Page 33 of Fifty First Times (Sharing You 0.40)
I shove him away. “What do you mean, no?”
“I can barely see your scar.”
“And that’s a good thing,” I say, throwing my hands in the air.
“Not to me. I like you just the way you are.”
“Ugly?”
He gives me a slow shake of his head, his lips brushing over my forehead. “You’ve never been ugly to me, V. You’re the most beautiful woman I know. You were before, and you still are. And the kicker? You’re even more beautiful inside. It’s like the one-two punch. You leave me totally dazed.”
I want to rage at him, but what he said tugs at my heart. Instead, I press up on my tiptoes and he leans in and kisses me.
“I really have to do this?” I ask, tipping my head at the stadium.
“No. You don’t have to do anything. But if you’re up for it, some of my friends really want to meet you.”
“Why?”
“Because I keep telling them how incredible you are, and they want to see for themselves.” He takes my hand. “Okay?”
I blow out a breath. “Okay.”
He walks me toward the stadium gates, and there’s no line. He shepherds me through a darkish corridor and we emerge into the bright sun again just as the announcer says something about the top of the seventh.
“I didn’t know I was so late,” I say as he navigates us out of the tunnel. “Sorry.”
“I wasn’t expecting you to sit through the whole game.”
It sounds like there are about twenty people in the stands, and Rick guides me toward a small group of them. He knuckle bumps two guys and a girl who are sitting in the first row on what I realize is the third base line when I look out over the field. “So, everyone, this is Rene. Rene, this is Jema, Nick, and Brian,” he says, pointing his way down the row.
I give them a lame finger wave and fight to keep my hand off my face.
But a loud crack from the field makes me jump. I never realized until this second how much a bat hitting a ball sounds like gunfire.
Rick slips an arm around my waist. “Okay?” he asks low in my ear.
“At least I didn’t scream this time,” I mutter into his shoulder.
We slide onto the bleachers and they all shoot the shit and heckle the third baseman, who, apparently, is Rick’s apartment mate and the reason we’re here. It turns out his name is Cory, and after the game we wait for him, then go out for pizza.
When Cory plunks down in the chair next to me and Jema sits astride his knees, it becomes clear they’re together. “So, Rick says you were in Afghanistan?” Jema asks.
“Um . . .” I flash Rick a glance. “Yeah, for eighteen months.”
“It must have been rough to be away so long. Especially after you got hurt.”
I can’t read her face, but the way she says it surprises me a little, like it’s no big deal. My injury is always the elephant in the room. No one ever talks about it.
“Yeah,” I say warily, not sure which direction this conversation’s going to go.
But all she says is, “That sucks. You want a beer?”
“Um . . . I’m only twenty, so . . .” I answer as Rick hooks the leg of my chair with his foot and drags me closer.
“Well, it’s your boyfriend’s birthday, so we’re going get him shit-faced, if it’s all right with you,” Cory says, shifting Jema and looking past her at me.
“Uh-uh,” Rick says, wrapping his arms around my middle and pulling m
