Could this be real? Could it be mine? Could I for once be lucky and have something good that doesn’t turn to ash and blow away?
Tonight, amidst the excitement of the crowd, with the smell of popcorn and the sound of whistles blowing and cowbells making people deaf, the idea of this new life feels both magical and very, very real.
“Follow me,” Tank says, and I walk behind him, letting him cut a path through the throng.
Even as he keeps a steady pace, he also acknowledges the people who speak to him, giving out fist bumps, high fives, and waves with the arm not holding Jo. I can see his smile even from behind in the lift of his cheeks. He’s a man who doesn’t seem to have a public smile and a real smile. Everyone gets to experience the real one, and it’s glorious. I want to slap people away, to stick a flag in him—in Pat’s whole family, really—and declare them mine, not public property. Tank is a good man. And, as they say, the apples haven’t fallen far from the tree.
“Lindybird!”
Pat’s voice barely reaches me, but I am acutely attuned to the sound. I spin to see him, sprinting from the sideline. It may not be football pants, but Pat is wearing the HECK out of khakis and a blue polo with a matching Sheet Cake baseball cap.
“I’ve got Jo,” Tank says, giving me a wink. “Go on.”
He doesn’t need to tell me twice. I’m already moving toward Pat, to the chain-link fence at the railing separating the raised bleachers from the field. The metal feels cold as I clutch it, waiting for my husband.
Like he’s some kind of Marvel character, Pat leaps and grabs the metal bar, hoisting himself up so his grinning face is right in mine. I grin right back.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hi.”
A chorus of cheers and wolf whistles erupts behind us. There is no shortage of cowbells clanging either, but I refuse to let more cowbell ruin this moment.
It’s like I’ve been dropped right into the middle of a teen movie. Except usually it’s the captain of the football team, finally confessing his feelings for the nerdy girl who instantly turned hot after removing her glasses. I’m not sure what roles Pat and I are playing right now, or if they’re roles at all. But my heart is thudding in my chest like it’s trying to break free.
“You came,” Pat says.
“You asked.”
His smile takes on a wicked tilt and his voice lowers. “In that case, what else can I ask for?”
“Don’t press your luck, Coach.”
The truth? Right now, Pat could ask for ANYTHING. Maybe it’s the noise of the crowd and the collective excitement. Or it could just be the culmination of living with Pat for two weeks and trying to keep the feral cat at bay. Ultimately, it doesn’t matter why. I’m a woman on the cusp.
The cusp of what? I’m not sure. All I know is in this moment, I’m as cuspy as cusp can get, the Queen of Cusptonia.
“Actually, now that you mention it … how about a kiss for luck?” Pat taps his cheek, clean-shaven for the game. It’s a good look on him, and I can’t help but wonder how his skin would feel under my fingertips. Or my lips.
I’m momentarily distracted by the way Pat can keep himself hanging on this fence with just one arm. And how the muscles in that arm bunch and flex, straining against the sleeves of his blue polo. When I drag my eyes back up to Pat’s face, his expression has dropped a little. Clearly, he misread my pause as hesitation and didn’t realize it was because his biceps pulled me into their orbit.
“If you don’t feel comfortable—” he starts to say.
“Stop talking.”
And with that, I turn Pat’s baseball cap backwards, grab his face in my hands, and proceed to make sure he can’t say another word.