“Shocking.”
“So, what do I do?”
He laughs. “You’re the man who always talks about choices. Why don’t you make a choice to move the fuck on?”
“Gee. Why didn’t I think of that?”
“It’s not about thinking it. It’s about doing it.” He claps me on the back. “The present is a gift. Start acting like it. Otherwise, you’re going to be spending a lot of days and nights at the batting cage.”
That’s all he says. That’s the only advice he drops on me. But it starts to wiggle around in my head, making its way to my heart.
“Want to go a round?” I ask.
He points to the ball machine. “Come to think of it, I do. And I believe the next round, and the one after that, and the next—they’re all on you.”
He grabs a helmet from the ground, drops it on his head, walks into the cage, and proceeds to whack the hell out of baseballs for the next few minutes. He has cannons for arms. It’s insane, and as he nabs hit after hit, something loosens inside me.
Something I didn’t realize was coiled too tight.
A sadness I barely knew I had.
I lost my best friend, and that stung.
But I’ve gained something else along the way.
Another one.
This guy. Right here. He’s part of my present, part of my life, and I want to enjoy this time. He’s not the same kind of friend as Tripp. He doesn’t have to be.
Dean’s himself, and I can be myself with him.
As soon as that thought occurs to me, I let go of a little more of the guilt I’d been holding on to.
I wasn’t always myself with Tripp. I was holding a big secret inside.
But with Dean, I can be myself.
And even though I definitely don’t want to spend my nights here at the cages, right now I’m sure this is exactly where I’m supposed to be.
When Dean’s done, I take my turn, and like that, we spend an hour or so at the batting cages, and it’s the most fun I’ve had with a buddy in ages.
It’s fun, and it’s freeing, and when I return home, I’m ready to tackle what to do next.
Then, when I unlock the door to my apartment, I find a letter on the floor.
36LULU
Mariana is parked at the curb outside my apartment, Jackie O glasses on, her thick dark hair swept back in a black scarf with white polka dots, ’50s movie star. Cameron stretches his long legs in the passenger seat, shades on, tapping out a drumbeat to the rhythm of Tom Petty’s “American Girl” on the shiny car door.
With my weekend bag slung over my shoulder, I rush down the steps to the . . . brand-new red convertible. Holy sexy automobile. “Where did you get this little slice of heaven?”
“I won my last case,” Mariana says with a twinkle in her eyes. “So I treated myself.”
Cameron raises a palm to high-five her. “It’s one helluva treat. And it’s good to be a lawyer.”
She blows on her pewter-colored nails, perfectly polished. “Billable hours for the win, my friends. That’s what it’s all about.”
Cameron points his thumb at her. “This is the kind of woman who needs a pantsuit. Someone who charges four hundred dollars an hour.”
She pats his shoulder. “You’re cute. Four hundred an hour? Who do you think you’re dealing with?”
“Oh, excuse me, Mrs. Esquire.”
She taps his head, as if she’s bonking him. “Five hundred fifty dollars. Talk about them apples.”
I hop into the back seat of the sweet sports car. “God bless Yale Law School graduates.”
“You know it.”
Cameron cranes his head around. “All right, my pretty ladies, let’s hit the road before I wrestle away the wheel. You do know sports cars are my temptation. I nearly bought a Ferrari at a car auction in Miami.”
Mariana lowers her shades to stare at him. “You nearly bought a Ferrari? How does one nearly buy a Ferrari?”
“I thought about it a lot. Dreamed about it. Fantasized about it too.”
“That is not nearly buying a Ferrari,” Mariana corrects.
“Besides, I thought you were dreaming about your mystery woman in Miami,” I tease. “Maybe you’ll tell us.”
