Page 120 of Fifty First Times (Sharing You 0.40)
“Can I ask you a question?” he asks, when he pulls into my parking lot forty-five seconds later.
“You just did.”
He gives me an eye roll. “You’re about to get another. Why do you hate players so much?”
“I have a good reason.” I exhale a shaky breath. Am I going to go there with him? I look over, see the concern in his eyes, and know that I am. “My dad. You know my last name.”
He frowns. “Perez.”
“Yep.” I wait for him to make the connection.
“Catcher. Long-term big league career. Pistol Perez is your dad?”
“Father. Biological.”
He nods. Stays silent.
“Ernie and my mom were best friends. She came to a game and my father saw her. It was over after that. Ernie’s never forgiven himself for introducing them. My father sends money, but never spends time with me. Just with his two sons.”
“Is that why you wanted to work in baseball?”
“At first. To prove something, like I could be involved with the game without a ball and a bat. But I guess it’s in my blood.” I laugh, but it’s half hiccup. I swipe at my cheek to do away with the evidence of tears. “I love it. Sitting in the stands during batting practice, watching the bleachers fill up when we open the gate. The crack of a bat, the National Anthem, the smell of the grill, the families, and the laughter. Even the drunks. I can’t see myself doing anything else.”
“My dad used to take me to every minor league game in my hometown. He never played, just wanted me to. I can’t imagine not sharing baseball with him. I can’t believe a father could ignore someone as amazing as you.”
“I have Ernie. He’s all the dad I need. I don’t know what I’d do without him.”
We’re so close. Cricket song floats in through the open windows, and the air is warm instead of humid. Ben’s not made one move toward me, not even a lean, but I can sense him holding back. I know what he wants. The reason he won’t take it doesn’t register.
“Ernie’s a good guy,” he says.
“He feels the same way about you.”
Ben cocks his head to the side, and it’s ridiculously cute.
I clear my throat. “Until this season, Ernie’s been on board with me staying away from players. Encouraged the hate, actually. But not you. He swears you’re one of the good ones.”
“What do you think?”
“I think he could be right.” Tears spring unbidden again. Like I’m a damn faucet.
He reaches over, wipes one away, and pulls his hand back. “Are you willing to take the chance, try to find out?”
“I don’t know.”
He’s leaving it to me. Leaning against the door, one arm on the seat and the other on the steering wheel, waiting.
I’m scared to touch him and scared not to. Afraid to start something, and afraid he’ll finish it. I’ve guarded myself for so long, but now that I’ve opened up to who he’s proven himself to be, the hurt of walking away would outweigh the pain of trying.
“Liza.” He still hasn’t moved. “I can’t make you any promises about how things will end between us. But I’m pretty sure if they start, I won’t ever want them to stop.”
I lean a little closer to him. Notice his close shave and the brown fleck in his left eye. Smell detergent and deodorant. See him trembling.
Lifting my hand, I trace his lips. His jaw flexes. I put one hand on each side of his face and lean in even more, leaving my eyes open.
I am a breath away.
“Liza?’
