Moonshot
Page 39
“That was a mistake,” I said quietly, fixing my blouse, straightening my skirt, my hands shaking in their attempt to right all of this wrong. “A mistake.” I repeated the words because everything I was feeling … the shame, the regret—it wasn’t over my marriage. It wasn’t over my husband, sitting at a table just rooms away. It was the shame of leaving Chase without explanation, of marrying Tobey and not driving to fucking Baltimore instead. It was the regret that I wasn’t, right now, five steps closer, back in his arms, pulling off our clothes until we were skin to skin, heart to heart, future to future.
“It wasn’t a mistake.” He pushed off the wall and stepped toward me.
“Stop.” There was enough strength in the word that he listened. “I can’t think straight when you’re near me. Please. Just … just stay over there.”
“I didn’t want to come here, Ty. Your side is responsible for this. I was happy in Baltimore.”
I shook my head, turning to him with a sad smile. “You hate Baltimore.” He told me that once, back in 2011, over midnight milkshakes on a Baltimore street corner. A story of a terrible childhood visit, a discussion of our youth and how memories can taint cities. He hated Baltimore. I hated Pittsburgh.
“It feels wrong, hating the city where I lived with my mom.” I leaned against him, resting my head on his shoulder, watching traffic roll by, the downtown street busy, even in the middle of the night. Occasionally, there was a horn, a shout, a fan who recognized him, their arms waving in excitement.
“But that’s not why you hate it, is it?”
“It’s just that … all I can remember from that time was being sad. All of it, the house, the park where I played, everything made me miss her more.” I had been glad when we left. Glad to start fresh in New York, in a house that didn’t have her furniture, in a truck that didn’t carry old tubes of her lipstick in its glove box. It felt like when we moved, we left her behind. And now, every time we returned, the city felt dim, draped in sadness. Thank God the Pirates were in the National League, our paths rarely crossing, my memories in Pittsburgh fading away.
“There’s nothing wrong with missing her. Or with being sad. You’re sad because you loved her, and because you had great memories to miss.”
“Do you still miss Emily?”
“I’ll always miss Emily. She’s a part of me.” He took a sip of his milkshake, his arm tightening a little around my waist. “Like you.”
I looked up at him, my face scrunching in disbelief. “Like me?”
“Yeah.” He looked down at me, and there was a moment. One of those where everything stopped, where I saw dots of streetlights reflecting in his eyes, the tickle of my hair across my face, the warmth of his breath against my lips. I looked in his eyes and believed that I was a part of him. Just as I believed when he said he loved me. I believed it because I understood it. I understood it because I felt it too. “Come on.” He pulled, swinging me around and nudging me in the opposite direction, away from the street. “Let’s go.”
“I hated Baltimore, but only because you weren’t there. And now…” He ran both hands over the top of his head. “I’ll hate New York because you are here. How fucked up is that?”
I said nothing, picking up my purse from the floor. “Don’t touch me again, Chase.”
“I can’t promise you that. You aren’t a girl anymore, Ty. It was hard enough to keep my hands to myself then.”
I opened the door, and glanced back, memorizing the lines of his face, the clench of his jaw, the burn of his eyes. I gave myself one final drink. “Try.”
Then, I stepped back into my world and closed the door.
“The second girl died on October 3rd, 2012. April McIntosh. She worked at a deli right around the corner from the stadium. Left work that Wednesday afternoon, and just disappeared. They found her a few days later, when a construction dumpster started to smell. She’d been a troubled girl. Got around a lot, partied a lot, that kind of girl. Had a Yankee pendant around her neck, a nice piece. Gold and diamonds. But like I said, nobody noticed things like that back then. Not the timing, not the Yankee connection. Not ’til Julie Gavin’s death, in 2013, did they connect those dots. Not that it was a stretch. Her death was a damn flashing billboard. Anyone who missed that didn’t deserve to carry a badge.”
Dan Velacruz, New York Times
73
“Smartest decision I ever made.” Tobey bent over, kissing me square on the lips, then reached and clapped Dick on the back. “You were right, Ty. God, were you right.”
Dick cleared his throat with a smile. “Smartest decision I ever made. Let’s not forget who picked this golden boy.”
I sat between them helplessly, staring at the field, the seventh inning beginning, the stadium lights illuminating the truth so bright it hurt my eyes. Chase had gotten better. I’d avoided any mention, any highlight of him in the past four years. I’d boycotted Orioles games, inventing a lifelong hatred of them as my excuse. I’d stopped watching ESPN purely to avoid the mention of his name. And now, with his perfect body encased in our jersey, I had seen everything I’d missed. His footwork. His arm. His bat. Two homeruns already. Five different plays that had made Tobey swear in excitement. Solid grounding, incredible focus, and the speed of an eighteen-year-old rookie. No wonder he had dominated the MVP ranks. No wonder Dick had ignored Tobey’s fifty million dollar number and gone to seventy. I was shocked the Orioles gave him up.
“Fine, you get the credit.” Tobey laughed. “But don’t let him go. Ever. I don’t care if he smuggles drugs on the off-season, he’s retiring a Yankee, got it?”
What if he fucks your wife, Tobey? The question rang so loudly through my head that I brought my hand to my mouth, worried it’d slipped out.
“Are you okay?” Tobey bent over me, concerned. Always concerned. Always caring. I felt the true urge to vomit and pushed myself to my feet.
“Excuse me,” I said quickly, with a tight smile. He let me pass, worry in his eyes.
I didn’t vomit. My body didn’t allow me that reaction of guilt. I dry heaved into the toilet, wanting it, hoping it would ease some part of what I did, but my stomach stayed calm, the step away from Tobey’s love all that it had needed.
“It wasn’t a mistake.” He pushed off the wall and stepped toward me.
“Stop.” There was enough strength in the word that he listened. “I can’t think straight when you’re near me. Please. Just … just stay over there.”
“I didn’t want to come here, Ty. Your side is responsible for this. I was happy in Baltimore.”
I shook my head, turning to him with a sad smile. “You hate Baltimore.” He told me that once, back in 2011, over midnight milkshakes on a Baltimore street corner. A story of a terrible childhood visit, a discussion of our youth and how memories can taint cities. He hated Baltimore. I hated Pittsburgh.
“It feels wrong, hating the city where I lived with my mom.” I leaned against him, resting my head on his shoulder, watching traffic roll by, the downtown street busy, even in the middle of the night. Occasionally, there was a horn, a shout, a fan who recognized him, their arms waving in excitement.
“But that’s not why you hate it, is it?”
“It’s just that … all I can remember from that time was being sad. All of it, the house, the park where I played, everything made me miss her more.” I had been glad when we left. Glad to start fresh in New York, in a house that didn’t have her furniture, in a truck that didn’t carry old tubes of her lipstick in its glove box. It felt like when we moved, we left her behind. And now, every time we returned, the city felt dim, draped in sadness. Thank God the Pirates were in the National League, our paths rarely crossing, my memories in Pittsburgh fading away.
“There’s nothing wrong with missing her. Or with being sad. You’re sad because you loved her, and because you had great memories to miss.”
“Do you still miss Emily?”
“I’ll always miss Emily. She’s a part of me.” He took a sip of his milkshake, his arm tightening a little around my waist. “Like you.”
I looked up at him, my face scrunching in disbelief. “Like me?”
“Yeah.” He looked down at me, and there was a moment. One of those where everything stopped, where I saw dots of streetlights reflecting in his eyes, the tickle of my hair across my face, the warmth of his breath against my lips. I looked in his eyes and believed that I was a part of him. Just as I believed when he said he loved me. I believed it because I understood it. I understood it because I felt it too. “Come on.” He pulled, swinging me around and nudging me in the opposite direction, away from the street. “Let’s go.”
“I hated Baltimore, but only because you weren’t there. And now…” He ran both hands over the top of his head. “I’ll hate New York because you are here. How fucked up is that?”
I said nothing, picking up my purse from the floor. “Don’t touch me again, Chase.”
“I can’t promise you that. You aren’t a girl anymore, Ty. It was hard enough to keep my hands to myself then.”
I opened the door, and glanced back, memorizing the lines of his face, the clench of his jaw, the burn of his eyes. I gave myself one final drink. “Try.”
Then, I stepped back into my world and closed the door.
“The second girl died on October 3rd, 2012. April McIntosh. She worked at a deli right around the corner from the stadium. Left work that Wednesday afternoon, and just disappeared. They found her a few days later, when a construction dumpster started to smell. She’d been a troubled girl. Got around a lot, partied a lot, that kind of girl. Had a Yankee pendant around her neck, a nice piece. Gold and diamonds. But like I said, nobody noticed things like that back then. Not the timing, not the Yankee connection. Not ’til Julie Gavin’s death, in 2013, did they connect those dots. Not that it was a stretch. Her death was a damn flashing billboard. Anyone who missed that didn’t deserve to carry a badge.”
Dan Velacruz, New York Times
73
“Smartest decision I ever made.” Tobey bent over, kissing me square on the lips, then reached and clapped Dick on the back. “You were right, Ty. God, were you right.”
Dick cleared his throat with a smile. “Smartest decision I ever made. Let’s not forget who picked this golden boy.”
I sat between them helplessly, staring at the field, the seventh inning beginning, the stadium lights illuminating the truth so bright it hurt my eyes. Chase had gotten better. I’d avoided any mention, any highlight of him in the past four years. I’d boycotted Orioles games, inventing a lifelong hatred of them as my excuse. I’d stopped watching ESPN purely to avoid the mention of his name. And now, with his perfect body encased in our jersey, I had seen everything I’d missed. His footwork. His arm. His bat. Two homeruns already. Five different plays that had made Tobey swear in excitement. Solid grounding, incredible focus, and the speed of an eighteen-year-old rookie. No wonder he had dominated the MVP ranks. No wonder Dick had ignored Tobey’s fifty million dollar number and gone to seventy. I was shocked the Orioles gave him up.
“Fine, you get the credit.” Tobey laughed. “But don’t let him go. Ever. I don’t care if he smuggles drugs on the off-season, he’s retiring a Yankee, got it?”
What if he fucks your wife, Tobey? The question rang so loudly through my head that I brought my hand to my mouth, worried it’d slipped out.
“Are you okay?” Tobey bent over me, concerned. Always concerned. Always caring. I felt the true urge to vomit and pushed myself to my feet.
“Excuse me,” I said quickly, with a tight smile. He let me pass, worry in his eyes.
I didn’t vomit. My body didn’t allow me that reaction of guilt. I dry heaved into the toilet, wanting it, hoping it would ease some part of what I did, but my stomach stayed calm, the step away from Tobey’s love all that it had needed.
