Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 24270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 121(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 121(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
“Someone there taking care of you?”
“I got—” He makes a vague hand gesture behind him. “Guys are bringing me food for dinner.”
“Okay, good. Wouldn’t want you to wither away.” Even if he’s wearing a T-shirt with the sleeves hacked off and I can see just how good he looks.
He also looks like he’s half asleep, a suspicion that’s confirmed when he yawns, then asks, “How’s Miami?”
“It’s good.” I sit up a little so that the living room comes into view behind me on screen. “You want a tour of a really ridiculous condo?”
He gives me a slightly sleepy smile, then nods. “I do.”
I get up from the couch. I aim the phone camera at a shelf that appears to be full of glass vases.
Josh’s eyes widen on screen. “What are those?”
“Probably a couple thousand bucks each.”
Josh laughs at that. “Those are so, um, well, colorful? Where are you?”
“I’m hanging out at DeLuca’s place. Those aren’t his. He’s staying with Big Mack if you can believe it.”
“Wow, how is that dude? I worshipped him growing up.”
“Haven’t seen him yet other than his condo.”
“Looks like a pretty nice setup.”
And it is. Peaceful. Quiet. Enough to leave me alone with my thoughts, which are mostly about the guy who’s smiling at me on my phone screen, fond creases around his eyes. “You wanna see the rest of the place?”
“Gimme the full tour.”
I spend a few minutes showing him everything: More terrible art, the TV setup he grunts over, and the kitchen he actually has questions about.
“Wow, look at that vent,” he says. “How many BTUs is the stove?”
“I didn’t know you could cook.”
A shrug, one I recognize from the Josh Spencer False Modesty collection. “Maybe. A little. I could cook for you sometime.”
Which sounds like something more than friends but not a conversation we should have while he’s a little doped up.
Even though, yes, I want him to cook for me.
We talk for a while, mostly about spring training, but also about stuff I didn’t know about him. That he grew up near Baltimore. That he sometimes bats barehanded for all of spring to toughen his hands. That he sponsors a youth league team in Dundalk and plays in a game with them every year. I tell him I’m from Petaluma, an hour north of San Francisco, and he says that tracks, me being from California. Petaluma’s not far from wine country, and that perks his interest. I file that away too, the idea that we could go there someday. Eventually he yawns, long and lasting. He looks cozy under a throw blanket. It’s a four-hour drive from Miami to Tampa; I know because I’ve Google Map’d it a bunch of times. But seeing him like this makes me want to say screw it and jump in my truck. Except, friends don’t drive clear across Florida just because a friend has a slightly tweaked hamstring.
Maybe that’s exactly why I should offer.
“I should let you go,” I say, but I’m smiling at him, and saying it like I don’t mean it as I settle back onto the couch.
“But you’re not going to?” he asks, in the same tone, and it makes my heart hammer.
Josh snuggles deeper into the blanket, and it’s a good thing his eyes are drifting closed, because I don’t know what my face is doing right now.
“Maybe not quite yet,” I say.
“Good,” he says, almost like he’s humming. Maybe with the same damn hope? “Thank you,” Josh adds.
“For what?”
“I wasn’t sure you were gonna pick up when I called.”
“Of course I’d pick up,” I say.
“Just with the way we left things . . .” Another yawn, and clearly he’s losing whatever battle against sleep, though not entirely. Since he seems to fight to keep his eyes open as he murmurs, “I miss you.”
Those are the best words ever. “I miss you too,” I say, then I seize the chance. I don’t want to be just friends with Josh Spencer. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.”
Josh’s eyes open wide. “Yeah, I didn’t think you were stupid either.”
“Only about you.”
That grin returns, only it feels like a brand-new kind, one made just for me. “I don’t know if I can drive with my hammie like this,” he says.
Wait. Is he talking about work now? I give him a look because maybe the meds are making him a little groggy. “Is someone gonna take you to the park?”
“I meant to come see you. So you’re gonna have to come see me,” he says, like a declaration.
And it’s not the meds talking at all. Still, I kind of can’t believe my luck. “You really can’t wait to see me?” Though I’m already mentally running through our schedule, wondering if I can talk the coaching staff into putting me on the roster for our games in Tampa. Which they’ve already said no to. Twice. Yes, I’ve been angling for a chance to see this guy.