Page 21 of Double Play

A streak of mischief I have always been attracted to.

Turning for the steaks so I don’t do something foolish like say, “Truth or Dare” and hope she picks dare, I check the meat’s temperature and pull the meal off the grill.

“Let’s head back downstairs to eat. Do you mind grabbing our drinks?”

India collects our glasses while I carry the plate of food and follow her back down the stairs. My gaze easily falls to the subtle sway of her hips. Hips I once held in my hands. The backs of her legs are toned. Her ass smooth and firm. My mouth waters for a bite of her. An appetizer before our main course.

Back in my apartment, India gently knocks on my bedroom door which is still closed.

“Isaiah? Can I come in?” When he doesn’t answer, she helps herself to enter my room. “Shit.”

Watching her rush into the bedroom, I set down the platter and round the peninsula counter to see Isaiah face down on my bed.

“What’s the status?” I ask, full of concern for my friend.

“Out cold,” she says, glancing up at me from her position beside the bed, laying her hand on her brother’s head.

I didn’t intend to smile, but when our eyes meet, something about those two words in reference to Isaiah brings on a memory so fierce, I almost laugh.

Slowly, India straightens, and her lips curl as well. The tension between us with the addition of an unspoken memory releases a nervous chuckle from her.

The same kind of laugh that made me want to kiss her in the first place all those years ago.

“Anyway.” I swallow thickly. “Dinner’s ready.”

Seated at the counter, conversation is stilted with inane small talk while we eat. Perhaps both our minds remain on Isaiah and his condition: out cold, but with some disconcerting questions lingering before he passed out.

Isaiah is the life of the party compared to my quieter side. Our friendship was almost instantaneous because Isaiah wanted it to be so. I never complained. He’s been the best of friends, and the betrayal of sleeping with his sister feels triple-fold now that he’s brought it up.

Not that the situation was easy to forget. However, time passed. I moved. India moved. I had Montgomery. India married Malakai. She went to Vegas. I landed in Nashville.

Our history was like one of those maps baseball teams project on the big screen to highlight the crazy path of a player’s journey through the league.

Suddenly, time feels like it is on my side, and I don’t know what to do with it. India and I have years of unanswered questions and life experience, and we can’t cram everything into one night.

Thankfully, we fall into more comfortable silence once seated on my balcony, watching the sky darken. The fireworks are scheduled to happen soon. India found a radio streaming service that will air a musical selection synced to the display. In the meantime, it plays country music.

As we wait, my mind races. Back to that map of travel from here, there, and everywhere. Life led me in so many directions, and I don’t have many regrets. Other than one: India. Fortunately, I had a great career with Seattle and a good run with Chicago. I have Montgomery and a good relationship with her mom and Brent. My brother is my idol, with Isaiah right next to him as a best friend.

What’s been missing, however, is my equal. A partner to share all the craziness life tosses at me.

My attention shifts to India. Her hair is still up but messier because of the continual breeze. She’s still wearing her professional dress and those damn shoes.

I’ve been sitting with my feet up on the balcony railing. The plastic Adirondack chairs are something Montgomery had me purchase and are not the most comfortable pieces of outdoor furniture.

And without thinking, I reach for India’s ankle.

“What the heck?” she gasps before an anxious giggle leaves her throat.

I slip off one high heel and then the other before cupping both her ankles in one hand and bringing them to my lap. I kick my feet back up to the railing and settle her feet on my thigh. She turns sideways in her chair to accommodate both her skirt and the new sitting arrangement.

“What are you doing?” she whispers, before I realize that unconsciously I’ve started stroking over the hard knob of her ankle with my thumb.

“Wiggle your toes, India. Put your feet in the grass.”

She huffs. “There isn’t any up here.”

I roll my head on the back of the chair. “You’re smart enough to recognize a metaphor.”