Page 88 of Elevator Pitch

“Ready?” I hold out my hand and lead her out of her place.

Once I’ve helped her into my truck and settled into the driver’s seat, she says, “I can’t believe we’re going to a play.”

“Why not?” I laugh, starting the ignition.

“You don’t seem like a theater kind of guy.”

I ease onto the narrow street, pausing at a stop sign and giving Vee a glance. “I could be offended by that comment.” I know the stereotype. Jocks don’t like culture. Vee’s already teased herself about once being a librarian and now a writer. Book nerd and star athlete, she called us.

Us. That’s the one thing I want to talk more about with Vee—defining us. Because we should clarify some things, but not yet. First, our date.

“But you won’t be offended,” Vee interjects, giving me a soft smile. “I’m not stereotyping you, I’m just surprised. Surprised by all of this.”

“Like what?” I once told Vee there were things she’d be surprised to learn about me, but maybe I meant it more about myself. Because I’m surprising myself lately with all I’m doing and saying, becoming a new version of myself. A version I’m enjoying.

“An actual date.”

“We went on one before.” Our trip to the Hole in the Rock.

Maybe now is the time for that talk. “Look, sweetheart. This arrangement isn’t just a simple arrangement anymore. If you don’t want to see me again, we can stop.” I almost give myself a heart attack with the suggestion, but the truth is, if Vee wants out, she can exit. “But I’d like you to stick around. I’d like to see where this is going.”

“This?” She hesitantly questions, and I catch a glimpse of her from the corner of my eye. Her wide eyes opening larger. Her teeth dig into her lower lip.

“Us.” I point between us before reaching for her hand and giving it a squeeze.

As I brake for a stop sign, I sneak another peek at her, watching those teeth battle a smile from growing before she scoots closer and leans toward me, pressing a kiss to my cheek. “I’d like to stick around, too.” Her voice is low, a bit sultry as she lowers back to her seat. Her smile grows, causing my own to spread wider.

Damn, she’s so beautiful, and the way she’s looking at me, devouring doesn’t cover that craving. Or maybe that’s me because I yearn for her in a way I’ve never felt before.

Vee suddenly giggles, the sound soft and sweet, almost shy but happy, and I want to park this truck on the side of the road and kiss her senseless.

However, a honk behind us reminds me we need to keep moving on this side street.

When we pull up before our destination, Vee’s brows pinch and her head swings toward me. “We’re at DePaul.” A question fills her voice about the college location and the university theatre.

“Yeah, this is Harley’s play.”

Her eyes widen. “As in your son Harley? Is in a play?”

“Rent,” I explain. “He plays Mark Cohen.” I sigh. “I’m going to admit, I don’t know much about this play. I think it’s going to be a bit . . . morbid.”

Vee pumps my hand in response. “Then we’ll get through it together.”

When we take our seats, she explains what she knows of the theatrical production which is about a group of friends, many HIV positive or with AIDS, in varying combinations of sexual relationships. I’m in over my head here and I’m thankful for Vee holding my hand most of the performance until the cast sings “Seasons of Love.” Tears stream down Vee’s face in reaction to the song about the minutes in a year, and how time should be measured by love.

Her response doesn’t surprise me; Vee is sensitive. But what does shock me is my thoughts on the song. How have I measured my time? With wins and losses? By baseball seasons? By pitch counts when I was younger. By another year playing a game I love. But have I measured time correctly? Was Patty a season? My boys as children a season? Is a new season starting with them as men?

Watching Vee swipe at her cheeks, I wonder if she’ll only be a season. I don’t like the thought.

When the play finishes, we find Harley backstage with the passes he’d given me.

“You came.” Harley rushes Vee instead of me, and they hug like old friends before he turns to me. “Dad.” My name is said like he’s surprised to see me. “Thank you for bringing Vee.”

Vee turns toward me, her brows pinched, a question etched in her expression before she schools her face and offers Harley a warmer smile. “I wouldn’t have missed it. You were amazing.” She reaches for his forearm, affectionately emphasizing her compliment.

“Give your old man a hug,” I gently demand, pulling Harley into me. “You did great, bud.”

He claps my back before pulling away too soon. “Thanks, Dad.” He looks me directly in the eyes. “Thank you for being here.”