Forty-eight

Henley

2017

It’s Sunday. My one day off. My one day to sleep in. So, naturally, I’m up at dawn. Restless, I pull on a pair of jeans and a baggy cowl neck sweater before slipping on a pair of slouchy suede boots.

My mother would hate everything I’m wearing. She’d say I look sloppy. Common. Never mind that the sweater is cashmere and cost more than most people make in a week.

A lady always looks put together.

Jeans, Henley? Really?

I look at myself in the full-length mirror in my room and grin like an idiot.

Throwing my hair into a quick, loose braid, I shove some cash, my ID and my keys into my pocket and head out with no real idea of where I’m going.

It’s been years since I’ve walked anywhere that didn’t involve shopping. The prospect has me practically giddy.

Stepping off the elevator and into the lobby, I smile and wave at the concierge behind the front desk. “Shall I have your car brought around, Ms. O’Connell?” He looks slightly panicked that I didn’t call down to ask him ahead of time, reaching for the phone, finger poised to dial the garage.

Ladies don’t run the streets.

Like I don’t know where the garage is. Like I don’t know how to start a car.

“No, thank you,” I say, giving him the same answer I give him every day, breezing past him without stopping. I’m through the door and halfway down the sidewalk before he even hangs up the phone.

I wander. Find a bakery and buy a half dozen croissants and a large black coffee. Eat three of them. Drink my coffee. Wander some more. Give the rest of my pastries along with half the money in my pocket to a homeless man. Keep walking. Breath. Enjoy my freedom.

Before I know it, it’s late morning, and I’m miles from my building. Not that I’m lost. Not really. I recognize the park I’ve wandered into almost immediately. It’s where we used to play baseball when we were kids.

Seems I wasn’t really wandering after all.

There’s a team on one of the fields, warming up. A giant in a navy blue T-shirt and ball cap is alternating between hitting long balls, grounders and the occasional pop fly while his players scramble to field and catch as many of them as they can. The kids are having a ball, laughing and shouting to each other. Communicating their plays, so they don’t run into each other. If someone misses or drops the ball, they boo and hiss, but it’s all good-natured fun.

Fifteen-year-old me is green with jealousy.

I wander closer to get a better look, hooking my fingers into the chain link fence near the dugout, watching like the odd man out at a pick-up game.

“Henley?”

I whip around, cheeks stained a bright red like I’ve been caught doing something bad. Conner’s cousin, Patrick is standing behind me, a mesh bag full of baseballs slung over one shoulder, a trio of bats levered against the other. He’s wearing a navy blue T-shirt with a company logo—DPG Design & Build—splashed across the front and a ball cap tugged low over a face that looks both confused and surprised.

“Patrick?” I look around, hoping to see Conner and feeling like a fool for it. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m here every Sunday,” he says, laughing and shaking his head at me. “Dec and I sponsor and coach a team.” He tips his chin toward the field. Sure enough, the giant lobbing balls into the outfield is Declan. “What are you doing here?”

That’s a good question. What am I doing here?

“I don’t really know,” I say honestly. “I woke up early and decided on a walk.” I shrug. “Ended up here.”

“How far away is your apartment?” he says, swinging the bag of balls off his shoulder, and drops it over the waist-high fence and into the dugout.

“A few miles over, on Boylston,” I say with another evasive shrug.

“Boylston?” He looks concerned. Like he might agree with my mother about my propensity for running the streets, unsupervised. “Lot of rough neighborhood between there and here.”

His comment feels like an admonishment, and it stiffens my neck instantly. “Don’t let the cashmere and diamonds fool you, Gilroy,” I say, planting my hands on my hips. “I grew up in this neighborhood, remember? I can take care of myself.”

“Oh, I know that,” he says, tipping his hat back a bit so I can see his face. “The fat lip Con’s walking around with can attest to the fact.”

His comment, delivered on a calm, even tone, shames me instantly. “He deserved it,” I say, sounding like I’m twelve.

I haven’t seen Conner in three days. Not since he made me come, twice, on his kitchen floor before kicking me out of his apartment.

“Of that, I have no doubt.” Patrick laughs, firmly closing the subject. “You still play?”

I haven’t touched a baseball in almost ten years. Not since my mother came to this very park when I was fifteen and hauled me away from a pick-up game, her thin fingers digging into the meat of my arm like talons.

Never again, Henley Rose. Do you understand me? If I so much as suspect that you’re down here, playing and running around with that trash, you’ll be sorry.

Conner was on that field.

So was my brother.

“No.” I shake my head emphatically, even as the palm of my hand starts to tingle. The muscles in my arm start to ache. “I haven’t thrown a ball in years.”

Patrick grins at me, and this time it’s genuine. “You want to?”