Long Ball(11)

Here we go, establishing those lasting roots. Starting our story to one day tell our kids.

“Ugh.” Her face wrinkles, and then her eyes widen. “Oh, god. I didn’t mean it like that. Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely love this program. Love. It’s honestly one of my favorite things about Kansas City. But I have never wanted kids in my entire life. My sister has like eight of them, and I always need a drink after leaving her house.”

I offer a smile to hide the crushing disappointment surging through me. Well, minds can change, right? “My mom was the same, but she said it was different when she had her own.”

“Yeah…” she drags the word out and shakes her head. “Not for me.”

We stand there, quiet again, waiting for the bus. Okay, maybe it was a total rookie mistake to bring up kids before we’ve even been in the bedroom yet. Maybe she thinks I’ll try to knock her up anytime I come close to her. Surely that’s why she’s checking her phone right now.

“Do you think— “

“I wonder where the bus is. It’s a little late.” She cuts me off with another bright smile. “Ready?”

“Of course.” I smile back. She’s right, this conversation isn’t appropriate right now. Maybe later.

A group of guys walk past us, speaking in rapid-fire Spanish about their shift that just ended. Judging by their aprons and hats, I’d say a group of dishwashers, probably. One talks about sending money back home, and it strikes a chord of familiarity in me. I washed dishes a lot during the off season to still be able to send money home to my family.

I turn to Shelbie, to tell her the story of my time in Omaha, but stop. Her eyes are large as she watches them, and she’s moved away from the curb, away from the guys as they walk away.

“You okay?” I ask.

I watch her force her face back into a smile. “Of course. I just wonder where the bus is.”

I point behind me. “Did you know them?”

“Hmm? Oh, um, no.”

Before I can press her, the bus finally pulls up. I notice Shelbie still keeps an eye on the group of guys and doesn’t relax until they’ve rounded the corner. I lean forward and whisper, “They were only talking about their shift being over.”

“Oh. Oh my god.” She places a hand over her mouth. “It’s not that, I just… okay, maybe I do know one of them and it’s not exactly friendly. But thank you for the translation.”

Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes, and I find myself not believing her. Not the best start to our epic love story, but it could be worse, right? There’s a chance she’s not a racist. I mean, I’m South American and she hauled me off to a bathroom thirty minutes after meeting me.

Right?

The bus was full of the cutest batch of kids I’ve ever seen. Pigtails and ball caps and all the nervous, excited energy anyone could want. Lots of mini Latinos and Latinas, which makes my heart happy. This feels right, like where I belong. When Shelbie introduces me, they all cheer and a few of the kids ask for my autograph, which will always be the coolest thing in the whole world.

Aside from eating out a gorgeous girl in a thumping club. Not that my thoughts have strayed that way while sizing her up in her tight dress…

I’ve never done the bus tour before, so I take a seat and watch Shelbie read a few books to the kids. Her voices for the characters are a little flat, but she gets into it and the kids seem to really enjoy the story of a cow who ran away from the farm.

A girl in the front row reminds me so much of my sister I can barely stand it. She may as well be a miniature Camila in those pigtails and dress. I get riddled with flashbacks of chasing her across my parents’ ranch, of reading her books while my mom cooked dinner, of tripping a little boy after her pulled her hair and made her cry. No boys on this bus better make her cry, or I’ll have to punch them by proxy.

But, you know, not hard or anything because I’m not a monster. Pinkie swear.

The young woman she’s with is pretty. She doesn’t hold a candle to Shelbie’s glam, but she’s pretty in the down-home sort of way, in a t-shirt and jeans and a ponytail. Ever since I started with the Royals, all my girlfriends or flings all looked like Shelbie. That’s what I’m supposed to find, someone glamorous as arm candy to show off at charity events and for the paps that Kemp loves to show off for so much.

But looking at her takes me back to my days in Omaha and it cripples my homesickness so much I almost don’t hear Shelbie talking to me.

“Come again?”

Her face looks a little strained as she follows my gaze. “I said, who wants to hear a book from Mr. Bonilla?”

The bus cheers and the Camila clone bounces up and down. I can’t help but grin. Who could seriously tell these kids no, even if I wasn’t into it? Gauging my audience, I decide to go for something in Spanish. As I’m flipping through the books, I land on a Pat Mora book of poetry. Pat Mora was one of the first authors I discovered after coming to America when looking for books to send to Camila. She’s not Venezuelan, but I wanted to show my sister that the Latina culture was still alive in the United States. That we would still be celebrated even if we didn’t still live in our native country.

It feels right to read right now, like I’m giving a part of myself to these kids. Like I’m reading to a tiny Camila in the front row.