Luck on the Line (11 page)

He flashes that radiant smile. He scratches the scruff on his neck and I wonder if it would tickle my lips to kiss him there.

“The water didn’t start coming in ‘til we were plating.”

“No wonder you guys are wearing flip-flops. What, do you guys go tanning on some cold New England beach in the morning?”

“Yeah, I’ll get a nice crispy tan with all the overcast.” He nudges my shoulder. “Nah, we go to the gym before work. You have to wear sandals in those showers. God knows what kind of shit is growing on those tiles.”

“Wow, my appetite just returned.” I rub my stomach, and eye the kitchen for more food. I open the lid to a covered plate and find more lamb pops. “Why are you making that face?”

“Lucky,” he says.

“James?” My insides get all knotted up in apprehension of his sigh.

“About last night…”

I want to put my fingers in my ears and go
la-la-la-la
. “Stop. I don’t know what you’re going to say, but—”

“Then let me talk.” He takes my hand by my wrist gently, sliding up my arm along the goosebumps on my skin. “I was totally over the line. We went from truce to drunk to my place.”

“Because you drink like a girl.”

I don’t know when he got so close to me, but he lowers himself to my ear and groans. It’s pretty hot actually. “I had a bottle of wine on an empty stomach.”

I shrug. “Me too.”

“Fine,” he says, turning away. The absence of him leaves a layer of cold where his body just was. “I drink wine like a girl. Does that make you happy?”

I nod rapidly.

“What I’m trying to say is that I’m sorry if I came off too strongly last night. I woke up and I was naked and you were gone. I was afraid I scared you. I can’t remember what was real or just my dream—”

I throw the clean bone into the trashcan. “I wasn’t scared.”

LIES LIES LIES.
I wasn’t scared of him. I’m
not
. I’m scared of this
feeling
in my gut that won’t go away. I don’t even know him, not the way you’re supposed to know someone before they make you feel like your insides will burn, like my heart is rebooting from previous mechanical failures.

“Wait—you dreamt about me?”

He leans back, scratching his head. “Uhh—”

“You were fine,” I say, putting a stop to the awkwardness before it gets out of hand. I can’t go down this road. “You probably took your clothes off in your sleep. You were dressed when I left.”

He arches an eyebrow for a second. “Alright.”

“We’re good. Our truce still stands. The truth is, I need your help for all of this. I don’t know what I was thinking, telling Stella I could do this.”

It’s the first time I’ve admitted it aloud.

He nudges my shoulder again. “I got you.”

For a moment, he’s back. It’s the James that’s there when we’re alone together. The tension in his shoulders eases, as well as his smile.

The back door opens, letting in that chilly after-the-rain air. Nunzio runs a hand across his buzzed hair. He’s got on a white tank top that stretches across his broad chest and a tattoo with the name Lydia in script under his collarbone. He grins when he sees James take three steps away from me.

“Whatcha been doing?” he says.

“Don’t start,” James says.

“I’m just asking a question.” Nunzio wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

“I’m out of here.” I start making a break out of the kitchen.

“You’re not going to the game?” Nunzio asks. His chef’s coat long gone.

“Game?” I ask.

James unbuttons the front of
his
chef’s coat, and I’m a little disappointed that he’s wearing a t-shirt underneath. “Mrs. Mark Teixeria over here wouldn’t be into it.”

“Who the hell is that?” I ask, only to receive pained groans from the guys.

Truth is, I hate baseball. It is the slowest sport on the planet. I’d rather watch drama queen soccer players fake injuries or hockey players beat the shit out of each other. The only reason I was wearing a baseball cap is because I stole it from my roommate as payback for her eating all of my food. Plus I hadn’t washed my hair in days. The baseball cap was my version of those medieval cones women wore to trap the smell because they couldn’t wash their hair every day. At least, that was my take away from high school World History.

“Your mom left us tickets,” Nunzio says.

Funny that my mom didn’t mention anything to
me
. But I’m not hurt. I’m used to Stella forgetting about me every now and then. “Oh. Right.”

The boys get really awkward, because they know I’m just trying to save face.

Nunzio flexes his bicep. “I have to bail though. I’m making dinner for a ten and a half.”

James shrugs.

“A ten and a half?” I say. “Do I even want to know what that is?”

“She’s beyond the scale. She’s a supermodel, but she eats like a pig. It’s
awesome
.” Nunzio starts walking out of the kitchen and we follow. “So Lucky, you should take my ticket. Once you get past the third beer, you’ll start having a good time.”

“That’s what my first boyfriend said to me on prom night,” I say. It’s a lie, but boys like that joke. It’s like I’m one of them. James doesn’t look like he approves so much.

“Yoooo, you’re a trip. You’re nothing like your moms.” Nunzio grabs my face and kisses each cheek. He slaps James’s hand in the way guys have of feeling super manly from a single handshake, then slaps James’s shoulder. “Please, do everything I would do.”

“Go feed your model,” James says, pushing him down the hall towards the offices.

“Good luck,” I yell as he grabs his duffle bag and heads out the door.

“I don’t need luck,” he winks. At least someone here doesn’t.

Fenway is more of a church to Boston than some of the actual churches in Boston. When Felicity realized I hadn’t been invited to the game, she put on her best owl-eyed-expression and said, “Ohmigod, I thought Stella told you!”

Truthfully, I shouldn’t be hurt. It’s a safe assumption to think that a mother and a daughter exchange more than pleasantries in public. These safe-assumers don’t know Stella and me very well. But at the end of the day, I got my ticket.

The busboy and line cooks, who seem to only call each other by their last names—Alfredo, Chang, Sully, Martinez—chug their beers in the row in front of me.

Felicity cranes her neck, a red cap fit snugly around her corkscrew curls. Slowly and steadily, the stadium fills up with Boston’s finest. Young college boys who’re looking to score beer with their shoddy fake IDs, large families who start their young early in the art of screaming at a diamond field. I’ve only ever been to one Mets game, so I don’t know what’s supposed to be a good seat at a baseball game. The guy I went with was such a fanatic that when we weren’t talking about baseball or having sex, he didn’t have two cents to give on anything. It wasn’t a
Fever Pitch
moment, but I’m not worse for the wear. So to speak.

“This is so exciting,” Felicity says.

I’m in a Felicity and James sandwich. James chuckles. “Is this your first game?”

“Yep! My brother’s little league doesn’t count, I suppose.”

“It counts,” I say. “It’s the same thing except here you get to drink beer and the guys are cuter.”

“Don’t tell me you’re one of those girls,” James says.

“What girls?”

“The girls that only watch sports because of the cute guys.”

I lean back in my seat. How is it ten degrees colder inside the stadium than out? “I can be any kind of girl I feel like.”

“Yes, you can.” He takes off his jacket and hands it to me without explaining why. I take it, mumbling a quiet thanks.

I’m swimming in the soft leather and I have to forcibly stop myself from bringing the sleeves to my nose and inhaling.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. Bradley’s name pops up in my text messages.

Bradley: What are you doing after work?

Me: Don’t laugh. I’m at the Sox/Braves game.

Bradley: What the hell? How is that working? I’m in my dad’s company box. Come up.

I can feel James’s eyes on me as I text.

Me: Can’t. With restaurant staff.

Bradley: Laaaaaaaame. What seats are you at?

“What’s the deal with that guy?” James asks. “Is he your Boston boy toy?”

I text him our location then instantly give James the evil eye. “My Boston
boy toy
?”

James smirks and claps at something that’s happening on the field. “Just saying. I see him around a lot. More now that you’re back.”

“He’s my best friend.”

James cocks an eyebrow that says,
yeah right
.

“Guys and girls can’t be friends?”

“Not when the girl looks like you.”

I sit back down on my seat. I don’t know how to take that. Before I can think too much on it, a handful of popcorn kernels showers over our section. Behind us is a large group of extremely drunk frat boys. Sure, I don’t know if they’re frat boys, but they feel like frat boys, and I have a huge aversion to them because every time I’ve gone to a house party, I feel like I’m being corralled into the next available room to get fucked by an unfortunate whiskey dick.

“Lucky, leave your friends at home,” James says, glancing back at the frat crowd.

“Ha, ha, very funny.”

“Come on.” He blows his breath into his hands. “They’re your people.”

“Why do you think you’ve got me all figured out?” I hate that he says stuff like that. I hate that one second he seems to get me so well, and the next he totally misses the mark. Guys are stupid.

I look down at my empty beer. Felicity’s got a full foamstache going as she listens to Martinez explain to her why the left field wall is called the Green Monster.

“I need another beer.” I get up and scoot my way down the aisle. “Do you guys want anything else?”

The boys list off beers, pretzels, pizza, and more beer.

James smiles and cranes his head back. When he smiles his green eyes crinkle at the corner. “Want some help, Lucy?”

I purse my lips to keep myself from grinning. It’s not that I like when he calls me that. I don’t. But maybe it’s growing on me. “I got it.”

I rush through the new influx of people wearing red and white. It’s still drizzling, but that doesn’t stop people from throwing on a Red Sox poncho and getting a little wet. We parked a few blocks south and walked the rest of the way. Even if you’re walking and don’t know you’re way around the area, all you have to do is follow the trails of people. It’s like ants returning to their colony.

The stadium air is strong with cold frothy beer and warm salty pretzels. There are so many stands, pretty much all serving the same food, that the wait time is a fraction of Yankee Stadium’s. I order six pretzels, nachos and cheese, a personal pie, and four beers. When I realize I can’t carry all of this, I want to smack myself. Dear Lucky, why you so stubborn?

“
Now
do you want some help?”

I can feel James standing directly behind me.

“Only if you say my real name.” The pretzels are wedged between the beers and the nacho cheese is starting to dribble onto my wrist.

“Lucky,” he says. “Lucky.”

I’d like to think that this, James Hughes saying my name, has no effect on me. I pride myself on being the kind of girl that isn’t easily swayed by a pretty face. It’s not just his sea-green eyes that look clearer under the bright white stadium lights, or my name on his lips—it’s that he followed me here to help.

I let him take the nachos and pretzels tray.

“You’ve got a little something,” he says.

I immediately go to my face, but he takes my hand and turns it, exposing the inside of my wrist where a fat drop of warm cheese spilled from the tray.

“You can’t take me anywhere,” I say, completely glued to the floor.

He doesn’t disagree. He brings my wrist to his mouth. His tongue is warm on my cold skin. Heat takes over my cheeks, my chest, and spreads down, down, down.

“There’s no sense in wasting good cheese,” he says.

“You’re gross.” I battle the burst of adrenaline in my veins.

“You’re delicious.” He clears his throat. “I meant the cheese.”

I’ve never felt so attracted to someone in my life.

Then I remind myself that he’s my mother’s pet project. I remind myself that I’m leaving as soon as the restaurant is open. I remind myself that all guys are the same, and even if yes, James Hughes decides that I’m just as pretty as the other girls that line up to be in his bed, at the end of the day, what’ll I be left with?

“You didn’t get anything for yourself?” he asks. “Not that you would want any of this crap when you just had a five star tasting.”

“Actually,” I say, stopping at a long line. “I was about to get a hot dog.”

He smiles, that sweet dimple puncturing his cheek. “Come on, then.”

One of my favorite smells in the world is meat on the grill. It fills my head with pleasant memories of when my dad would fire up the grill and make dinner. My mom would yell at him that he’d make her fat, but she always finished her burgers in record time.

“You space out a lot, you know.”

James takes the empty space in front of us as the line gets shorter.

“I don’t think of it as spacing out. I think of it as sensory recollection.”

He whistles. “Okay Harvard, dumb it down for me.”

“I never went to Harvard.”

He looks shocked. “Holy shit, there’s a college you
didn’t
drop out of?”

“So you’re a chef because you failed Clown College, is that it?”

He fakes an injury to his chest, which causes a bright yellow cheesy nacho to fall to the ground.

“Man down,” I say. “You’d better lick it off the floor. No sense in wasting good cheese.”

He turns his face to the side, but I can see his face flush. I like this side of James. The side of him that isn’t holding up the line at a coffee shop to get a number, the side of him that isn’t territorial about his kitchen. Why can’t this James be around all the time?

The guy at the sausage stand nods at me. “What’re ya havin’?”

“I’ll take a foot long Italian sausage with peppers,” I say.

“Damn girl,” James whispers behind me.