My downfall was . . . popcorn.
I needed to stay thin, but I struggled. In the world of ballerinas, anything over one-hundred ten pounds was too heavy, and my sights were set on the theater stage. Those were big dreams for sixteen. A time when one thinks all things are possible, like falling in love with a boy on a summer vacation and hoping you can last when the seasons change.
“Mom, move,” Gee commands, breaking into my thoughts.
“Uhm . . .” I look from Gee to Gavin. My heart continues to hammer in my chest.
“I’ve got a few minutes,” Gavin remarks, and the comment strikes hard. A few minutes. Not much time. Only temporary. Gavin isn’t staying in this town. He’s passing through like he once did, and this moment will be a blip in his memory, like the summer we once shared and the weekend I once had with him.
“You aren’t exactly dressed to play ball,” I state, taking note of his jeans, dress shirt rolled to his elbows, and slick shoes—shoes not made for a mound of sand, let alone a beachfront ballpark, or even this small town. The leather and hard soles made a statement. He’s no longer from these parts, and he’ll walk away as soon as he can.
“I’ll manage,” he says, breaking into a cool, confident smile, so similar to when we were young.
Gavin and I dated the summer I was sixteen, racing the clock to a finish line marked by my return to my hometown and his move across the country for college. His summer was filled with physical training and baseball practice to stay in shape before his move. Mine was meant to be a getaway from my divorcing parents. Gavin was leaving in August, cutting his summer short, but we had time, he told me, to learn about one another, and we certainly did discover each other, especially our bodies.
Blindly, I place a ball in his outstretched hand and walk to the edge of the field. Standing behind the backstop while Gavin takes the mound, I marvel at his current physique, more solid than his late-teen frame. He still has that wave to his dark brown hair, and the added beard on his jaw enhances his aging good looks. His shoulders are broad like a laborer and his hands large, which he informed me helped him in baseball.
First base. I hear the whisper of our youth in my head. Gavin is kissing me in my memories as we fall onto a hotel bed.
I’m curious how he ended up in film. The last time I saw him, he was about to make commercials as a rising baseball player. Admittedly, I didn’t follow sports much. My focus was on ballet. When I saw him that fateful weekend, I’d just completed my first year with Dance Midwest, a professional dance company in Grand Rapids. I hadn’t made the cut for the ballet company I’d dreamed of since I was a child. Still, it was a job dancing daily, which was a dream in and of itself.
Second base. My eyes are glued to the curl of Gavin’s hand around the baseball, recalling how he cupped my breasts with those palms. Squeezing. Kneading. Tugging at me until I couldn’t take it anymore.
My fingers grip the metal fencing to steady myself as I watch Gavin pitch. My heart skips a beat at the attention he’s giving my boy.
Does he notice anything about Gee? Does he question why he likes baseball?
These are ridiculous questions. Thousands of kids love baseball, and just as many have light brown hair and deep, dark eyes. Gavin doesn’t know what he’s looking at—or rather who—and it doesn’t matter. His radio silence thirteen years ago had put things in perspective. He didn’t want me. He rejected me.
His current presence brings a new concern. I need to get Gee out of here.
“One more, buddy, and then it’s time to go.”
“Aw, Mom, just a few more minutes,” Gee whines. He’s become more argumentative this summer. I’d attribute it to Theo, but I know better. Gee misses Patrick, especially with the invite to Cooperstown, where the Baseball Hall of Fame exists. In a few weeks, Gee’s team of twelve-year-olds will play in the Upstate New York competition. Through some extra penny pitching and generous fundraising, I was able to secure a spot for both of us to attend. I don’t want to miss a moment of his fun. Patrick would have loved it.
Saddened by the reminder that my husband will not see Gee play, I call back to him.
“Five more minutes,” I warn as every mother does. If he gets his way, it will be more like ten. I want it to be less because Gavin needs to go. On repeat, I remind myself that it’s a fluke he’d pulled into this lot, on this lake, at this time. I was not meant to see Gavin again, and I’ve believed that for thirteen long years.
“Okay, buddy,” I call out.
“Mom, it hasn’t even been five seconds,” Gee groans.
“Yeah, but Mr. Scott has plans.” A late dinner. Sounds chic, trendy, and mysterious, and also none of my business. I refuse to ask about his personal life. It doesn’t matter to me. “His wife is probably waiting for him.”
At the mention of such a person, Gee hits the ball, and Gavin needs to duck out of the way as it’s a line drive toward second base. When Gavin stands erect again, he stares across the field at me.
“I’m not married.”
For some reason, my heart skips again, and the pulse between my thighs increases like the flutter of a jeté.
Third base. Strong hands touched me in a place only I had explored before Gavin’s fingers sought that sensitive spot, then filled me in a way I’d never experienced.
“Home run,” Gavin yells, and I shake out of my memory once more, watching Gee run the bases while Gavin continues to stare at me.
Being unmarried means nothing to me, I tell myself, lying at the leap within my chest, powerful and strong like a petit allegro jump sequence
“Home run,” I whisper to myself as Gee rounds third and heads home. Score. Gavin and I had that moment once upon a time, but I cut that memory short.
“Good job,” I call out, removing my hands from the fence barrier to clap. I didn’t realize how hard I clutched at the thin strips until my fingers unfurl and ache. The rusty scent of metal drifts to my nose, and the coloring returns to my white knuckles. “Collect the balls.”
Gee does an about-turn after stomping on home plate and races to the outfield to collect the dozen or so balls we brought with us. He hates fielding, which is another reason he dislikes his outfield position, but it’s all part of the game. As he collects his equipment, Gavin struts to me.
“He’s a natural,” he says, glancing back at Gee, and I chuckle without humor.
“Easy there, sport,” I tease. Gavin’s head swivels, and he slowly smiles.
“I haven’t heard that name in a while.”
Yeah, I bet you haven’t. Thirteen years of separation will wipe away a nickname.
“So the Film Festival,” I question, hating that I’m remotely curious about him.
“Yeah.” He swipes nervously at his hair, and I remember the motion from our youth. “I made a film.”
“I read that,” I state, and he blinks.
“You’ve heard of it?” Something unfamiliar fills his voice, lightening the tone, and I question his surprise.
“I read it in the festival program.” I’m not about to explain how I stared at the image of him, uncertain the name correlated with the man of my past until I saw his picture. He’s hardly changed over the years. Same strong jaw. Same deep gaze. Same rosy puffed lips.