Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 81767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
If she wants to make a show, I know just the place to do it. I reach for my phone, do a bit of research on an idea I have, and then look up with a smile and a plan.
“The Mariners have a game at 4:15. I think it’s one of the last of the season.”
Her eyes widen and light up, and I know my idea is a good one. “Baseball?”
“Normal activity for a normal couple.”
Fiora hesitates, chewing on her bottom lip. How she doesn’t smudge her red lipstick, I don’t know, but she still looks perfectly put together when she lets go, a fine contrast to my mess.
“I don’t know… the last time I was supposed to go, Mason died.”
“Then think of it as a makeup game,” I offer. “A way to pay respects at a game you never got to share.”
Her face softens at my suggestion, her brown eyes twinkling with something I can’t pinpoint. Then she blinks and it’s gone, replaced with a tight mask I’ve come to realize is her way of hiding her pain. As boring as I find baseball, I think this will be good for the both of us. She’ll get closure, and I’ll get our parents off my back.
“Fine,” she agrees, then holds up a finger, “but we’re both wearing jerseys and yelling at the umpires over beer and hot dogs.”
That sounds like a terrible time, but I can’t exactly say no. Too much rides on this public display.
But I guess it’s not all bad, because Fiora’s smile when I nod lights up the room.
Fiora starts yelling halfway through the second inning, not even one beer in.
We sit in the Diamond Level behind home plate, giving her a perfect outlet to rail against the umpire with “eyes so bad he couldn’t see the sun.”
I know enough about baseball, but I stay quiet as Fiora tells me all about the game anyway. She hasn’t been this happy since I’ve met her. Ever since our engagement dinner, she’s been in a shitty mood. I can’t blame her. Losing a brother then gaining a stranger as a fiancé would drive any woman mad. But Fiora Godwin isn’t a normal woman. She’s strong, fierce, and independent, which is why I have no problem calling her my girl.
And when my girl wants another hot dog, she gets another damn hot dog.
When the game moves into the top of the 7th, Fiora stretches her arms above her head and turns her head toward me. “Having fun?”
“You’re more fun than the game,” I answer. “I’m surprised the umpire hasn’t kicked you out yet.”
“It’s not my problem he doesn’t know where the strike zone is,” Fiora argues, flicking the end of her ponytail over her shoulder. She changed into a more casual look before the game, and yet still somehow looks dressed to the nines in some Chucks and a new baseball jersey. “He called a strike at the batter’s pecs, for God’s sake.”
“He swung at it.”
“And that was stupid, too.” She laughs. “He’s lucky we’re winning, or he’d be next on the list.”
I shake my head and set my beer back into the holder. I always figured Fiora would be the type of girl who let off steam with Daddy’s credit card. Instead, she screams at overpaid athletes for fun. What else will she surprise me with?
“Do you go to games often?”
Fiora pats Mason’s jersey affectionately. “He’s the one who got me into baseball. Took me to my first game. We lost in the bottom of the 10th, and I’ve never gotten over it.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Really?”
“That’s a lot for a seven-year-old to deal with, you know.” Fiora smiles at her own argument, popping a few pieces of popcorn into her mouth. “The first taste of real rejection.” Then she turns to me curiously. “Your turn. When’s the first time you ever had your heart broken?”
“When Nonna died,” I answer immediately. “I used to spend a month during summer at her house. Her cannoli was to die for. I miss her cooking.”
“I miss my mother’s food, too,” Fiora says with a sigh. “She died when I was fifteen. Car accident. An actual car accident, if that’s your next question.”
“It’s a valid question.”
You never know with the Godwins.
Fiora is about to speak when her words are drowned out by a cheesy love song blaring from the speakers on the jumbotron. “Kiss Cam” lights up the screen, and the camera pans to different couples all around the stadium. They give each other little pecks before the camera moves on.
And eventually settles on me and Fiora.
Fiora doesn’t even look shocked. She turns to me with a coy smile and puckers her lips. “Come here, big boy.”
The fuck did she call me? I turn my cheek in response, and her lips land on my cheek, just above the stubble of my facial hair I never took care of today. It’s one thing to be called a lame nickname, even in jest. It’s another thing when the crowd boos. The old assholes around us jokingly sneer, with one woman two rows up yelling, “Kiss your wife!” The camera is still on us, so Fiora’s sneaky grin against my cheek is blown up for everyone to see.