It turned out that Jake was right about meat snacks—at least bologna.
Sitting under the night sky made charcoal by the ball field lights, and cooled by a warm breeze blowing in from the Gulf, the bologna-and-cheese sandwich on white bread with mayo, lettuce, and tomato tasted divine. The instant Robin sank her teeth into the sandwich she had vowed she would not eat (but was eating, thanks to a particularly stupid wager on the last kid up to bat), she was instantly transported back to the little house in Dallas, when Rachel was in a high chair, and she and Rebecca sat in giant chairs at the kitchen table, their legs swinging freely beneath them, eating bologna-and-cheese sandwiches, corn chips, and drinking Dr Peppers. She hadn’t thought of that house in a long, long time, and though the memories were a little foggy now, she could remember Mom singing and how Dad would sweep her into his arms and dance her around the kitchen. They had been so happy with their little house and bologna-and-cheese sandwiches.
She paused in the eating of her sandwich; was her memory true, or colored by time? It seemed impossible, knowing Mom and Dad now (especially Dad) that there really could have been a time they were in love like that. But she did remember, and she remembered how she and Bec would giggle until Dad would pick each of them up and twirl them around the kitchen floor, too.
“For someone who swears off anything wrapped in red casing, you sure seem to be devouring that sandwich.”
Jake’s deep voice brought her back to the present, and Robin looked at what was left in the wax paper she held. She had, indeed, eaten two-thirds of her sandwich, and she laughed. “I had to eat it. You spent seventy-five cents on it.”
“That’s right,” he said, puffing his chest, “I spare no expense when it comes to women.”
She laughed again, felt Jake’s smile radiate through her. They finished their sandwiches, watched Cole lose two fly balls in the lights in one inning.
When the game was over, they took Cole for a burger at Paulie’s. “You need glasses, kid,” Jake said as Cole devoured his burger.
“No, I don’t!” he instantly protested. “Why?”
“Because you missed those two fly balls.”
Cole shrugged and gulped down a couple of fries. “The ball was in the lights.”
“What he needs is some of those cool shades the Astros’ outfielders wear,” Robin offered.
Cole immediately perked up. “Yeah!” he exclaimed eagerly. “They have those flip-down Oakleys! Can I get some of those?”
“Sure!” Robin answered, as if it was nothing to come up with a couple hundred bills for fancy shades. But Cole was beaming, suddenly talking about some shades he had seen on TV, and Robin was nodding, knew exactly what he was talking about, and even told him where she had seen them on sale. The two hundred smackers aside, Jake quietly watched her, admiring the way she could, without any discernible experience, relate to a kid who was otherwise so unreachable.
Later, when they let Cole off and he took Robin home, Jake asked her the question that had been burning in his gut all day. “Why did you run away last night, Robin?” he asked as she gathered her things.
She blinked, surprised. “Run away? I didn’t run away, I just went home.”
“It’s just that the nicest part is, you know, after.”
Robin flashed an irrepressible grin at that sentiment. “Coming from a guy, that’s pretty remarkable. Okay, look, I’m sorry if I upset you,” she said, and picked up her purse.
But Jake wasn’t through; he put his hand on her arm. “Robin, is there something you’re not saying?”
She looked out the front window, avoiding his eyes. “Like?”
“Like it sort of feels we’re dancing around the maypole here, doesn’t it?”
Robin clutched her purse tightly and laughed, a high-pitched, nervous laugh. “Come on, Jake! We’re having a good time, right? Why do we need to analyze it?”