Unbreakable (City Lights, #2)(88)

The salesperson over the phone had told me the seats were the best money could buy this late in the season without a reservation. They had tableside service and complimentary snacks. But instead of following the signs to that section, I asked Cory for directions to the first base line.

“What, why? These are good seats.”

“But you want first base line, don’t you? That’s where you said you wanted to be for a whopping eighty games, so…?” I took his arm. “Come on. Let’s see if someone’s willing to make a trade.”

We made our way to the first base line rows, a little past the dugout, where we found two guys more than willing to try a change of scenery, especially if it meant someone bringing them beer and hot dogs all game long, no waiting in line.

Cory leaned back in his new seat, shaking his head. “I swear, you can talk your way into anything.”

“Nah. Luck of the Irish.”

Cory tweaked a lock of my hair. “Is that where you get this hair from? Straight from Ireland?”

“Pretty much,” I said. “My maternal grandparents are from Cork. Still live there, as a matter of fact.”

“Wow,” Cory said. “I’ll be you have a lot of cool history on that side.”

“We do. My grandfather still has an old Celtic shield that bears our clan name—O’Byrne –and our clan motto: Seasfaidh mé go tréan - tá mo spiorad dobhriste.”

He stared at me for a moment, a slow, surprised smile spreading over his face. “You speak Irish? Or is it Gaelic?”

“It’s both,” I said, with a smile. “And no, I don’t speak it, but my grandfather wanted to pass that motto down to me since my mother’s an only child and I’m her only child.”

“What does it mean?”

“‘I shall stand firm—my spirit is unbreakable.’”

“Dobhriste.” He smiled. “I like that. It’s like your hair. It suits you.” A warm silence fell between us and then he said, “So. Are you looking forward to getting back to work?”

“I guess so,” I said slowly. “I thought I’d use this time to hangout with my friends, but…”

But Lilah isn’t returning my calls and would probably give me hell if she knew where I was now.

“Anyway, my best friend has been busy, and my other friends are kind of high maintenance. I guess I am too, but lately I don’t feel much like going through the effort to spend time with them. Now that I’m apart from it, it seems like all of our conversations are the same, every week.”

Cory nodded. “But your job must be missing you. I mean, I saw you in action, firsthand at my hearing. They gotta be hurting.”

“They are, a little,” I said. “I got a call from my paralegal. He says my client—the one with the mistrial—has been asking about me, but…”

“But what?”

I shrugged. “I must be enjoying this time off more than I thought.”

“Oh yeah, you’ve gotten to hang out with seven-year olds, old men in nursing homes, and now you’re at a game for a sport you hate.” Cory laughed. “The ultimate vacation.”

I smiled, not quite able to meet his eye. “I’m having a good time.”

“Yeah? Me too.”

A short silence descended, and the air between us seemed thick despite the warm twilit evening, which was rapidly turning to night.

“Hey, how about a beer?” Cory asked. “Beer and a Dodger dog?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

Cory left to get the food, and I heaved a sigh. The seats around us were starting to fill up and the sun was just beginning to set. I felt the rays warm my face as the baseball players took to the field. The Cincinnati Reds were greeted with boos while the Dodgers were cheered as the stadium announcer introduced the first batter. I understood why Cory liked these seats—the players were so close, I could see the first basemen’s spit in full Technicolor tobacco brown.

Cory returned with two plastic cups of beer and two long, skinny hot dogs I was certain contained enough toxins to kill a whole lab full of mice, but that tasted better than I would have imagined. We talked and ate and drank and—sometimes—watched a little bit of baseball. I only paid attention when Cory directed my attention to some player or stat on the scoreboard, or when the crack of a bat was particularly loud, which was fairly often. By the end of the fourth inning, the Dodgers were up five to two.

Otherwise, we just talked. Not of the deeply personal matters we’d spoken of in the bank. We had stepped back into time and those topics were too intimate, especially given our current living arrangement. Instead we spoke of lighter subjects with an easy manner, as if we’d known each other for years.

During one lull in the conversation, we watched a Cincinnati player step up to bat. Cory put two fingers in his mouth and loosed a piercing whistle. “Hey, batter!”

“They must love that,” I laughed.

“Get even closer to home plate and you can see them give you the stink eye.” Cory whistled again and then took my hand in his and rested our entwined fingers against his knee as if he had done it a hundred times before.

I felt a pleasant shiver shoot up my arm and down my shoulder blades. I glanced down at our clutched hands and then at him.