Evvie Drake Starts Over(45)

In a movie, they’d have wound up laughing, and maybe even tickling each other. There would have been joy in it. But they just stood by her sink and smashed eight dinner plates, eight cereal bowls, and eight salad plates. When he handed her that last plate, she held it straight out in front of her, almost reverently, and she uncurled her fingers and just let the weight of it not rest in her hand anymore. The plate broke into such little pieces on the floor that it stopped being. The sound crested and stopped, and then they were alone together, standing on a little tile island in a sea of broken yellow flowers. She lifted her left hand to push a scraggle of hair away from her pink face, and he cringed. “Ah, you’re hurt.”

   It wasn’t a surprise that surrounding herself with shards of broken dishes had given her a cut between two of her fingers. It was more surprising to confirm, as she turned her hands over, front and back, that there wasn’t more blood. She ran her hand under cold water and washed it, and Dean got a clean paper towel and pressed it to the cut. “I’ve got it,” Evvie said, taking over, but he put his hand on top of hers.

“Make sure you press down,” he said. “It’ll stop.”

He was so tall that she should have anticipated the sheer size of his hand, but how stumpy her fingers looked under his made her chuckle. “You have paws like a Great Dane puppy,” she murmured.

“Yeah. You know, they still do some things well,” he said.

She looked up at him. There was a little scar over his eyebrow. Almost definitely, she figured, it was the result of having been hit with a ball. A cut must have opened up. Maybe he had been little, like she’d been when she fell on a piece of glass and got four stitches in her knee. Maybe not. For as long as it took to blink, she could see herself in her mind, fastening a bandage over his eye.

He peeked under the paper at the cut. “I think you’re going to live.”

Evvie kept looking at his hands, and she slid her eyes up his arm to his shoulder. In there somewhere. In there somewhere, was the answer. “You should teach me how to pitch,” she said.

He laughed. “What?”

“You should teach me how to pitch,” she repeated.

“What for?”

“So I’ll know how it feels to pitch.”

   “What for?” he repeated.

She shrugged. “So I’ll know how it feels not to pitch.”

He nodded slowly. “But you know that I can’t actually pitch myself. You know that’s sort of my thing.”

“I know. But you can teach me how to.”

“How good are you trying to get?”

“Let’s say…to where I wouldn’t be laughed off a Little League field.”

Dean squinted. “What age group?”

She thought for a minute. “Twelve-year-olds.”

“They’re pretty good by the time they’re twelve,” he cautioned. “Don’t overcommit.”

“I want to learn.”

He smiled, just a little. “Okay. You want to start now? I assume you’re a righty, so that hand won’t be a problem.”

“No, just someday. I have stuff to do today.”

He raised one eyebrow. “Anything good?”

She leaned on the sink. “Clean the kitchen and shop for dishes.”





ONE THURSDAY IN EARLY APRIL, Evvie was up in the bedroom packing away her winter sweaters when her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out and saw Andy’s picture with a text: Can we do Saturday breakfast? Sorry we’ve been missing each other. Lots going on, but it would be great to see you. Relief instantly lowered her shoulders an inch.

Ever since they’d talked about the night that Tim died, he’d felt far away. He had this new girlfriend, he had kids, he was busy, he had work. But she couldn’t quite convince herself he wasn’t angry that she had let him try to soothe, for weeks and for months, an injury she didn’t exactly have. She’d seen him a few times, and it had been distressingly cordial. She’d pulled out her phone to text him over and over, but she hadn’t.

When a few minutes had passed, she reached into her pocket again for the phone. Hey!! Great to hear from you. I’d love that, yes. Been missing you a lot.

She heard back right away: Me too! OK if Monica joins?

She assured him that this was fine, and that she was looking forward to it, which she didn’t quite mean.

   She took out her phone again and texted Dean. The good news is I’m having breakfast w/Andy on Saturday.

He came back: & the bad news?

And before she could answer, her phone vibrated again. Bringing the gf?

She sent him back the emoji with the tense, grimacing mouthful of teeth. The one she always thought of as Mr. Okaaaaay.

Still glad you’re going, he answered. It’ll be ok. She’s great. Promise.

She sent him a yellow heart. All the hearts were different to her, shaded and pleasantly oblique and sent in a language only she spoke—which maybe meant it wasn’t a language, just a diary hiding in plain sight. The yellow heart was for gratitude.



* * *



—

Evvie got to breakfast first on Saturday, and it was finally getting to be spring, so she sat at their table with her coffee and turned her face toward the big window with her eyes shut, letting her cheeks get warm in the sun. She turned at the sound of Andy laughing as he guided Monica into the booth across from her. “Hey, sorry we’re running late,” he said.