Long Ball(60)

I school my features, hiding my disappointment as best I can. “Ah.” Do I thank him for giving me the best sex of my life? “I had fun.”

“Me too.”

I walk him to the front door, and lean against the wall while he puts his boots back on, and pats his pockets, nodding that he hasn’t left anything behind.

“I hope your move is a good one.”

“Thanks.” I wish I could think of something else to say, but it’s nearing four AM and my endorphin flooded brain is not doing me justice. Besides, all I want to say is, “Stay.”

He hesitates. “Well. I should probably get going.”

“Then I suppose this is goodbye, Dylan with no last name.”

“The pleasure was all mine, Rachel who is moving.” He wraps his arms around me, ravishing me with one last kiss that makes my heart pound.

He winks and walks out my door without another word.

It takes a few minutes for the regret to settle over me. I was afraid I’d feel it, and I do. But it’s not the regret I thought it would be. Because I’m not at all sorry that I let Dylan into my bed, even though I don’t know his last name, even though I’ll never see him again. I’m not at all sorry that I let my guard down or that I became as much of a stranger with him as he was to me.

The regret I have is completely unexpected—I regret letting him leave.

Humming to myself, I clean up the remains of the picnic and fold the sheet, holding it to my face and breathing in the remnants of his cologne mingling with my perfume. The scents complement each other.

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5





It’s after eleven-thirty when I wake up—nearly unheard of with my strict schedule, but these last few days are fairly empty, allowing me to lie in my bed, luxuriating first in the memories of last night, then continue wallowing in that languid feeling in a long, hot shower. Dylan’s given me enough Rabbit fodder to last me years, when the vividness of the memories of last night fade in intensity then finally dissolve completely like chocolate on my tongue.

I dry my hair and dress in a khaki skirt and a light blue sweater that gently caresses my skin, and swipe on a little mascara and lip gloss. Alex has sent me a text demanding details but also sending a sneak peek at the playlist I promised I’d listen to. I press play on the song called Summertime Sadness, and with the first few swelling chords I’m taken away.

Striding to the bathroom, I grab an elastic and hastily weave my hair into a braid, throwing it over my shoulder and out of the way. I use a blue plastic tub as a seat—the chairs buried behind a mountain of boxes and impossible to get to—and unlock my cello case. Pulling her free, I restart the song on my phone, nestle my instrument close and close my eyes, letting the music flow through me, then from me.

My fingers fly over the strings, my body sways with the movements of my bowing, and I nail down the vocal line of the chorus, smiling when I get it just right and the notes reverberate back, full and stentorian.

The knocking at the door kills the moment, tearing me from the song.

I huff impatiently, not expecting company, not wanting to stop playing. If the movers came early...gently placing my cello back in the case and shutting it, I pad over to the door, ready for conflict when I open it.

“Hey, Cello Girl.” Dylan smiles, freshly shaved and changed and smoldering on my threshold.

“Dylan. What are you doing here?” I’m surprised I don’t stutter. My heart’s certainly tripping.

He leans against the doorjamb. “I know you probably have a million things to do before you leave town in a couple of days so I thought I’d come by and ask if you’d spend the day with me instead.”

“You’re leading with the fact you’re inconveniencing me? That’s not the best strategy to sell yourself.” But I’m already sold, and the truth is in the smile I give him.

He holds up a small white paper back and two takeout cups. “I also brought breakfast.”

My stomach rumbles at the rich aroma of coffee, and I take a cup and motion for him to come in. “Hard to say no to that.” It’s impossible to say no to him period.

The cocky way he strides past me, I’m pretty sure he knows it. Damn, cocky looks just like sexy the way he wears it.

“I didn’t take you for a Lana fan.”

Alannafan? “A what?” Admittedly, I was focusing more on his ass in those jeans than what he was saying.

“That song.” He follows me into the living room, where I point at a blue plastic tub he can sit on, and take my seat again a few feet away, shutting my phone—and the music—off.

“Oh. It’s something Alex sent me to listen to, but yes, I really like it.”

He sets his cup down and digs into the bag. “Let me guess: you’ve never heard of that artist before.”

“Well, I can’t think of other songs of hers, but her voice sounded a little familiar.”

He shakes his head at my defensive answer and hands me a pastry. “Are you this out of touch with all of pop culture, or just the music?”

It’s not a put-down—it’s curiosity. I know this so it’s easier to answer. It’s very easy, actually, because he’s interested in me and that…well, that’s nice.

Glazed icing crumbles on my lips as I take a bite of the fruit-stuffed goodnes“It’s not that I mean to shut it out. I like to think of myself as an attentive person.” Glazed icing crumbles on my lips as I take a bite of the fruit-stuffed goodness.