“Eggs, pancakes, waffles,” she says. “And syrup on everything.”
Pay. Attention. “You even put syrup on your eggs?”
“Don’t yuck my yum.”
“I wasn’t yucking.” I pretend to write something in her notebook, and she laughs again, turning me inside out. “I was taking notes.”
“Ahhh. Underline and highlight that.”
“Unfortunately, you haven’t had the best syrup. You’d have to go to Canada for that.”
“Are you . . . ?”
She was going to say Are you inviting me? I know it in my bones.
When she lets herself relax with me, even for a minute, she forgets not to flirt. I live for those fleeting moments. If I still sent a Christmas list to Santa every year, it would say a lifetime of flirting with Britta. I’m convinced it’s the only thing I’d need to survive. And I’m not quite ready to let it come to a screeching halt this time.
“I have tentative plans to go home in the offseason this summer. I could bring you back some syrup for your eggs. Or you could come pick it out yourself.”
She huffs a laugh, like she thinks I’m kidding. When it becomes obvious that I’m not, she shakes her head at me. “As much as I would like to see your dad’s infamous wall of devotion, obviously the answer is no.” A flush climbs her cheeks, and she seems to surprise herself by asking, “But just out of curiosity, what would one of your family gatherings look like?
I’ll need to know this kind of thing for the green card interview,” she rushes to tack on.
I’m not buying it, though. She’s curious. Does that mean something?
“Well, we’d have it at my parents’ house. Of course, my four sisters would be there—”
“Four sisters?”
“Yup. I’m the baby.”
“No way you have ever been a baby. You were born six foot five.”
I crack a laugh. “Nope. Not until sophomore year of high school.”
Briefly, she stares off over my shoulder. “You having four sisters explains a lot.”
“What do you mean?”
She hums in her throat. “You’re polite. You give off this sense of . . .”
“What?”
It’s like she can’t find the right word, so she flutters her fingers for a few beats. “Safety. You respect women. I can tell. You’re not just pretending to listen to me. You look at me in a thoughtful way that doesn’t make me feel like I’m rambling—and I always feel like that. Sometimes even when I’m talking to other women. You’re not just pretending to listen while ogling my chest and wondering when you’ll get to see me with my shirt off.”
Silence passes. “Confession. I just ogled.”
“Oh, honey.” She gives me the cutest pout. Like it makes me want to slam my head into a wall. “You were doing so well.”
“I’m sorry.” I drag my hands down my face. “You have incredible tits.”
“Thank you.”
“I can listen and absorb everything you’re saying and still hope your shirt accidentally rips and they come popping out of your bra.”
“I don’t think you understand the mechanics of breasts. Or clothing.”
“Yeah, I wouldn’t be surprised. I haven’t laid a finger on a woman since . . .”
Her eyes narrow curiously, her smile playful, but I see the way she digs her fingertips into her knee. Is she nervous about my answer? “Since when?”
I’m powerless to do anything but tell her the truth. “Since the first night I came to Sluggers and saw you.”
The flirtatious quality of her smile melts away slowly, replaced with something so vulnerable, I almost reach over and pull her into my lap. To protect her from whatever it is. “Sumner. I don’t . . . I can’t—” She remains very still for a moment, then turns to face me with her eyes squeezed shut.
“What you said before—about fear—you were right.”
Sensing she’s on the verge of opening up to me, I don’t dare move a muscle. “Was I?”
“Yes.” She wets her lips and braids her fingers together tightly. “My father was a long-haul trucker. When I was twelve, he sat my mother and I down at the kitchen table and told us he had another family.” She looks at me to get my reaction. I have no idea what’s showing on my face, but I’m totally and utterly stunned, so probably that. “He told us he was sorry, but he was going to live with them permanently.”