I sit in my truck at the baseball field, working my history book for answers, finding it hard to concentrate for the view through my windshield. Boys are running drills, slapping balls, catching grounders at the beckoning of one man.
Edward Cullen directs them, clapping once, twice and pointing. He blows his whistle to redirect and change it up.
I would slap balls for him.
I can't study with him there in his khakis and sky-blue button up Oxford, the sleeves rolled expertly to his elbows. He doesn't change clothes like high school boys do. He wants dust to fly on his shoes and shirt. I itch to hear his voice speak to me like before. Whispers and secret declarations. Innocent things.
Lotus Flower rotates on my iPod. I refuse that song, yanking the ear buds out and slugging everything to the opposite side of the cab. History isn't inspiring or thirsty. I exit, keeping my keys inside my pocket. I follow the fence. My fingertips hit the gaps as I step along, an animal trapped on the outside wanting in. I want to consume words and skin. Him. Dangerous obsession, I have.
I sit on the bleachers behind homeplate. No one seems to notice me, or they don't care. And I don't care that they don't care. I have no interest in holding poor boys' attentions or intentions. Edward's arms cross in front of him as he observes. Always observing, never part of. Does he even know how to play baseball? He doesn't seem the athletic type. Or is he a pseudo nerd?
He turns, catching sight of me. First time or not, he waves at my presence with two fingers. A smirk holds his mouth. I nod back, copying him.
Lotus Flower.