“Of course, I am. Aunt Becky needs you. And she’s got doctor friends if you need anything.” Chloe rolls her bottom lip between her teeth. “Please make sure you pack all your medicine and don’t forget to take it,” she adds in a softer voice.
Casey reaches across the table and squeezes his daughter’s hand. “A little giant cell arteritis isn’t going to beat me, don’t you worry.”
Giant cell arteritis, I repeat to myself. I’ll ask Siri about it on the way home. Chloe darts a glimpse at me to see if I caught those three little words before resting affection back on her dad and saying, “Okay.”
“Finn,” Casey says. “I appreciate your offer and will accept this once.”
“You got it.” I make a call and secure a red-eye flight per Casey’s request. He sleeps like a baby on planes, he says. He’s had enough practice, that’s for sure.
“Did you know Chloe won a few softball awards in her day?” Casey asks me.
“No, I did not.”
“Dad.”
“Plug your ears, sweet pea, it’s about to get embarrassing.” Fatherly pride is written all over his face while Chloe’s cheeks turn pink. “Or better yet, I’ll show you. Come on.”
“Noooo,” Chloe pleads. “This really isn’t necessary. Finn does not want to see pictures of me in my softball uniforms.”
“Sure, I do.”
The three of us move into the family room. While talking with her dad earlier, I’d enjoyed looking at the framed school pictures of Chloe at different ages on the mantel. Sitting on the couch now, I notice a photo standing in what looks a place of honor on a side table. It’s of Chloe with both her parents. She looks a lot like her mom.
Casey lifts up the top of the coffee table slash storage unit and produces a photo album.
“Just remember, Dad, payback’s a bitch.” Chloe plops down on the love seat adjacent to the sofa with her arms crossed and the corners of her mouth pulled down.
I don’t feel a bit sorry for her. Her dad loves her and wants to brag. He runs his palm over the front of the book, nostalgia, I think, directing his actions today. I’m guessing he doesn’t bust out the album on the regular.
He turns to the first page. “Chloe only played until she was thirteen. After that she was on the road with me so it made team sports impossible.” He goes through the pages, telling stories with pride and adoration while Chloe slowly softens at his words. Soon she’s sitting on the other side of him and the three of us are laughing and joking around—at her serious face, her pigtails, her refusal to tuck her shirt in. I share stories about my youth, too. I wasn’t always the superstar I am now.
Actually, I was, but you get the idea. Sitting on this worn, comfortable couch after a fantastic meal shared with friends feels blissfully normal. While I always excelled on the field, off was a different story, so talking like this is gratifying.
“Okay, who wants cake and pie?” Chloe asks when we’re finished. She places the album back in its hiding spot and then zeroes in on me with eyebrows raised in challenge.
I accept and eat both, complimenting the chef on her baking skills. Afterward, I help clean up and when it comes time to leave, I offer to drive Casey to the airport. Chloe takes the ride with us. She doesn’t say as much, but I sense she’s sad about her dad leaving with no set return date.
On the drive back to her house we rehash the day, constantly stealing glances at each other as we talk. Chloe’s on her phone, too, reporting on the success of the photo she posted of me, Sammy, Josh, and Jesse. She types in my response to comments, and informs me I’ve received several proposals as well as baby daddy requests, whatever that means. I can’t help but smile when she grumbles about the number of women hitting on me. Could it be my social media manager is jealous? If our roles were reversed, you can bet I would be.
“You know, you and I have yet to take a picture together,” I say, turning down her street.
“That’s because you’re my client. It wouldn’t really be appropriate.”
“What about onyourInstagram? We’re friends, too, right?”
She turns her head to look straight at me. Her expression is hard to interpret. There’s agreement in it, for sure, but there’s also some mistrust or hesitancy, I think. She blinks—slowly—and when we reconnect I get the feeling whatever is going on inside her head is complicated.
“We are,” she finally says, but I swear I hear more in her tone.We are more than that.
I park the car then hurry around to open her door. Her foot slips on the curb and I catch her, her nails taking purchase on the front of my shirt. For a beat we stay like that, the streetlight throwing shadows and casting a glow around us at the same time.
I take her hand on the walk to her front door. She wraps her fingers in mine with easy acceptance.You’re right, Webster. We’re more than friends.
“Thanks for today,” I say, hoping she’ll invite me in. I don’t want to say good night. Not unless it’s in her bed after I’ve touched every inch of her with my hands and mouth and we’re skin to skin and so exhausted we can’t keep our eyes open a minute longer.
She puts the key in the lock, looks over her shoulder at me.
And time freezes.