/
Diane stops mid-sentence to accuse sharply:
"That's the eighth time you've checked the clock in the past fifteen minutes."
Her gaze snaps back to her legal pad immediately, a tad guilty. "Sorry," Alicia apologizes, offhanded.
The older woman arches one eyebrow at her, puts down an onyx fountain pen and straightens the folded cuffs of her designer suit while staring at Alicia expectantly. Attention wanes, and Alicia finds herself staring back, growing pink in the cheeks despite her seniority. It's respect that her actions lack, and she knows it. She hadn't realized her distraction was so apparent.
"Do you have plans?" Diane asks her.
Alicia nods, offers a shrug of the shoulder. "Meeting somebody at seven. I had wanted to be out of here by five thirty, honestly."
"Then go," Diane inclines her head, encouraging. "We've made a lot of headway today. We'll be ready for this trial, Alicia. We have a good shot."
She doesn't have to be told twice, really. Her folders are heavy in her hands when she stands from the conference table. Alicia clears her throat. "Thank you," she murmurs kindly.
"Go have fun," Diane teases. "Oh, and give the stud a big kiss for me, okay?"
"I will," Alicia responds over her shoulder, grinning cheekily.
Her chest feels lighter the moment she starts on her way.
/
"Oh, this will be perfect," Alicia whispers under her breath, fingers grazing the tough material.
The baseball cap hasn't been worn in a long time.
The one that's chosen is seasoned with time, the Cubs' colors and trademark faded. Once upon a time, there was a boy who gave that particular hat to a girl who had never been to a game at the stadium before. Never with her children, never with her husband.
Peter never liked baseball, really.
They'd watched a game together as lovers, in the private booth, and he'd had his hand up her thigh, between her legs, and he'd kissed her after explaining the game to her, and it had been in the summer time. It was scorching, humid, even into the evening. Their summer, with the blooming, with the romance. They'd always had the romance, and he'd courted her like no other, and it was real.
Once upon a time.
And she doesn't think of these things anymore.
Just thinks of how perfect she can get her ponytail, what shade of lipstick will look best with the hue of the spirit. Simple things. Things that don't hurt. A lot of things hurt, these days, but Alicia smiles through the pain of living this life, of living, living.
The liberal globs and globs of sunscreen are slathered on pale skin, and even on skin that's been dusted with olive, because even if the game starts at seven in the evening, the light shines until nine. Protection is important. Skin cancer is scary. Skin doesn't like the hot, scary sun.
She sings, softly, keeping an eye on the clock. "Take me out to the ballgame."
Putting tennis shoes on feet.
"Take me out with the crowd."
Tying them, doubled up.
She starts humming the tune under her breath, bouncing her knees all along. Bouncing up and down.
Throwing her head back, giggling madly.
/
The drive to Wrigley field isn't as bad as it could be. She finds herself on the optimistic side of things, all glass is half full and the evening isn't sweltering to the point of death. Bug spray is packed, and even if they don't allow outside food and drinks, that's fine. That's fine, because the over-priced fried concoctions and beverages are all a part of the experience. She wants the whole damn experience.
There's a stupid smile on her face as she's driving, see.
Will Gardner might've said she looked like Alicia Cavanaugh, like the girl she used to be. All starkly white teeth set against perfect, plumped lips. All pretty hazel eyes. Only difference is weathered with time, with miniscule signs of crow's feet and laugh lines and aging. She's half singing, half insane. "Buy me some peanuts and crack-ah-jacks. I don't care if I ev-ah-get-back."
/
Finn meets her as soon as she's pulled into a parking place at the diner, four blocks from the destination. It's the only place there's any available parking. He hugs her when she gets out of the driver's side, and Alicia turns and kisses his eight year old son on the forehead in greeting. Jacob Polmar is looking more and more like his father by the day. Finn touches her arm bare arm, and it's warm, and she's missed the feeling of skin on her skin. If she closes her eyes, it's almost-
"Hey, squirt," Finn bursts, popping open the door to the backseat.
"Root, root, root!" William greets, coughing with gleeful laughter.
The three year old launches himself at Finn.
"Hey," Alicia reprimands quickly, frowning. "What did Mommy say about waiting to unbuckle until Mommy or a grown up unbuckles you?"
Her words go unheard, and Finn's eyes widen comically, picking the child up and maneuvering him onto his shoulders. The boy climbs up with unnoticeable struggle in his agile limbs. "Alicia, he's huge."
"Yeah, he's getting bigger," she murmurs, raising up on her tip toes to fuss with the little boy's hair. Her eyes tighten. "Still small for his age, though," she notes with a slightly darker tone, all under her breath, slinging her purse onto her shoulder more securely. "But very independent."
"Since the last time I saw him he's grown like a weed. Haven't ya, kiddo?"
Finn hoists the little boy up onto his shoulders more, and they set off walking together, as a group.
"He's the one who was little when he was born, right?" Jacob inquires, tone treading as if the subject might bother his dad's girlfriend. It doesn't, actually. Alicia touches the eight year old's shoulder and offers a fond, reassuring smile. She nods in response to his previous question. Four pounds, actually.
He didn't even cry when he was born.
"Root, root, root!" William sing songs again, grabbing two fistfuls of Finn's hair as tethers for balancing. Finn winces, but booms with laughter as well.
"For the home team," Finn continues on, all animated. "If they don't win, it's a crying shame."
The tattered Cubs hat slides down on William's sandy hair, covering his eyes. He pushes it back up sloppily. "Unca Finn? Unca Finn, we going to watch the game?"
"We are," Finn confirms to her son, and in the distance, Alicia can already make out the entrance, the lines. She's glad they got the tickets a week ago, glad there won't be any waiting. William is impatient, even for a three year old. It's in his nature, to be just as impatient as she is.
As he was.
/
William wants down the moment they get into the concession area, green eyes alight with the plethora of colors, sounds, with the smells. They decide on popcorn, since William can't have peanuts and doesn't have much of a sweet tooth for cotton candy. Extra butter.
"Hold Jacob's hand," Alicia orders him, and he follows her instruction with a slight grimace across his petite features. She worries, for how crowded the area is. She always worries.
"How are you holding up?" Finn leans in to whisper in her ear, his hand clasping at her waist. She leans in to him, inhaling his comforting, nowadays familiar scent. Cinnamon and spice of aftershave. Once, long ago, there was mint, but since nights spent inhaling a pillow that only carries her own shampoo and body wash, she can't even stand the after taste of certain brands of toothpaste. It's too much to have a phony of something unsuccessfully copyrighted. Sequel is never better than the original, and all that jazz. But Finn is the exception.
He's not a sequel, not a consolation prize.
He's bedrock.
"Alicia?" he goes, and she realizes he's expecting her to say something.
"The usual," she tells him, dark eyebrows curving inward in concentration. She studies his lips, flits her gaze down to William, his focus solely for a man lugging around a trove of Cub merchandise. "I'm sorry I get like this."
She motions to herself, to the way her eyes are glassy, red.
She's gotten better, she wants to say. But he already knows, so she keeps quiet. The first time she came to watch a game, the first time after- she'd been five months pregnant. It had been on a nostalgic, depression induced whim that she'd bought that first ticket. The baby had kicked and kicked, and although she'd never admit it to anyone, maybe not even to herself- there had been a small fragment of her that hadn't wanted to go on, sitting in the stadium's uncomfortable general seating. Three innings in, seven innings in. Feet swollen, alone. Pregnant and alone and sad.
There had been a part of her that hadn't wanted to keep going.
But she had.
She had, and so ten months later, toting along an infant, tiny in his carrier, she'd come to another game.
And then another, nearly a year ago, to the day.
He's getting older, her baby. He's starting to show interest in the sport.
Hell, he's starting to like hitting the balls she throws to him when they have a rare moment on a Saturday, at the cleanest park she can find. He cherishes his plastic, cherry bat that Zach got him for his third birthday.
And that makes it hurt more. She hadn't imagined it could hurt more, but watching him, even now, watching him toddle around and watch with eyes so attentive, taking in the people around him, it's just-
It's just, with the cap, and the look, and his hair, and his mouth, and his little expressions. With the interest, and his laugh, and his everything-
It's a lot.
It's an awful lot for her heart to bare, is all.
So she clutches at Finn's hand, around her waist. Twines her fingers in his, takes a deep, stinging breath of fresh, summer air. Alicia spots the entrance to the private boxes. Will climbed those stairs with her, fingers in her hair, tongue in her mouth. Will was here, here, here.
She looks back at her son.
It's a lot to take, getting her heart shredded on a daily basis. Sometimes all she has to do is look at her son, and it hurts like it just happened yesterday.
"Don't ever apologize," Finn responds, in the shell of her ear. He kisses the side of her neck softly, tugs her tighter into his side. The line moves forward, and William begins to jump up and down from the excitement, from just being. "It's understandable," Finn murmurs.
Finn's always understood.
/
"I want a hat like that," Jacob tells the younger boy, eyeing the frayed bill. William puffs out his chest, takes his thumb out of his mouth. They shuffle into their seats just in time for the national anthem to begin.
"This Daddy's," William mentions bluntly, eyes glimmering, some sense of pride. "Can I have popcorn?"
/
Finn explains the game to William, hand cupped over the little boy's ear, pointing and nodding when William comprehends, asks questions. It's the first time her son has ever comprehended, Alicia thinks. She wonders if it would have happened sooner. In another life, maybe her son would have been dragged to baseball games as often as humanly possible. Basketball games, too.
Finn will have to take William to his first basketball game, next season.
Alicia watches the scene, sweats profusely by the July humidity.
She bites her nails to the quick within the first hour.
She can't help it.
She really can't.
She watches Finn, watches Finn with William, and it just-
It feels like cheating. It feels inexplicably wrong.
/
The game is positively rapturous, once William understands even a semblance of what's going on in the field. Maybe he doesn't follow as long as strictly, but he understands why foul balls aren't good. Jacob picks up a foul that went into the crowd, has the caring quality to him to immediately offer it to the three year old. William gives it back.
"Finders keepers," William grins endearingly, half toothless. He pats Jacob's back, a stunningly adorable move for such a young child. "That's your ball, Jacob. I find my own."
/
The only miniature meltdown that occurs the whole night happens because of one fuzzy, stink bear. "He was crushing me," William whines, swiping his small fingers against the wet hair slapped against his forehead. "I wanted him to let go."
"We don't kick, William Finn Gardner," Alicia replies sternly, eyes deadly serious. Finn hums in agreement under his breath, equally as astounded at the situation. William had practically taken down the overbearing mascot. "Violence is never the answer. We use our words."
William pouts, but eventually, eventually he mumbles, "Sorry, Momma."
"We stay?" he begs softly, batting his long eyelashes imploringly. "Please, Momma? I be good."
Of course they were staying.
Alicia sighs deeply.
/
It's nearing nine thirty when the little boy's eyes begin to droop, but they only stay that way for a minute or so. Every time he nearly falls asleep, he starts awake again. He wants to know he wins. He wants to see the end. The end is the most important part, you know.
The night has cooled some. The lights are still bright, but William is curled into her lap now, his head of hair free from the hat- his hands clenched into her blouse. Alicia asks him, very gently, "Are you sure you want to stay, baby?"
He starts awake again, frustrated with himself. "M' fine, Momma. M' fine."
Alicia looks at her son for a moment, overtaken by a sudden wave of unconditional love.
She's getting more emotional as she's getting older.
"I love you, sweetie," she tells him, slopping a kiss on his cheek for good measure. William groans a little, giggling under his breath.
"No cooties, Momma."
"Hmm?" she goes, expecting something like-
"Love you too," William finally says, almost rolling his eyes for all the sass. Alicia pokes her son in his rounded, soft stomach. She sticks her tongue out at him for the attitude.
/
The Cubs win.
William passes out on Finn's shoulder just as the fireworks end.
He's carried back to the car, tucked into his booster seat quietly.
Alicia kisses her son's forehead, waving goodbye to Jacob as he walks on ahead of his father.
Finn turns to her. Kisses her on the mouth chastely. Like a habit. "It'll keep getting better," he informs her, as if he has any idea what he's talking about. Alicia tries to smile back, but finds she can't force the emotion from her overwrought body. Finn understands it, see. He understands it, but he doesn't get it.
/
As she's driving passed the stadium, eyes bleary, William asleep in the backseat, she closes her eyes for a sliver of a second. The date has significance. Today is significant, and not just because she's taken her son to a baseball game. There's a light, and she stops completely when it turns yellow. The red is droning, but she just sits, and she can't help it. She's can't help it at all, really. The red is imperial.
Red is the color of blood. His blood. His blood all over her hands, and the blood forged from a joining, his life and her life creating something breathing and being, tucked away and asleep a few feet away from her, and Alicia opens her eyes.
The light turns green.
"Happy Birthday, Will," she whispers.
She drives.