Ginny used to dream that she was an automaton standing in the middle of a dusty workshop. Her maker was oiling the hinges at her shoulder, frowning at the creaking noises the gears made. When the man turned the windup key on her back she felt her mechanical body respond, stiff fingers curling around a worn out ball, one leg hiking up, body twisting in one fluid motion, arm swinging in a beautiful arc.
Only it hadn't been beautiful, not in the way her maker had wanted. The ball had dropped to the floor with a dissatisfying thunk, the tension in her body unwinding until she was left hanging limp, the blank expression on her face no different than before. She wanted to tell the man that she was sorry, that watching the ball slip from her loose grasp was painful in a way she'd never experienced before. But she couldn't, and so she'd continued to stare blankly.
This is where the dream always faded into darkness; Bill Baker turning to walk back into the recesses of his shop, and Ginny left standing motionless and alone, completely unwound and ready to fall to the floor.
She had woken with a deep ache in her chest, a feeling of inadequacy coursing through her. The breath had been short in her chest, tears ready to fall. She'd clutched the comforter and squeezed her eyes shut, taking long deep breaths like her little league coach had instructed the first time she'd gone up to bat. She had been fifteen, the memory of waking in the middle of the night was still indelibly etched into her memory.
And so was the first thing she'd seen when she'd opened her eyes; a serious-faced Mike Lawson, his white Padres uniform gleaming in the moonlight on her wall. Somehow it helped, her breaths evened out, her racing heart slowing just a bit. She did love baseball, all on her own, even if her father's intensity made her sometimes feel like she didn't have a choice. The poster on her wall reminded her of evenings spent in front of the television, rooting for her favorite players, talking statistics with her dad and teammates. The poster had made her remember the good parts, and helped her not dwell on the fact that her father seemed incapable of verbalizing any kind of pride in his daughter.
She somehow doubted that Mike's single mom and absent father (yes she'd read that article in sports illustrated more than once) had heaped praise on him as a child, and he'd still made it. No, he played for love of the game, love of his teammates, love of the flashing bulbs and roaring crowds. So what if her dad couldn't say the words, she knew he felt them, and if the sound of people cheering in the stands was enough for Mike Lawson, well then it was enough for her.
At least that was what she'd thought, naively perhaps. Meeting Mike had changed a lot of things. He wasn't who she'd thought. Sure, his love of the game was real, and he had a fierce loyalty to his team, but he was sharp edges and prickly with bitterness sometimes. There was something dark lurking beneath the bawdy jokes and constant ego stroking. A pain that Ginny both identified with but also didn't feel like she had the capacity to really understand.
And when the world finally stopped spinning around the two of them, all that pain sheering away and flying off into the night, the universe coming to a quiet halt in the middle of a dark street, she found herself trying to find a way to breathe again. Only this time it wasn't a serious and focused expression on Mike's face that released the air, but an undeniable longing in his eyes, his hesitant breath hot against her lips.
It didn't seem likely she'd have the dream again any time soon.