’m saying is, be careful or you’re going to get mugged with all that loot.”
“I haven’t been near a dark alley in a long time and I’m pretty sure at some point I mentioned my ability to run really fast.”
“Oh that’s righttt,” I joke. “Baseman. It all makes sense now—you’re a super-fast baseball guy everyone is making a fuss over.”
“Did you google me while you were in the bathroom?”
“No.” Pfft. “Claire did.”
“It’s kind of pathetic when my date knows nothing about the sport I play or who I am as a player.”
“Don’t lie—you kind of like it. Otherwise you would have told me sooner.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
I roll my eyes. “Do not even say that. You don’t have an egotistical bone in your body. You’re too nice.”
“Too nice?” He pretends to be stabbed in the heart. “Okay, now I’m butthurt. No guys wants to be the nice guy—you might as well slap a label on my forehead that says friend-zoned.”
“There’s nothing wrong with being a nice guy! Why do guys hate that so much?”
“Because, Miranda, nice guys usually only finish first in the movies. They are not the trophy boyfriends every girl wants.”
“That’s not true! I can’t stand guys who are assholes—it doesn’t matter how good-looking they are.” I stop myself before I use his buddy Buzz as an example; the pair of them are like night and day and if it’s a touchy subject with Noah, I don’t want to piss him off.
We’re having a good time, and the last thing I want to do is spoil the mood that’s already been affected by superfans who can’t be bothered to use manners.
Beverly comes with our leftovers and tells us the car is already out front, idling when we push through the doors to outside.
The ride back to the burbs, back to my place, is pleasant as we both search for things to say. It’s not awkward silence, but silence just the same—a newness to the whole thing that fills me with excitement and anticipation.
I invite him inside when we park and he grabs the takeout from the back seat where we stowed it. Judging by the size of the bags, Beverly threw in a few other things.
I can’t wait to dig through it.
Noah is big. Fills my kitchen after we’re settled in, our shoes by the front door, his navy stocking feet a contrast to the rest of him. So tall and imposing.
I shiver a little, turning away from him to retrieve some plates, then, “Should we just warm up the containers? Like, do we even need plates?”
“Good call—let’s just eat out of the boxes.”
So we do.
Seated on the floor in my minuscule living room, Noah and I tear through our meals like savages, an entire hour after they first arrived at our table. We were too distracted to eat then.
“Is it always like that?” I want to know, cutting through the pork riblet resting on a bed of risotto.
He raises one shoulder into a half shrug, chewing his steak. Swallows. “Eh, sometimes. It depends on where I go? I’m less conspicuous at, say, the mall, or like at the coffee shop the other day. Glasses and a hat help.”
“Sure, I can see that.” I pause, thinking. “What’s it like?”
“What’s what like?”
“You know.” I wave a hand airily around. “Having everyone know who you are, but you don’t know them,” I clarify.
“I won’t lie, it’s weird. Real hard to get used to.” He uses a knife to spear through a hunk of meat; it hovers halfway to his mouth. “People come up and know all this shit about me, like my birthday or my parents’ names and where I was raised. And I don’t know who they are at all. Kind of creepy, but…no close calls. Yet.”
“What do you mean by close calls?”
“Stalkers.”
I feel my eyes widen. “Stalkers? Like—that come to your house?”
“Yeah, it happens. Superfans or people get pissed off and go crazy blaming you for a loss. It doesn’t get any realer than that.”
“So no one has ever stood on your lawn and shouted at your windows?”
“No.” He laughs. “But I live in a gated community, and there’s a fence around my house, too, so…”
Ah. I see.
Not an apartment, not a condo. Not a shithole he rents. “Do you have roommates?”
“God no.”
The tone in which he says it makes me laugh and I bite down on my bottom lip to hold in a huge grin. “Guess you don’t need to split the rent, eh?”
I can’t believe I actually have the lady balls to allude to the fact that he has money. I’m so tacky sometimes.
His smile is rueful. “You’ve met some of my friends—can you imagine living with Buzz Wallace?” He feigns a tremor rippling through his body. “I’d kill him within a week.”
“Is he that bad?”
“That bad? That—” He gives me a stunned expression, a playful one. “He’s the fucking worst, pardon my French.” Stops. “I don’t speak French.”
“Is he one of your best friends?”
Noah tips his head to the side as he considers the answer to this. “Uh…I don’t know. He does some pretty fucked up shit.”
“What kind of fucked up shit?” I don’t mind cursing since he’s done it twice in the span of thirty seconds.
“Acting like an asshole when he was pretending to be me. He comes over, eats all my food and never feeds me. Lets himself in—once I found him in my backyard with three random women. You have a house, dude—don’t use mine as your sex dungeon.”
“Sex dungeon!”
“Okay, maybe that’s me being dramatic, but he doesn’t need to bring anyone over without telling me. It’s rude. My home isn’t a fraternity house.”
“Were you in a fraternity in college?”
“God no—when would I have had the time? I entered the draft as a senior, and you have to prepare for that months in advance to be eligible, so I had no life.”
“You didn’t date?” Yes, I’m fishing for information on his love life.
“Uh—no.”
“Because you didn’t have time?”
The vegetables on his fork hang there, halfway
to his mouth. “Sure, we’ll go with that.”
“What kind of answer is that! I didn’t date in college either, mostly because I’m not the kind of girl guys hit on.”
There. I said it.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“I don’t know! I didn’t dress sexy or go out and get drunk. If I was being hit on, I wouldn’t have known it. Guys don’t like the girl next door. They want the girl who wants to bang.”
“Those guys were idiots. You’re gorgeous—who wouldn’t want to date you?”
He’s not looking at me, he’s staring into the takeout container as if it’s the most fascinating thing in the room, but the insides of me melt at his words just the same. There is nothing placating or pandering about them and he’s bashfully hiding his face as he says it, so endearing and sweet.
Noah Harding is a big softie.
“Plenty of people haven’t wanted to date me.”
“You don’t sound upset about it.”
I shake my head slowly. “I’m not. I’ve always thought the right guy would come along when he came along.”
“It’s that easy, huh?”
“No, that’s not what I’m saying. I just mean that…” I pause to think about it before putting it into words. “I’m young—we are young. Everyone—and by everyone, I mean my girlfriends—puts pressure on themselves to find someone, to be in a relationship, and they’re willing to settle for the first asshole who pays them any attention. Then it’s nonstop drama and arguing.” I feed myself and chew. “Sometimes they break up then get back together, then break up, and everyone around them develops whiplash from the back and forth.”
I mimic my head whipping side to side.
Digging a fork into my dinner, I say, “My mom always told me, ‘When you know, you know.’”
And when it comes to Noah—I know. I just do. He’s a great, caring guy, and no matter what he wants to believe, he gives me flutters and butterflies—a few key ingredients in the early stages of puppy love.
I’ve never been in it before.
“You feel no pressure to meet someone?” he asks me after a moment of silence.
“Not really. Do you?” I glance up and over at him, cross-legged on my living room floor and smile.
The shake of his head is terse, definitive. “No.”