“Bull balls?” Simon cringed. “Yeah, no good. You’re too normal. You need someone who’s different. Who catches you by surprise. Someone you wouldn’t expect. And I don’t mean finding someone who eats that shit.”
“Me, normal?” I asked, faking insult as I picked up my bag. I knew what he meant. I was plain old Emory. I worked, I worked out. I volunteered. And up until a few months ago, I was a high school parent. I was… dull. Divorced and dull. I needed some excitement, and Bob/Bill wasn’t going to cut it. But Gray just might. Just thinking about him was giving me a hot flash. I could only imagine what would happen to me if he actually touched me and not just by holding my hand. Or kissed me. Or got me beneath him.
Did I want to continue just to be normal? I wanted to feel like I had last night when I was talking with Gray. Again and again. That was not normal. The cowboy who was a personal trainer and played flag football. How not normal of a guy was that? He'd invited me to his game. He wouldn’t have done it if he hadn’t meant it. So what was stopping me? My embarrassment from last night? Fear? Nerves?
Simon gave a little wave and started to go back inside. I called to him.
“Yeah?” he asked, sticking his head out the door.
I fiddled with the strap on my bag as I considered. Screw it. Screw normal. I was going to go see Gray. “Will you go with me to Antelope Park tomorrow to watch a flag football game?”
I’d definitely confused him. He stepped back out onto his stoop. A car drove by, music blaring from the open windows. “Explain.” He gave the circular hand gesture to keep going.
I ran my toe over the worn stone tread hot beneath my feet. “There was this other guy last night. I made a complete fool of myself.” I shook my head at my own stupidity. “Not going to say what I did. You can probably imagine.”
He looked at me for a moment, his expression serious. He must have seen something different in me because he didn’t poke fun as he normally would. Thankfully, because that wasn't what I needed right now.
“Yeah, okay. I won’t ask.”
“He wants me to come watch him play tomorrow at eleven. I want to go, but I’m nervous to go by myself. He makes me nervous.”
“This is so seventh grade.” A big grin split Simon’s face. “A guy makes you nervous? I’m in. I’ll totally be your wingman.”
He winked and went inside. As I was about to do the same, I heard crying. Little kid crying. Turning around, I saw a boy of about eight or nine walking his bike down the sidewalk. He was sniffling and wiping his face with the back of his hand. He wore shorts and T-shirt, sneakers. I could see his knees were bloodied, and he’d scraped an elbow.
I dropped my bag, and as he continued down the sidewalk, about to pass by, I went down to him. “Looks like you’ve had a serious fall. Were you trying to be Evil Knievel?”
He stopped and looked up at me, all sweaty and tear stained. I stood beside him and did a quick visual assessment. Nothing looked broken, it didn’t look like he hit his head. Just a typical bike spill.
His face scrunched up in confusion. “Who’s that?”
“He was a man from when I was a kid who would jump across rows of cars on his motorcycle. I think he even jumped across the Grand Canyon once.”
The boy had black hair that curled and was damp with sweat. His eyes were dark and had a Mediterranean look about him. Italian perhaps. His eyes widened, clearly impressed, then he frowned. “Nah, I just got my wheel caught in a storm drain.”
I nodded, understanding. Those old grates were the perfect width to catch bike tires if you rode over them the wrong way. It was easy to do.
“You don’t live nearby, do you?” I asked.
He tilted his head. “A few streets over with my uncle. Why?”
“Well, I think I’d have seen you before if you did. I’m Emory.”
“Jackson. Jackson Baker.”
“Hi, Jackson. How about a few Band-Aids for the road? I know it always made my son feel better.”
“You have a son? Can he play?”
I smiled indulgently at him. Sounded like he was a little lonely. “Well, he’s not a kid anymore. He’s away at college. But I bet he’d like to meet you when he comes home. So, Band-Aids?”
“Okay.”
“Tell you what. Lean your bike against the side of the steps and have a seat. I’ll go get them and come back out.”
By the time I’d gotten the Band-Aids and a glass of water, he was sitting with his knees tucked up, but his tears had stopped.
“I thought you might be thirsty.” I handed him the water.