Page 14 of The Pitcher’s Proposal

For the first few minutes, I expect to feel the awkwardness of being on a date with him. Instead, it feels…easy. We talk about different places we’ve lived, which turns into the worst apartments we’ve ever rented, and I learn that Brendan spent his first year in the minors living with three other players in a two-bedroom apartment with one semi-functioning air conditioner.

“Four professional athletes and one bathroom?” I ask.

“Three professional athletes and me. I was nineteen and making almost nothing.”

He tells me they had a month-long war over a stolen burrito. I tell him about the apartment I had after college where the upstairs neighbor practiced drums very badly at midnight. By the time we reach the next intersection, I’m laughing and wondering why I spent so much of the summer convincing myself that an actual date with Brendan would be a complete disaster.

We stop outside a vintage store a few blocks later. The window is crowded with old lamps, records, jewelry, dishes, framed advertisements, and enough miscellaneous objects that I can’t tell where one display ends and another begins. “This place looks fun.”

Brendan reaches for the door. “Let’s look.”

Inside, the store is even more crowded. Narrow aisles twist between shelves and mismatched furniture, with old music playing near the register. I pick up an old cookbook from a stack and flip through a few pages while Brendan checks a box of records beside me.

“You’d actually cook something out of that?” he asks.

I turn the book toward him, showing him a photograph of a gelatin ring filled with shrimp and olives. “Tell me this doesn’t get your mouth watering.”

Brendan stares at the page. “I suddenly don’t trust you as a dietitian.”

I give his arm a playful shove and put the cookbook back, and we continue deeper into the store. Brendan stops to look at an old framed concert poster while I get distracted by colored glassware, vintage dresses, and a display of jewelry. When we reach the back of the shop, something else catches my attention.

“Is that a photo booth?”

Brendan follows my gaze. An old booth is tucked beside a rack of coats, with a faded curtain and a handwritten sign promising it still works.

“Wow,” I say. “I haven’t seen a real one in years.”

He’s already pulling cash from his wallet. “Then we’re doing it.”

The booth is small, and I start laughing as soon as he sits down. His knees nearly touch the wall opposite him, and there isn’t enough room left on the bench for half of me. “This isn’t going to work.”

“It’ll work.” He looks up at me. “Sit here.”

His hand pats one thigh. My stomach flips.

“Of course that’s your solution.”

“You got a better one?”

I don’t. I duck inside, and his hands settle around my waist while I lower myself sideways across his lap. His thighs are hard beneath me, one of his arms staying around my middle because there isn’t anywhere else for it to go. Suddenly, the booth doesn’t feel funny anymore.

“You comfortable?” he asks.

“Uh…kind of.”

“That’s encouraging.”

The countdown starts before I can reply. The first photograph catches both of us smiling. For the second photo, Brendan makes an awful face that makes me laugh right as the flash fires. I retaliate during the third by covering half his face with my hand.

Then the final countdown begins, and we run out of ideas.

“We’re terrible at this,” I say, turning toward him.

The words die as I realize how close his face is to mine. Brendan’s eyes move slowly over my face. The hand at my waist doesn’t tighten or pull me closer, but I’m suddenly extra aware of every place our bodies touch. My hand is resting against his shoulder, and I can feel the warmth of his skin through his shirt.

Neither of us says anything. My pulse races. I know exactly what’s about to happen.

Then the flash goes off.