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She walks toward me in sweats and Uggs. Her hair, fresh-from-the-salon blond, cascades down her shoulders like Niagara Falls at sunset. She says hello, bends to hug me. Then she stands and looks out onto the field for the boy in the mask, hidden behind gear, protection, like armor. She smiles. He does, too, and I watch him visibly relax. She is here now. Now he can breathe.
She's in love with my son.
Uh … no. No, no, no, no, no. Not today. Not any day. He is too young, and I am not ready. I am not ready to give over this boy with the caramel eyes to someone as inexperienced as she. He plays baseball, you see, and he gets A's. He can't possibly know what love is now. He is 15. I haven't had time to tell him that holding a girl's hand is as important as all the rest of the stuff he's not ready for. I haven't shared with him yet that we love to be teased, we love to laugh, and we love to keep them waiting, so don't get mad. Just don't wear a watch.
He's crouching behind the plate, focused. I'm sure he's forgotten she's here. He loves baseball. The ball comes over the plate, he catches it, and like a bolt of lightning, pops up and guns the ball down to second, throwing out the runner. Strike 'em out, throw 'em out. Yes. He's locked in. Totally.
This one likes to come over. She likes to hang out at our house. She even falls asleep sometimes, and he shushes me if I'm too noisy.