Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 68524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 274(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 274(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
“Is it?”
“Aunt Sue wasn’t big on breakfast, so I’d just make myself coffee and an off-brand pop tart.”
“Can I ask how she died?”
“ALS. Most people know it as Lou Gehrig’s disease. She was only fifty-two.”
“That’s awful.”
“It really, truly was,” he muttered, as he climbed off the barstool and crossed the kitchen to the coffee station. He proceeded to make himself a concoction that was approximately one-third each coffee, sugar, and milk. Once he finished, I poured myself a cup of coffee and added a splash of almond milk before joining him at the kitchen island.
While we ate, he asked, “What time is the game?”
“At eleven. We should leave at ten-fifteen if we want to walk.”
“How far is it?”
“About twenty blocks.”
“And are there hills between here and there?”
“A couple.”
He wrinkled his nose and said, “No, thank you.”
“You don’t want to come to the game?”
“No, I do. What I don’t want is to schlep over hill and dale and arrive looking sweaty and bedraggled.”
“Fair enough. I’ll order us a rideshare.”
“Thanks.” He took a cautious bite of the avocado toast before asking, “So, who are the Artful Dodgers playing, and how much do we hate them?”
“It’s a team of lawyers from a high-powered firm in the Financial District, and we hate them a lot.”
He nodded. “Got it. And what should I know about your coworkers? Do you have a crush on any of them?”
“Not even a little. Most of them are straight, except for my good friend Daria, and two guys who recently started dating each other.”
“How long have you worked there?”
“Almost six years. I started as an intern when I was still in art school.”
He kept asking questions about my job all through breakfast. Then we lingered over coffee, until he jumped up and exclaimed, “I need to get ready! I can’t make the Dodgers’ star pitcher late.”
He put his dishes in the sink before rushing downstairs to his van. After I loaded the dishwasher, I requested a Lyft, put on my baseball cap, and filled a backpack with two water bottles, my mitt, and some snacks for Collie.
When he met me at the front door, I couldn’t help but grin. He was all in black again and carrying a messenger bag, with the handle of an umbrella hooked over his arm. He’d decided to go with his Converse sneakers, tights with a large fishnet weave, cut-off shorts, and long, fingerless gloves, along with an oversized baseball jersey.
He stuck a huge pair of sunglasses on his face and announced, “I’m ready.”
“It’s probably not going to rain,” I said, as I indicated the umbrella.
“That’s for the sun. I have to protect my corpselike complexion.”
I opened the door for him, and when he bounded down the front steps to the waiting Honda, I noticed the back of his jersey was emblazoned with a big 69. That made me smile.
Collie and our driver chatted all the way to our destination. When she dropped us off at the edge of the playing field, I realized I was cutting it pretty close. Most of the players on both teams were already there, stretching and doing warmups.
Just then, I got a text from my friend Daria, asking where I was. I spotted her across the field and waved, and she ran to meet me.
Daria had taken me under her wing when I started working at our company. She was Korean-American like me, but her parents were Korean immigrants who’d taught her all about her heritage. When she realized how clueless I was about Korean food and culture, she’d made it her mission to educate me. A really solid friendship had grown from there.
Once she reached us, I introduced her to Collie and asked, “Is everything alright? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you run that fast.”
“I’m not sure how you’re going to take this, but I wanted to give you a heads up,” she said. “One of the lawyers on the other team brought his boyfriend.”
“And?”
“It’s Bruce.”
I turned to scan the people on the other side of the field as Collie asked, “Who’s Bruce?”
I muttered, “My ex,” just as I spotted him hugging some big, tall, musclebound guy.
“The ex? The plastic surgeon who left you at the altar?”
“He didn’t actually leave me at the altar.”
“Close enough. Which one is he?”
“The tall, square-jawed blond guy who’s hugging, well, basically his doppelganger.”
“Okay, so of the two blond behemoths…”
“He’s the one on the right.”
Collie wrinkled his nose and asked, “Is that your type? Because that’s just so… obvious. Like, god forbid your ex would be a short, skinny, dark-haired guy.”
I muttered, “I don’t have a type,” as I turned my back to the field.
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“Eleven months ago. He was supposed to stay away while I was packing my stuff, but he came home just as I was leaving with the last box.”