Thou Shalt Not (17 page)

“Two, actually,” I replied.

She actually grabbed my arm and squeezed as she led me to a table along the side.

“My name is Gianna,” she said, as I sat down. “If you need anything, don’t hesitate.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

She smiled. “Terry will be your server. She’ll be right with you.”

One of my biggest pet peeves in life is when you go to an “ethnic” restaurant of any kind—Mexican, Italian, Chinese, etc.—and the server does not match the food. I don’t want to go to a Mexican restaurant where Amanda is my waitress, or a Chinese place where Marcus is serving me. So, hearing the name Terry kind of upset me. Maybe I was picturing Terry Bradshaw. And his ass, which he unfortunately shared with the world in some awful piece of garbage movie I had fortunately forgotten the name of.

I had told April to meet me at 6:30 and had arrived a few minutes early. I wasn’t sure if she was the early type, but I didn’t want to be getting there after her, or at the same time. The parking lot was mostly full of vehicles that were quite a bit more expensive than mine.

Gianna had seated me on the side of the table that faced her, and her glances and smiles were not infrequent. It seemed as if each minute passed that my dinner partner hadn’t yet arrived, she became friendlier. When she would turn away from me, I could see her pull her dress down along the sides, which of course increased how tight it was across her breasts.

People assume that most “boob guys” like them big, the bigger the better. But, I think as a breast guy myself, that breasts are pretty spectacular no matter the size, and that they can be beautiful as A’s or as D’s or anywhere in between. Being a boob guy shouldn’t ever mean you only like big. It should mean you appreciate them in just about every size, and should never make a woman feel inferior because hers aren’t big enough. Gianna didn’t ever have to worry about being too small, but if I was hooked up to a lie detector, I’d only pass the test if I honestly said hers just seemed too big, and therefore were really not that appealing.

I was thinking about breasts when April walked into the restaurant at 6:35. Her hair was down and straight, and she had changed into a black dress that made every thought I was having in my head start swimming around, bumping into other thoughts like blind people fumbling through a corn maze. Her dress made Gianna’s look frumpy and unappealing.

I stood up, completely involuntarily as she waited at the hostess stationed, then saw me and pointed in my direction. Gianna turned and made a disgusted face and gestured toward my table. She didn’t walk April to me, but stood back sizing her up. It was obvious April was in a league of her own, and Gianna disappointedly turned back to her station.

“Hi,” she said as I hugged her. Her body was perfect and lean and her small breasts nestled into my chest. I didn’t want to let her go. I also had a serious urge to grab her ass, but I refrained. Gianna had sneaked a peek back and was once again upset by what she saw.

“Sorry, I’m late,” she said as she sat down. “I was playing with my kids when I got home and lost track of time.”

“Oh, it’s fine,” I said, still trying and failing to form complete sentences in my head.

Just breathe, Luke. You’ve talked to her a million times.

I took a few sips (gulps) of water, and my brain thankfully cleared.

“Was it just me, or was the hostess kind of a giant bitch?” she asked as she picked up her menu. “Not to mention the fact that her boobs should have their own congressional representative.”

“She was actually really friendly with me,” I said.

“Well, of course. You’re a good looking man.”

I grinned.

“And since I am sitting with you, she probably wants to kill me. I bet she has already thought of at least ten things she could do to me to ruin my night, including pay our server to spill my food on me.”

“I had no idea women were so vengeful,” I lied. I work in a high school. I see what girls do and say to each other all the time.

“It’s true. We can be pretty rotten bitches.”

Terry the misplaced waitress returned and took our orders. April made her decision (Butternut Squash Tortellini) more quickly than any other woman I had ever gone to dinner with. She seemed to be a very decisive person. I liked that. I settled on the Spicy Penne Vodka with Shrimp.

“Did you bring me a copy of
Dubliners
?” I asked as Terry returned with our bread and olive oil dipping sauce.

“No,” she replied. “I got it out and set it on the counter, but I left it, like an idiot.”

“Guess you don’t want me to read it as much as you pretend you do.”

“Oh stop. I am a mother. We get distracted and forget things from time to time.”

“I suppose I will forgive you. Even though I was really looking forward to reading it.”

I heavily, and very sarcastically, emphasized the word “really” and she smiled, while rolling her eyes.

“Well, it’s still sitting there. So, after dinner we will go get it. Then you can start reading it, seeing how excited you must be to actually read something worthwhile for a change.”

Her mouth curled up into a sexy smile and her eyes actually seemed to sparkle.

“In that case, I’ll have to put my Curious George collection away for a while.”

“The man in the yellow hat will approve, I assure you.”

April called over the waitress and ordered a glass of wine, reminding me that you couldn’t have a decent Italian meal without red wine. I began to immediately hope she was a lightweight.

“So, tell me about yourself, Mr. Harper,” she said, pushing the hair that had fallen near her right eye aside. “I have heard bits and pieces from people around the school.”

“Oh god, what have they told you?” I asked. I hoped no one had told her about my previous marriage. Not that I was ashamed or embarrassed. I just had no desire to bring it up.

“Well, I hear you were holding out on me about actually being a baseball
star
, and not just some average player.”

I laughed.

“I wasn’t terrible.”

“What position did you play?”

Never in my life had a woman asked what position I played. They usually just nodded and changed the subject; no doubt worried I would start boring them with baseball stories, trying to relive my glory years.

“I played third base mostly.”

“The hot corner. Very nice.”

I wanted to leap across the table and make out with this woman. Fact. Gianna probably wouldn’t approve. Nor would she approve of what I’d do to April after we made out for a while.

I’d start with lowering the straps on her...

Focus on baseball, Luke,
I reminded myself. I had no use for a dinner erection.

“Yeah.”

“How long did you play?” she asked. “I mean, when did you start?”

Gianna was leading a couple to an empty table near us, and she seemed to lean forward a bit, reminding me that she had breasts, as if I had forgotten. The look in her eyes said, “She doesn’t have what I have,” and I felt like yelling out, “No, she doesn’t have herpes!” Thank God for restraint.

“I started playing in like third grade, I think. A friend of mine played, and his dad was the coach. The dad asked me to sign up every time I saw him, but I had never even picked up a glove I don’t think. I really had no desire to play.”

“So, what made you change your mind?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I just got tired of him asking. He told me to just come to one practice and if I hated it, he would never bother me again.”

“You clearly didn’t hate it.”

“No. At first I remember thinking I wanted to leave. The other kids seemed like they knew what they were doing and I didn’t have the first clue. But, then he told me to grab a bat and hit. I missed the first couple pitches, but then I hit the ball over all the kids camped out in the outfield. He just kind of stood there in disbelief and my friend was jumping up and down like it was Christmas. And that’s when I decided I loved baseball.”

“So, you kept playing, I take it?”

“Yeah, I played until my junior year in college. I was in every league I could get into, and since I was here in Florida I was playing year round.”

“Why did you stop?”

The inevitable question. She had her hands folded in front of her, and her look stayed inquisitive the whole time. I didn’t feel like she was asking to be polite. Her face told me that she seemed to legitimately want to know.  

The truth was I stopped playing for Carrie. We got married when I was a sophomore, and baseball practices and training and games took up much more of our time together than she was willing to give. She knew I loved the game, had gone to just about all of them since we had started dating. But she reminded me over and over again that we were married, and working on building a good marriage was more important that perfecting my swing against left-handed pitchers. I needed to focus on finishing school, becoming a teacher, and providing for my family. Baseball wasn’t going to do that in, in her opinion. Yet, here I was sitting across from a woman who was provided for quite nicely by baseball, and whose husband made more in a week than I probably made in three years.

Occasionally I felt a surge of anger toward Carrie, even now, and it was usually always in relation to baseball. She continued to advise me, and then strongly suggest, that I quit baseball after my sophomore year. But, I wasn’t going to. We had gotten into a pretty severe fight the night before the first game of my junior year. I was accused of loving baseball more than I loved her, etc., etc. But, I went out and played the next night. And in the fourth inning I hit a line drive down the right field line. I drove in a run and was racing to second base when my knee blew out. Torn ACL. Season over. Happy (but wouldn’t admit it) wife. It took a year to heal, and when I finally neared playing shape again, Carrie got cancer. Obviously, taking care of my wife became a priority. I never played on a field competitively again after tearing my knee. Now, it was playing on the occasional softball team in some random city leagues. And, when people see me play, they inevitably say, “You are really good. Did you ever play baseball? What happened?” Motherfuckers should just mind their own business. Sometimes I feel like playing on a team and purposely being terrible, like most of the rest of them, just to avoid the questions or the “Hey, weren’t you the guy...?” But, I am too competitive for that.

April could apparently sense my hesitation to answer the question.

“You know, it’s really not any of my business. I’m sorry.”

I shook my head.

“No, you’re fine. I blew my knee out. At the end of my junior year. It wasn’t fully healed until the end of my senior year, so I didn’t get to play.”

That wasn’t entirely true, but it worked.

“Oh, wow,” she said. “I am really sorry.”

“It wasn’t your fault.” I smiled. “Those sorts of the things happen. Nothing you can do about it.”

“A few years ago, Marco hurt his elbow,” she said, between sips of her wine. “Everyone was worried it would require Tommy John surgery.”

Vaguely, I remembered reading that. Tommy John surgery is basically the worst thing that could happen to a pitcher, minus their arm flying off in the middle of a game. It usually meant they were out a year at the very least, and few pitchers every returned to pre-injury form.

“That would have been worse than blowing an ACL, for sure,” I said.

“It was the only time I have ever really seen him worry about something. He was a different person for a week or so.”

“Different, how?”

“He was just...I don’t know. Scared, mostly. He is a talker, and he can be pretty macho and aggressive. But when he got the news he might need surgery, he was quiet, melancholy for a few weeks. Like he was contemplating losing it all.”

“That’s understandable,” I said.

“He was actually pleasant to be around.”

She paused, and for a moment I think she went back to that period of time.  

I knew that as a collegiate athlete I was incredibly competitive, driven by the sport I had played for so many years of my life. I knew the kind of funk I had gone into during my injury, and I could only imagine it magnifying once you had reached the professional level. It would be terrifying to think you might not ever be able to play at the same level again in the way you always had. Part of me wished for her sake that maybe he would have had the surgery, stayed “pleasant.” But, I knew if someone like him had been forced to have the surgery, he would have become bitter and angry and an even more gigantic asshole.

“Anyway,” she said, shaking her head like she was trying to shake whatever she was thinking away.

“Anyway,” I said back.

It was time to ask her. I wanted to know her story.

Terry Who Belonged at Cracker Barrel brought us our food. I had to admit, April’s dish looked better than mine, but I had eaten mine before and knew I would be happy. Plus, I would never admit that someone had out-ordered me.

“This is delicious,” she said in between her first few bites. “Good call, Harper.”

I hadn’t been called “Harper” since baseball. Part of me thought that she must know that.

“I’m glad you like it,” I said. “I used to come to this place more often. But it’s not exactly a dine alone kind of restaurant, you know?”

“What’s the matter? No hot dates lately?”

I laughed and continued eating, hoping it was more of a rhetorical question. It was either that or “Actually I took a girl out to dinner last night. We have pretty hot sex. It’s great.”

“So, what’s your story?” I asked, pausing between bites. The food had a way of filling you quickly and I was trying to pace myself. “How did Mrs. Batista come to be...Mrs. Batista? There’s quite the age difference there.”

“You don’t say?” she smirked. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“A cradle robber. I’ve done the math.”

“Oh, you have, have you?” she asked, her eyes peering up at me over her glass of wine. The light seemed to be dancing around her eyes, like there was fire inside them.

“I am not a stalker, I promise.”

“Thank God. I was going to ask if you were.”

Such a smart-ass.