“Long story,” I mutter. Then, to Snowman, “Look, the game’s already started. It’s Reds versus Cubs, and I’ll bet you got a stack of tickets, which in approximately two and a half hours won’t be worth a nickel.”
Walt pokes a stick in the bottle, torturing the poor creature.
“Make it one twenty, little lady, and you got yourself a deal.”
I kneel down and unzip my bag to get the money. Above me, I hear Snowman say, “Your little lady drives a hard bargain.”
I blush the blush of all blushes, grateful they can’t see my face.
Tickets in hand, the three of us make our way toward the ballpark. Walt is literally skipping with excitement, an act worth every penny I just forked over.
Beck reaches out, stops us in front of a bronzed statue. “Idea. If at any point one of us gets lost, let’s agree to meet back here. At this statue, okay? Sort of like a rendezvous point.”
I raise my ticket. “We have these. We could just meet at our seats.”
His eyes flutter toward Walt, then back to me. “I just think this might be a little . . . easier, you know? And fun. Or something.”
I think back to the one Indians game I attended, and how frenzied the crowd was afterward, everyone trying to get back to their cars to beat traffic. One look at Walt—currently jabbing his butterfly, oblivious to the world around him—and I follow Beck’s lead. “You know, I think that’s a great idea. Walt?”
“Hey, hey,” he says, not taking his eyes off the bottle. Inside, the butterfly’s wings have gone from flapping to twitching.
“Walt, look at me buddy, this is important. You see this statue?” His eyes follow my index finger to the bronze baseball player. “If you get lost or separated from us, come straight here, okay? Straight to . . .” I read the name on the plaque. “Ted . . . Kluszewski.”
Beck pats Walt’s back. “Kluszewski is the rendezvous, Walt. Can you remember that?”
“Yes,” says Walt, going back to his butterfly. “I’ll remember the rendezvouski.”
I smile at Beck, a wide-eyed, can-you-believe-the-awesomeness-that-is-Walt sort of smile. He’s wearing the same one.
“I think we’ll all remember the rendezvouski.”
ONCE THROUGH THE gates, we follow the signs to our section. Vendors are everywhere, selling hot dogs, beer, peanuts—one guy even has a half-dozen empty beer bottles glued to his hat. Just before we reach our aisle, Walt hands Beck his bottle-slash-butterfly coffin. “Bathroom,” he says. Throwing his finger in the air, he disappears into the men’s room.
Beck raises the bottle to his face, flicks the plastic to see if the butterfly is alive.
“Call it,” I say, grimacing.
Beck looks at his phone. “Time of death, four fifty-two.”
“Poor thing never stood a chance.” I kneel down to tighten the Velcro straps on my shoes; afterward, I notice Beck admiring them. “Très chic, non?” I say, kicking a foot up in the air.
He nods. “Oui. Et . . . French-for-old.”
“Vieilles. And yes, they’re old. I like old things, though.”
He looks at me like he wants to laugh. “You like old things?”
“Sure. Frayed, worn, stringy, faded . . . It’s all just proof of a life lived well.”
“Or maybe it’s proof of a life, well . . . lived.”
I smile, and for the next few moments, we people-watch. I’m about to crack a joke about how crowds wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for all the people when Beck says, “Speaking of life and living it—Mim, you see this?” He points to the same gaggle of girls I’d seen out front, the ones with the ridiculous shopping bags.
Easy, Mary. Don’t scare him off.
I nod—coolly, coyly, like I just noticed.
“Live your life,” he chuckles, rolling his eyes. But it’s no normal eye roll. It’s an iris-receding, sigh-inducing, shoulder-sagging eye roll. In the history of History, no one has rolled eyes like this, and I suddenly can’t remember the name of any boy I’ve ever known. I’m not sure what that says about me, that I can get this turned on by an eye roll. Honestly, I don’t care. In the movie of my life, I jump in Beck’s arms, wrap my legs around his waist, feel the slight bitterness of his tongue against my own as we kiss and the crowd goes wild. Walt—depicted by an unknown actor in an Oscar Award–winning breakout performance—is an ordained minister. He marries us then and there, right by the men’s restroom. Beck is a Phoenix brother, either River (pre–Viper Room) or Joaquin (pre-bearded insanity), and I, as discussed earlier, am indie-darling Zooey Deschanel. Or . . . fine, a young, straight Ellen Page.
“Live your life. How about, breathe your air?” he says.
I smile at him. “Eat your food.”
“Button your pants.”
“Walk your dog.”
“Take your shower.”
“Do your work.”
Beck shakes his head. “Live your life, Mim. Whatever you do, just . . . live your life, okay?”