Chapter 17

"Shotgun!" Garrett shoots for Edward's truck.

"Not this time, buddy." Edward holds the front seat forward, and Garrett scrambles into the back of the cab.

Garrett settled, working on his seat belt, the seat back into position, I set a foot on the side step to hoist myself up. Edward places his hand on my back. His touch is barely there, but pressure curves around my sides, reaches my stomach, and builds. I pause, unnerved, and turn to look at him. He pulls away. I climb in, shut the door. My face feels heated. I bring my palms to my cheeks.

In the driver's seat, he jams his key in place. It takes a couple of tries before the truck coughs awake. Without turning his head, he glances at me out of the corners of his eyes. "Magic number two." He pulls onto the street.

"You didn't put on your seat belt," Garrett says.

Edward and I cross our shoulder belts over our bodies and clasp them into adjacent buckles. We exchange similar small smiles. His eyes flash back to the road. The air in the cab is tangled up and sticky.

Driving with Liam, he'd put his hand on my leg or on my shoulder, like these were places his hand belonged. I hardly noticed back then.

Now I notice the absence of Edward's hand on me, notice how he grips the steering wheel. We aren't touching but I feel his mass, feel particles of his energy sparking off him toward me. It's like my skin is reaching out for him. I look straight out the windshield, and still I sense his minute movements, the tightening of his knuckles, the flex in his forearm. He cracks our windows and I breathe.

"Liam drove a truck, too."

"Who? From school?"

"No, my—an ex."

"He had a Toyota?"

"No." I bite down on my tongue. I want out of this corner I've twisted myself into.

"He on your mind?" A thumb drums against the steering wheel. I feel him look toward me.

"Not really." Lately more than usual, I think. "I guess being in your truck reminded me."

Edward lets it go and talks to Garrett about the upcoming game. Finally, the inside of the cab untangles as though it, too, is breathing.

At Edward's house, Garrett sprints off to change into his uniform, but I'm reluctant to step inside. Edward turns with the door wide open, waiting, and it occurs to me that my refusing to come in will provoke questions.

Two baseball equipment bags, one taller and bulkier than the other, lean against the entryway wall. I try not to look around, but my eyes have to land somewhere. They choose the armoire, the open doors revealing a TV. An Xbox is hooked up to it, a controller resting on the floor.

Edward dashes to the fridge for water. I take a moment to peek out the glass door at the potted-plant garden. I remember myself standing on that patio, on brickwork that Edward had designed and grouted—not perfect enough for Gianna. I'd pulled herbs from their bodies, chatted comfortably with Edward, found myself falling for him while I shouldn't have been.

I drop my eyes from the yard and spot fingerprints on the glass. I touch one. The fingerprint takes up more space than my finger. It's Edward's, I decide.

I lift my hand away. I'm here for Garrett, not Edward. But if it hadn't been Edward who coached, if it had been someone else, like Jake, would I have asked to come to a game? I'd like to think so, but one glance at Edward and the fact that I have to look away before he catches me, I'm not so sure. And what does that make me?

"I'll wait in the truck."

"Not taking the truck." Edward disappears into the garage and returns with three skateboards.

"You're skating there?"

"We are. Too close to drive."

"I'll stick to the feet-on-ground mode of transportation."

"You sure?" He looks at me and I'm not sure of anything. I try to stop my smile, my lips pursing, and Edward lets his go. A smile that convinces.

"Come on. You can do it."

"I didn't say I couldn't do it."

He sets the three skateboards out on his front porch and throws the bag over his shoulder. Garrett joins us, all ready to go in his Dodgers jersey.

"Now I get the hat. Dodgers."

"Of all the teams." Edward exchanges his hat for a helmet.

"Safety's good."

"If I don't wear mine, he won't wear his. But I don't have an extra one. You're not planning any double kickflips, are you? Gonna grind a rail?"

"I might." It's not convincing even as a joke. He knows I have no idea what he's talking about.

Garrett crams his helmet on and fumbles with the chin clasp, fingers hindered by his wrist guards. He looks different in a helmet, older. The helmet makes him look older while it makes Edward look younger.

His hand low, down by his hip, Edward gives Garrett a thumbs up.

"Let's do this." Edward steps on the end of his board and flips it up. He grabs it in one hand and then, as if the baseball bag across his back weighs nothing, leaps off the porch. By the time he hits the ground, his board is beneath his feet.

Garrett clomps down the steps before he jumps on his board, his back foot working hard as he races after Edward.

I carry my borrowed board down to the end of the driveway and reach deep for my twelve-year-old self. I push off and roll. My leg is stiff to keep me from going too fast. I must look like a big, ridiculous kid. I don't let myself care, not when Edward stops to wait for me, not when Garrett laughs.

Edward gestures to my board. "Keep your feet over the trucks and your knees bent."

I assume that "trucks" means wheels, and I widen my stance and bend my knees. I am more stable, but I feel foolish, like I'm sticking my butt out. I straighten up a little.

"Here." Garrett offers his hand. "I'll pull you."

"I got it." The thought of someone else in control of my speed and direction scares me. I chug along, unwilling to give up on myself even when I lose my balance and have to jump off or face falling.

I insist that Edward and Garrett skate ahead of me. It's when they're out there in front, the tall guy next to the little guy, cruising, that I pull one of those things where I'm convinced I might be asleep. This could very well be a dream.

Faced with a few hills, I carry my board to the bottom. Then push by push, like a rusted old engine picking up steam, I skate faster and steadier until I actually feel as though the board and my feet are connected, the wheels are mine, the motion as natural as the breeze in my face. I glide, then fly. The wind makes wings of my hair.

.

We lean our skateboards up against the dugout fence and I smooth what I can of my hair. I wouldn't mind a helmet to hide underneath. Edward unlocks a nearby shed, which looks more like a quaint cottage the way it's built, greenery planted all around it. I half expect a little person who lives inside to come out and sweep the mini porch. Edward lumbers out with a big, heavy bag of equipment and hauls it into the dugout. The kids and a couple of assistant coaches—dads, I assume—begin to arrive. Little hands hang bats between the chain links and get smooshed into mitts. It's like these boys have all done this a thousand times.

Edward exits the dugout and walks toward me. His face seems to beam. He hands me a bottled water. "Thanks for coming." He slips his fingers through a chain link and grips. He leans in toward me. "Garrett's never had anyone watching him in the stands before. He says he's gonna hit a homerun."

"I hope he does."

"Hey." He puts his arm across my back, his hand on my shoulder, and turns me toward the bleachers. His touch, again, throws me and grows through me, reaching places it isn't meant to. I swallow and focus on his voice, too close to my ear. "Garrett plays first base. Middle row and to the left is the best place to see him. The stands fill up fast with all the families." He lets go of my shoulder, slides his hand to my back and remains there for a second or two before he walks away. I stay where I am and watch him take the field.

The team forms a huddle, Edward bent way over. They yell a muddled cheer that I assume is meant to be, "Go Dodgers!" and separate to warm up.

I'm so concentrated on Edward, it takes some time before I notice all the other eyes following him around—some sneaky glances, some outright staring. The woman bouncing a baby in her arms. The woman with the tattoo sleeve of big lilies. The woman with burgundy hair. It's just like high school, except these women ogle quietly, no giggles, no blatant flirting, just looking. Enjoying, I think. Like me. Enjoying the way his biceps flex when he throws the ball, the way his backside moves as he jogs to the outfield, one arm bent, glove tucked to his shoulder. His eyes remain intense and focused on the boys, except for the second he looks over at me, waves, and points to the bleachers, reminding me to sit down.

I hold on to the chainlink fence in the place Edward had and feel a sort of satisfaction: the other women may be looking, but he belongs to me. Not that he's mine exactly because, of course, I'm well aware he isn't, but that I came with him. He brought me here. It's a little thing, but still something more than these other women have.

In school, it used to be that I would look at Edward from a distance, all too aware that not only was I not with him, but he had no idea where I was at the moment. I wasn't close to the perimeter of his mind.

The team works their way back to the dugout. As he walks, Edward throws the ball up, catches it in his glove. Garrett, behind him, half his size, does the same. Throws his ball up, catches it. Edward repeats the action. Garrett follows. I remember what Edward said about the helmets. Garrett does whatever Edward does.

.

The game starts and I weave through the crowded bleachers to a spot just big enough for one, almost in the center.

Three boys take the plate before Garrett's turn. He doesn't look over at me when he moves from the little circle where he'd been practicing his swings to the batter's box. Not that I expected him to look for me, but it crossed my mind that he might. He stands, knees and elbows bent, bat up, thick hair peeking out from under his helmet. He swings and misses three pitches in a row, hefty swings each time that knock him back when he misses. His shoulders slump after the last swing, the tip of his bat dropping to the ground as if it were a crutch holding him up. It's the last out of the inning.

"That's okay," Edward says with a couple of claps. "You went out swinging. But you don't have to kill it, bud. Base hits. Base hits."

Garrett mopes, head bowed, back to the dugout until Coach Edward claps his hands together louder and says, "Hustle!" Garrett picks up his pace.

And now it's a waiting game. Waiting for Garrett to get his next chance to bat.

Edward can be about six people at once. He checks out the Rangers' batter. He tells the first baseman, then the third baseman to move in. Down by his leg, hidden from the rest of the players, he gives some finger signs—one finger, two fingers, one again—to the catcher, who nods, then Edward aims his head back at the outfielders and tells them to move over to the right. "Good job," he tells his kids. "You got this." He does all of this while seated on an upside down bucket at the entrance to the dugout, and as calmly as if he's whispering a conversation to someone close by. All this before I take two breaths.

"You think those kids understand those signs he gives 'em?" Some man behind me asks. "They're too young."

They understand, I think. Edward would make sure of it.

A woman says, "I don't know, but he's a good coach, Dad. Watch."

"He favors his kid," the man says. "This ain't Daddy Ball."

I look back at this hunched over, gray mustached man, and say, "He's not Garrett's dad. He does this because he loves the sport."

He looks at me like he's more surprised by my words than I am. He couldn't be.

Two more innings pass before Garrett takes the plate again. The day dies away. Field lamps as bright as the sun come alive. Garrett swings and misses, then lets the next ball go. The umpire calls it a strike and I sit up higher. Please don't let him strike out again, I say in my head, as if I have some control, and I feel like I do. It's a wonder how powerful your hopes feel simply as a spectator. Coaches must feel that much more powerful. Or perhaps they know better. Perhaps they have enough experience to be well aware it's all in the hands of the kids.

The next ball pitched is high above Garrett's head. The one after that comes through fast and straight. Garrett swings and knocks the ball straight and far into left field. He books it to first, rounds to second. There's an overthrow at second and everybody—everybody—shouts, "Run!"

Garrett makes it to third. No outs. He should make it home before the inning is over. And as I sit here, tense all over, my hands clasped together like I'm praying, that's all I want, for Garrett to make it home, and I won't look away until he does. I won't blink. I just met him today and I feel this, and I think, How can his parents not want to experience this?

Then I'm not thinking anything because here he comes. An overthrow at the plate. Garrett steals home. I'm on my feet. We all cheer on this side of the bleachers. Some people are saying, "Slide, slide!" But he doesn't. He runs right through. The catcher tags him too late.

Edward says, "Yeah!" deep and loud, and he double-claps heavy. It's a man's yell above the kids' "Whoops!"

The Rangers' coach takes off his hat, and with a grunt, hits his own thigh with it, and I want to say, "Nice sportsmanship." But I just zip over to the dugout and wait for Garrett.

"Great hit," I say.

"Thanks," he says, dimples accentuated.

"You made it home." As if he didn't know.

"Yeah." He takes off his helmet.

Then what? "Congratulations." I guess. He laughs and so do a few boys around him. Their grins are cemented to their faces. Their cheeks must surely ache.

.

After the game, Edward buys some hotdogs and Cokes at the snackbar and we find a nearby table. Garrett scarfs his down. Edward attempts to slow him. "You'll choke." It doesn't help. It's near nine o'clock. The kid must be starving.

Edward and Garrett gear-up in their helmets and padding, and we all skate to the other end of the sports park. The halfpipe is not crazy-steep, but it's nothing I'll try. The area beside it with its course of little mounds and dips and what reminds me of a bigger version of the chutes I used to roll marbles through is also too intimidating for me. Garrett sweeps down one side of the halfpipe, up the other, and back again.

"He seems too little for that."

Edward tells me not to worry and offers to skate the path with me. We take off, side by side.

"You should try it." Edward aims a thumb back at the halfpipe. "It's not as scary as it looks. You can borrow my helmet." There's no pressure in his tone. He knows I won't budge.

"If you ever feel like it, I can teach you."

"Maybe ten years ago."

"You never asked. You should've asked."

Out of left field, or maybe not, I want to swat him. It's like past the expiration date flirting.

"It's good to break away for a while, isn't it?" he asks. "To come to a place like this and be a kid again? Out here, I forget I'm supposed to be an adult. And on the basketball court, too. Sometimes we gotta—you know—forget responsibility and play."

"Throw caution to the wind."

"You get it."

We've made it around back to the half-pipe. Edward gives me a salute and flies down the slope and up the other side. I try to picture Gianna doing this with him, or simply sitting as a spectator, and there's no way. The thought is enough to get me moving. I step on my board and follow the margins of the skatepark again.

I'm here on the outside and Edward's on the inside, and it's too familiar. What I've been doing here is just what he said: playing. I'm a kid. Tonight is a game. I thought I might have been dreaming earlier and I let that dream suck me in, manipulate me into some other shape. I can't believe that for a while, if only abstractly, I saw Edward as mine. A lump swells in my throat. My chest is hardening clay, heavy and solid.

I skate back to the halfpipe and wait for Edward to make his way back to this side. "I want to go." I purposely say it that way, not that I should go or have to go, but that it's what I want.

He nods once, calls Garrett over, and they fling their bags over their shoulders. I walk, carrying the board. Edward does the same while Garrett skates ahead.

"Some game to come to," Edward says. "You see his line drive?" He whistles. "Garrett's getting there. He's got it."

Edward's chatter fills my silence. I walk along and nod when necessary.

"You had fun, didn't you?" he asks.

"I had fun." I stop where I am and adjust the board to my other arm. "I had a lot of fun and that's the problem. You're– It's not the same as you going out and having fun with the guys." I'm not one of his guys, and I don't want to be.

His face stiffens. "You wanted to come." It sounds like an accusation. "For Garrett, right? You asked him."

"I guess I should've asked you."

"No, it's... you had fun. I had fun. Garrett had the time of his life. Can't it just be that?"

I wish it could. But I've fallen too far. I'm winded. My inhale shakes. "We're just friends, I know, but I'm a woman. An other woman."

Edward laughs. It's not a happy sound and it calls to mind how touchy he was in his kitchen that first time I visited. Again, I've splattered him with the mud I fling at my own guilt.

"Other woman?" He turns his head away from me. "As of Monday night, Bella, you're the only woman. Well, you and my mom."

My chest melts from my body. Airless. My head throbs. My eyes feel too dry and I blink to wet them. You're the only woman. The words circle me. Circle me until they jumble and I'm no longer sure of what I've heard. "What?"

"Gi left."

"Left?"

"She left me. Walked out. I slammed the door behind her." He powers his hand forward, an imitation of how he must have slammed the door. He takes a step like when he threw the ball during warm ups. That must have been some slam, built up history behind it.

"Edward..."

He shrugs, as if to dislodge my sympathy. "It's not like I didn't see it coming."

"What happened?"

He starts walking and I follow. "She was cleaning. You know, cleaning a floor that was already clean? Somehow I'd shit all over it by walking on it with shoes. And I started bringing my stuff in from the garage. Hung that Warhol print back in the bedroom where it used to be. Told her we could both fix up the house. Man, you should have seen her eyes when I started hammering a nail into the wall without making sure it was centered first. I told her I wanted that damn French thing out of the living room."

I think back but can't remember if the French tapestry still hung above the couch. I'd avoided looking around as much as I could. "So she left?"

"She said she'd had enough of being married to a kid. Someone so content with their mediocrity." He stamps out the word and I can taste his bitterness.

We've stopped walking again.

"I could've changed. But I... didn't want to."

You shouldn't have to, I think, but what I say is, "Why didn't you tell me?" I cringe. He doesn't owe me an explanation, or his confidence.

"Garrett's probably at the house already," he says, and I assume he's going to ignore my question. Board still tucked under one arm, he yanks off his helmet and wipes his forehead with his wrist. His hair is wet with sweat.

"I haven't told anyone yet." His cheeks are red—exertion or emotion. I focus on the hard lines of his jaw as he fumbles for words. "I–I mean, we all knew it was coming. You knew it, right? We've been done for a while. Both of us out. But I failed. Everyone expected it when I got married at twenty-one, and I proved them right. Marriage over. And my business is hanging on by a thread. Gonna prove them right there, too. Fuck. Just saying it…" He shakes his head and looks down at me. Are his eyes watering?

He watches my hand as I settle it on his forearm. His skin is warm, damp.

"I don't know what to say. I'm so sorry."

"No. It's right." He slides his arm through the circle of my hand, my palm grazing his skin and fine hairs, until he reaches my fingers and grips, tighter than I think he means to. "It is."

"I can't believe you didn't let on. You seemed the same all week. Today in the garden. Tonight, the game, skating at the park, you were the same." I search his eyes and recognize the heaviness in them. I'd mistaken this weight on his eyelids and the faint circles under his eyes for fatigue.

"That's why I don't talk about it. It's better that way. Out of mind."

How can he do that? Keep things out of his mind like that? "Maybe it isn't."

I remember how intense his eyes were earlier, under the sun, the grass behind him. But here, far away from the next streetlight, they appear dark, almost black. The night can't really be as still as it seems. Not one car passes.

He nods and drops my hand.

"There's more, isn't there? More than a couple of pictures that made her leave?" That made him slam the door with such force he put a step into it.

"A hell of a lot more."

The way he emphasizes "hell" coupled with the way his eyes drill into mine make me think the pictures were the best of it.

We continue the rest of the short walk to his house. Edward doesn't combat my silence this time, but joins it.

We find Garrett waiting in the driveway. "Slowpokes," he says.

The two of them talk about how great the game was and the problems the team will work on at their next practice. Edward reminds Garrett to thank me for coming, and the kid takes it upon himself to shake my hand.

"See ya." He jumps back on his board and scoots off.

"He's five houses down." Edward's feet stay planted on the sidewalk, his eyes on Garrett's back.

Garrett has only skated past two houses when he steps off his board. He looks over his shoulder at Edward, then nods to himself and squares his shoulders. He steps on the end of the skateboard. It flips up, faster than he seems to expect, because he scrambles out of the way. The board lands upside down, the wheels spinning. I can hear them from here.

"Too hard," Edward calls to him. "Don't stomp on it. Just press it down."

Garrett turns his board rightway up and tries again. Beside me, Edward chuckles. He folds his arms across his chest and watches Garrett intently. After about six attempts, the kid is no closer to landing on his board.

"All right, man. Get home. It's late."

Garrett throws his head back. He scoops up his board and cuts straight across the manicured lawns to get to his front door.

Edward sighs, but he's grinning. "Better get you home, too."

Those few minutes watching Garrett were all it took for Edward to relax into normal, and I try to as well. Relax into normal. I try relaxing into normal the whole ride home, Edward beside me, his vitals pulsing and twisting with mine, and no matter how I try to spin it, it's all anything but normal.

Parked in front of my house, we sit in silence that begins to stifle. The windows are down but the night remains still. I wish we were driving just so the air would move. Engine exhaust joins us in the cab. Not even Edward is relaxed anymore. Both of us, perhaps, wait for the other to speak. Neither of us takes the reins. I clear my throat. In our quiet, earlier words echo, all that Edward has been through in the last few days. His marriage over. Gianna, gone.

Gianna... gone.

Common sense—human sense—tells me it's my turn to take the reins. I could lift my hand and rest it over his lying there on his thigh. A gesture to let him know that I care about what he's going through, that I care about him. Maybe now that would be okay. But maybe not. Some lines are fragile to cross. They could break if traipsed over too soon and leave you tumbling. I imagine him snapping away from my touch so fast it would send me into a spin. I don't want to be spun away from Edward.

I've waited too long, I suppose. He opens his door, so I open mine. As if we're coming home from a date, he walks me to my door. But there is no hand on my back, no brush of skin, and there will be no anticipation of a kiss, no embrace. I turn to look at him. He meets my gaze. His eyes are tired but strong at the same time, pensive but not sad. Thinking. I struggle with my screen, and, weak-voiced, he reminds me to fix it.

"I will."

On my step he watches me swing it closed. "Night."

"Goodnight."