The Fallback Page 10

  I smile, keeping my mouth shut to actually filter my words and thoughts this time. “It was nice meeting you, Jerry.”

  “Don’t get formal on me now,” he says, eyeing me carefully. His stare isn’t as heavy or prodding as Levi’s, but it’s nearly as intense. Like he recognizes there’s a level of uncertainty and regret currently feeding on my insecurities. “Make sure the White Sox give those Cubbies hell.” A slight nod, and his scrutinizing gaze drops to the bar where Levi and I sat, and he cleans it for a second time.

  Levi’s hand brushes the middle of my back as he guides me through the throngs of people toward the front door. More have come. Some have their faces painted, looking surprisingly intimidating; others look comfortable and at ease, as though they’re returning home. The table of women with deep-cut shirts and perfect hair has grown into two tables, and while I chastise myself for looking at them more closely, I do. They appear ageless, their darkly shadowed eyes and highlighted cheekbones somehow teasing at them being underage, yet the way they’re poised as though completely self-assured makes them seem older than my twenty-nine years.

  I turn my attention away, hating that another person—a stranger—has me reconsidering so much about my relationship with Gabe and why someone as good looking as Levi would be willing to bring me here. Insecurities don’t go away when you graduate high school—some days, like today, they hardly even seem different. I’m still comparing my bra size to theirs and the gaps between their thighs to my lack of one. Just now those same insecurities come with more guilt. Guilt that I’m judging others. Guilt that I’m judging myself. Guilt because I know what it’s like when someone wrongfully judges you.

  The wind blows my hair across my face like a sheet, bringing me back to the present. An hour of doing my hair becomes wasted as I fist the strands and tie them up into an elastic and look toward Levi.

  “Would you mind if we walk the couple of blocks to the stadium?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “I’d like that.” Regardless of the wind. Somehow, the fresh air makes the cars and people and noise all feel less restrictive and demanding.

  “All right, so White Sox, culinary school, a dishwasher, and now management at a club.”

  Levi’s face is painted with a grin as he turns and looks at me. “I’m at the disadvantage. I don’t know if I just talk too much or you’re better at asking questions.”

  “You know I’m blogging.”

  Levi nods, his head swinging widely as though pronouncing the fact. “And that you grew up with your grandma and brother on a farm.” He smiles as he says it, as though waiting for me to argue. I don’t. “And that you’re a vegetarian. That last one might have been my biggest surprise.”

  “So far.” My voice nearly sings the borderline-flirting words, shocking me and making Levi’s constant grin grow into a smile. We separate to pass around a large crowd, and then our steps find the same rhythm once more. “Why was the vegetarian part the biggest shock?”

  He shrugs. “I think if I tell you, you’ll think I’m a judgmental asshole.”

  “In addition to your cockiness? Yikes.”

  His blue eyes dance with amusement. “The only vegetarians I’ve ever met don’t wear shoes or shower.”

  “Are you sure they were vegetarian? Because you’re describing my best friend’s children.” I laugh.

  “They’re the new-age hippies. You know who I’m talking about!”

  I shrug, knowing exactly whom he’s referring to. I catered a wedding last summer that had an all too real Hobbit-esque feel to it with lots of grass and rocks, bare feet, and a complete lack of undergarments. It was initially really hard not to find the bride and groom and their ideas bizarre, even off-putting, but they’d turned out to be some of the kindest—albeit strangest—clients I’ve worked with. “Anyone who walks around Chicago without shoes has to be crazy. Can you imagine what one steps on every day?” I shudder.

  Levi kicks a rusted nail to the side; our pace—which has been established by the crowds behind us—is too quick for either of us to try to retrieve it. “I think the universe is agreeing with you,” he tells me.

  At the crosswalk, a police officer stands with a whistle between his lips, a palm facing our large group attempting to cross the street. The energy is ratcheting higher with the stadium now in view. People in cars are honking. Cheers and jeers are being yelled. The energy is nearly visible it’s so strong.

  Levi stands straighter; his shoulders somehow seem to become wider with his stance, and he places a hand gingerly on my back. It’s not intimate, but his intention to shield and ward off the man behind me who is close enough to smell the beer on his breath makes my stomach do somersaults.

  We cross the street at a fast clip, the noise from our surrounding crowd growing even louder, as though moving has unchained the final harness.

  “Just wait,” Levi says into my ear, his lips so close they graze my hair when I turn too fast. “This is calm. It will get even louder.”

  Louder?

  A dozen seconds pass before his words register and another dozen for them to make sense. The heat from him being so close. The scent of his cologne mixed with soap. Those damn parentheses around both corners of his mouth. And those eyes—those eyes make me feel like he’s looking past whatever I’m saying, whatever I’m thinking, whatever I’m feeling—straight into my soul and what makes me who I am. It’s crazy and impossible, and yet as his blue eyes lock on mine once more, I’m nearly certain of the fact.

  We pass through security, where the crowds once again pull my attention in a dozen directions. More face and body paint, huge homemade signs, shirts decorated with clever uses of words and numbers, jerseys, and silly hats are donned by people of all ages, but they are only a brief thought because it’s then that I realize the Cubs fans are streaming through the same gates, equally excited and dressed to show off their team pride.

  “Will this be an issue?” I ask Levi.

  He shakes his head. “Not yet it won’t. Once we start winning, though, all bets are off.” He winks, flashing a smile I haven’t seen him try on yet. It’s wider—more mischievous and distracting as all hell.

  Levi’s hand returns to my back as we begin milling forward in the crowds, following the paths and numbers until he stops, directing me down a flight of steps. We make it inside, and though it’s nearly ninety minutes before the first pitch, the seats are surprisingly full. Concession people are walking the ends of each aisle, yelling about cotton candy, beer, and popcorn. The stairs are steep. I grip the handrail tighter, following Levi down several rows and then in front of several seated fans before stopping in front of a few empty red seats. I’m flushed from the long walk and nerves as I set my purse down and take a seat. The field is so close I can read the many billboards that surround the pristinely cut grass, making my thoughts wander to what Levi does. I make a decent living with my job, but affording rent on my single income in Chicago would be a near-impossible struggle, and though I know little about sports and the rules, I’m positive there’s no way I could even dream of affording season tickets that were this close.

  “These seats are amazing.”

  Levi looks at me, his gaze once again penetrating.

  Does he realize I’m wondering if he’s possibly a drug dealer in his spare time? Or if he has rooms where he pimps out women?

  He nods. “They’ve been in my family for years. My grandfather was a huge Sox fan.”

  My shoulders fall with a silent sigh of relief. “You mentioned he used to bring you.”

  Levi nods. “He came and watched every single game up until he passed away.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  He pulls his lips into a polite smile. “I appreciate it.” He rubs his hands together and sits back in his seat. “I have to admit I’m kind of honored to make a spot on your blog.”

  I laugh, and it sounds like a guffaw—too loud and throaty. “I just started the blog yesterday,” I admit.

  One
large shoulder lifts, his slight shift allowing the wind to brush his scent toward me again, tickling my nose and preventing me from noticing much else. “But you started,” he says. “That’s always the hardest part.”

  I think back to the blog entry I wrote. Just let go. I did let go, and in doing so, I started something new.

  “So, will this be your first blog entry?”

  I shake my head. “I actually wrote about another first I had last weekend.”

  “What was that?”

  “My best friend—the one I went to the club with—she and I went rock climbing.”

  His chin tilts, and his eyes glimmer as though reflecting interest, like he wants to hear more. It feels like support. It also feels completely unfamiliar to be coming from a man. Felicity has always been supportive, even when it comes to random whims; she never hesitates throwing a log into the flue, stoking my ideas—even the crazy ones.

  The thought has me sitting back in my seat, my thoughts once again gravitating toward Gabe. We spoke so little about our jobs and interests and so much about what our friends and people we knew were doing. Talking about their achievements and their struggles rather than our own.

  “Did you enjoy it?” he asks.

  I nod, thinking about how doing so helped me be brave and reach out to him and how it’s why I’m here. “My shoulders were embarrassingly sore, but it was surprisingly really fun.”

  He chuckles. “Surprisingly? It wasn’t what you expected?”

  “I’m trying to reserve my expectations.”

  He dips his chin with interest. His attentiveness nearly has me blushing. This is a simple conversation, and yet in just the few minutes we’ve been sitting here, I’m reminded of how closely he listened to me on Friday, and I realize maybe it wasn’t just for show.

  “Reserving expectations for what?”

  I shake my head. “Nothing. I’m working on not making assumptions or passing judgment about situations, people, or ideas, because if nothing else, these past couple of months have taught me that change is inevitable. And in order to make the most out of life and situations, I can’t continue to do the same thing day in and day out. The whole purpose of this blog is to experience things I haven’t before while learning what it’s like to be single again.”

  “Hey, Levi!” A man says from behind me. I don’t see him, though, because Levi is staring at me once more, and the intensity and intent behind it serves like a spell, binding my attention to only him.

  “You fascinate me,” he says.

  And for the hundredth time, I wish I hadn’t proclaimed we weren’t on a date, because I really want to know what it would be like to kiss him.

  16

  “Hey, John.” Levi nods once. “John, this is my friend, Brooke. Brooke, John.”

  I turn around to discover a large man with a full head of dark ringlets wearing a White Sox jersey and an oversized foam finger. The man barely regards me but offers a faint smile before turning back to Levi. “This is sure to be one hell of a game. Am I right?” John asks.

  “I’m hoping it will be.” Levi’s attention moves to me. He drops his head just enough that I can tell he’s done with the conversation with his seat neighbor.

  “Not a fan?” I whisper.

  “Just wait.”

  It doesn’t take long to discover what Levi meant. John turns out to be what Levi refers to as the “hugger fan.” With each step toward the opening game—the announcements, the singing of the national anthem, the first pitch—John was reaching for Levi or me to hug or slap on the back. When he finally gets up to use the restroom, Levi shakes his head and releases a heavy sigh.

  “He only comes to games once in a blue moon because his uncle owns the seat, but each time he comes, I end up spending too much on beer.”

  I grin in spite of his apparent frustration. Levi has been nothing but polite to the man. I’ve been the one turning with shocked expressions and rolling my eyes each time John hugs me. Levi just obliges and cheers or complains along with John when there’s a call the home team’s fans don’t approve of.

  “You think it’s funny?” Levi asks.

  I shake my head and attempt to stop my smirk from tugging on my lips. “No. Not at all.”

  He smiles, releasing a chuckle that sends a recently familiar jolt through me. It reminds me of when I was young and would eat Pop Rocks and chase them with soda—a fizzy and tingling sensation that travels through every extremity. “You’re a terrible liar.”

  My phone chimes—and then chimes again, and again. “Sorry,” I tell him, reaching for my purse. “I meant to mute it.” I retrieve my cell phone from my pocket, cursing myself for not having left it in my purse. With the noise from the stands, I likely wouldn’t have heard it. I see several text messages from Catherine; the last one is a single word:

  Emergency.

  I wipe a hand across my forehead. “I’m so sorry,” I apologize again, feeling worse because I’m not smart or brave enough to ignore her messages.

  Levi’s blue eyes are round under his arched eyebrows. “Is it the ex?”

  I pull my chin back. “No. No,” I repeat the word, saying it more firmly and with a sense of finality. “Definitely not. This is my boss.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “I’m sure it is. She’s just needy and constantly stressed out. She should probably be medicated.” I’m channeling her frazzled persona as I swipe some loose hairs from my cheek and open the strand of messages from Catherine.

  Catherine: What kind of apples do I like?

  Catherine: Is it Fuji or Gala? I always confuse them. One is mealier than the other.

  Catherine: Emergency!!!!

  “She should definitely be medicated,” I amend my statement with a deep sigh.

  Levi laughs as I type out a quick response to Catherine.

  Me: Gala.

  “And I’m enabling her craziness.”

  “Not a big fan of your job, I take it?”

  I look up, working to remove any evidence of a scowl. “I’m sounding dramatic, aren’t I?” I swipe at my hair again. “I love my job … most days.” My smile feels sincerer than the last one I tried to imitate. “I’ve worked there for nearly ten years, and I have a lot of flexibility and the freedom to do whatever I want. My boss is just a bit eccentric. I guess we all are in our own ways though, right?”

  “Is this when you segue into telling me something about you sleeping in a coffin or refusing to leave the house on days that begin with a T or wearing the same socks every day?” Levi’s brows rise with humor.

  “I thought we weren’t supposed to share too much the first time we hang out?”

  His lips spread wide with a smile, his face relaxing. “Are you asking me to go out on a second ‘non-date’?” He lifts his fingers, making air quotations.

  My cheeks warm, and laughter bubbles from me. “I told you I don’t know how to be around people. That—that’s my idiosyncrasy. I have really lame people skills, particularly with the opposite sex.”

  Levi bows his head slightly, his gaze dropping. The angle exposes his long eyelashes and the sharp cut of his cheekbones. He shakes his head. “I saw you that night at the club. You’re good with people. You made them feel at ease and had no problem initiating conversation—that is until I got in the way of you watching out for your friend.” He looks up, watching for my reaction.

  “You’re giving yourself too much credit.”

  His laughter fills something in my chest that feels too similar to dependency. He sits back in his seat and appraises me. I attempt to discreetly memorize the way he leans to one side, how his chin dips, and the fine laugh lines that form above his cheeks due to his sculpted jaw. Looking at him inspires me to want to try some form of artistry—an attempt to preserve this expression so I can openly admire it. “I’ll even cook for you,” he says. “Really pull out my big guns.” He pulls his sleeves halfway up his forearms.

  I laugh. “You’re really curious to learn if
I’m eccentric, aren’t you?”

  “I’m really curious to find out if you’re as addictive as you seem.”

  I move my gaze from his intense stare, over his shoulder, before glancing back to find him maintaining his stare. I’m positive my cheeks are flushed—likely my neck and chest and entire body as well—because I’ve never had anyone talk to me so directly. He isn’t embarrassed at all, causing me to feel even more off-balance.

  “I make you nervous,” Levi says, a slow grin curling his lips.

  “No, not nervous… Well, maybe … okay, a little nervous. You’re just more direct than I’m used to.”

  His grin transforms into a smile so wide his eyes become nearly hidden by his cheeks. “I figure it’s best to be direct.”

  I’m envious over this. While Felicity claims I have confidence, I worry about others being happy so much and so often I sometimes forget entirely to consider my own thoughts or preferences—let alone voice them. “I might be really bad at this dating thing,” I tell him. “I haven’t done it in a long time. You’ll be entertained to know my best friend and I spent the better part of yesterday reading about the current etiquette because it’s been that long.”

  Levi moves his chin to the side, his eyes narrowing. It looks as though he’s inspecting me. “Please.” He raises one hand. “Promise me you won’t look up anything by anyone regarding dating. I’m not interested in rules or norms, and head games make me drink. All you have to do is say you’re interested, and we’ll make a go of it.” His shoulders rise with an easy shrug. “And you’ll quickly discover I’m super easy to hang out with and have the added bonus of making really good…” He snaps his fingers. “Vegetarian. Okay, I was going to say ribs, but that would probably be unattractive rather than score me bonus points, so let’s go with really awesome … vegetables?”