Guys in white shirts and black jackets opened our doors before I could press him.
He held his arm out for me, and I took it.
The dinner was at Joe Westlake’s place in Pacific Palisades. More money than God. Normally I’d have taken a moment to absorb the riches of the mansion. The view. The gardens. The opulence. But I couldn’t.
“You’ve been avoiding this,” I whispered. “Dash, I can’t. I can’t not know what’s happening.”
“Shortie!” Westlake called. He wore his bow tie and seersucker jacket. Same as always, except now he was just another thing between Dash and me.
Dash shook his hand and introduced me as if I mattered. So I must have.
Right?
I hated feeling like that. Hated the way the gourmet food tasted like plastic. Hated being jealous of all the other girlfriends and wives for knowing what would happen next, what they’d be doing, who they’d be seeing.
I almost wished we’d agreed to part ways when the season started. This felt somehow worse. The not knowing. The insecurity. I hadn’t thought this would feel like a bigger gamble, not because I didn’t have the stomach for him leaving but because he’d already been clear, from the beginning, he didn’t have the stomach for it.
“What’s wrong, sweetapple?” he asked softly in my ear.
What was wrong was three glasses of wine. He drove when we were together, and after I’d told him how my mother died, he stopped taking even a sip when he was behind the wheel. So at Joe Westlake’s house, I had one more than I should have. The nerves kept me from feeling tipsy until it was too late.
The property was a massive expanse of tight little gardens and concrete sections, all set with different chafing dishes from the best restaurants in Los Angeles. Nothing halfway. As usual. Third party like this in three weeks. It wasn’t boring, but all I wanted was to be alone with Dash. I touched him more than I should have, tightening my fingers around whatever part of his body was close, feeling the hardness of his muscles under his jacket, knowing what the force of them could do to my body.
“So you’re the schoolteacher?”
A woman. Raven-black hair and red lips. Black dress. Skin like porcelain and curves that needed a speed limit.
“Librarian.” I let Dash hold me up. He was talking to Gerry Jonson. Lot of numbers. Stats. I’d have kept up if this woman hadn’t assumed I didn’t want to hear it.
“Oh, sorry,” she said, sipping champagne from a flute. “How do you like being his good luck charm? Best thing ever, right?”
“Could be worse?”
I had no idea what she was talking about, but I must have looked more conversational than incredulous, thanks to the wine, because she smiled comfortably and rolled her eyes.
“I know, right? The life.” She winked.
I smiled, but my chest cratered, opening from the center out, sand pouring in from the edges, wider and wider as the evening wore on until I thought I’d fall into it.
I was pretty sober by the time we got in the car. His hand rested on the gearshift, and I placed my hand over it.
“In a few days, you’re going,” I said.
He didn’t say anything.
“I know this was a hard limit for you. Maintaining this over the season.”
“Maintaining?” he snapped. “What’s that mean?”
Maybe the alcohol drain had left me vulnerable, or maybe the weight of all my denials had dropped on my shoulders, but I felt as if I’d been slapped. I had a ball of gunk to swallow, and I had to take my hand off his before he noticed it was shaking.
And of course.
Of course, of course.
That was the moment I realized I was in love with him.
thirty
Dash
I didn’t mean to snap at her, but I did, and I didn’t take it back. I didn’t soothe her. I didn’t grab her hand back when she took it away. I wanted to, but a high-minded part of myself stopped me.
Terror took over my body. The walls squeezing in on me. The season and her and everything I had to do to prepare and hadn’t. I was two years from free agency and could be traded at any time. Pulled out of the deck, paired with a third baseman and a relief pitcher for an inside straight or an outfielder for a winning hand. The disruption would kill me, especially if it happened in the middle of the season.
I had no control. None. Maybe she was shaking. Maybe she was upset when I snapped at her, but I’d been losing my shit for weeks. The moment she walked out, the moment I saw her again, and all the moments in between were a hell of anxiety.
“I can’t tell you what’s going to happen,” I said.
“You can tell me how you feel.”
“How I feel? I feel like the sky is eight feet over my head, a million tons and falling fast. I don’t know what you want from me, but I’m pretty sure I can’t give it to you. I tried. But I’m squeezed.”