Home Run Heart (Kitt’s Harbor #2)

21. twenty-one

twenty-one

Nora

We stop at a drive-through to grab tacos for dinner before Brooks takes us back to my house. He then gets Ollie out of his car seat, unprompted, and follows him into the backyard while I gather up Ollie’s things and our food from the car. A peculiar sensation wriggles through me as I watch them play together from the window over my kitchen sink. There’s an effortlessness to having Brooks around that I’m both intrigued by and terrified of. It feels so easy. He fits right in with us like he was always meant to be a part of our story.

Past experience has taught me that when it comes to men, things can change on a dime. I’m hesitant to lean into the joy of these moments with Brooks, afraid they’re going to haunt me later when he leaves. What if he forgets about us once he’s busy playing baseball again? I’m already certain he’s going to be hard to say goodbye to, even after the short amount of time we’ve spent together. I don’t want to let him go, and I’m not sure what to do with that knowledge.

I bring the food out back along with a blanket given to me by Trent’s grandmother, Fran, on Ollie’s first birthday. It’s overcast and cool tonight with dark clouds gathering overhead, but there’s no sign of rain yet. Brooks is seated cross-legged inside Ollie’s sandbox, digging him a massive trench with a tiny, pink plastic shovel.

“Is this deep enough?” he asks Ollie before smiling over at me. Ollie leans over to inspect Brooks’ work and deems it to be satisfactory, so Brooks continues.

“Your food is going to get cold,” I call out. “Come eat!”

It takes me another five minutes to persuade Ollie to break away from his construction project to eat his dinner. After they wash their hands inside, Brooks sprawls out on the blanket beside me, one muscled arm angled behind his head, with his face upturned towards the cloudy sky. He closes his eyes briefly, and I admire his strong jaw and the firm line of his lips. He pops one eye open and grins at me before rolling onto his side. My mouth is a mirror of his. Every time he smiles, my mouth involuntarily curls up in response.

“So, tell me about these tacos,” Brooks says, reaching for his takeout box.

“They’re Ollie’s favorite. Right, Ollie?”

“I like chips,” Ollie says, salsa dripping down his chin. “You like chips, Big Dude?”

“Big Dude?” I laugh.

“He’s Little Dude, and I’m Big Dude,” Brooks explains. “And I love chips, too. Can I try some of yours?”

“Sure!” Ollie exclaims, picking up his bag of chips and plopping himself down practically on Brooks’ lap. The two of them demolish the chips before I’m even able to try one.

“Thanks for saving some for me, guys,” I tease. They look at each other guiltily, and Ollie giggles.

It’s hard to not feel happy as we eat together, sharing food and laughing at Ollie’s silly antics. He’s glad to be home with me. I can tell.

Brooks doesn’t seem in any rush to leave, and I’m not eager for him to go either. We’re unbothered by the chill in the air that turns the tips of our noses and cheeks red. Even as the sky begins to darken, we work to finish crafting a sandcastle, complete with a surrounding moat. It’s only when I see Ollie yawning that I take him inside to give him a bath and put him to bed.

“Say goodnight to Brooks,” I prompt, and Ollie surprises me by rushing over and clinging to Brooks’ leg.

“Night, Big Dude,” he says. Brooks palms Ollie’s hair, glancing up at me with a crooked smile. My heart splits at the sight.

“Night, Little Dude. Sweet dreams.”

“I’ll be right back down,” I say to Brooks as I usher Ollie upstairs. It doesn’t strike me until Ollie’s sloshing around in the bath that I left Brooks alone and completely unattended. He’s got free reign of the downstairs level of my house right now. I hope he’s not snooping through my drawers or inspecting anything too closely. Suddenly I’m racking my brain, trying to remember where I put that Brookie wrapper from the Stormbreakers game. Hopefully, nowhere Brooks will see it.

“Big Dude read a story?” Ollie asks hopefully as we settle into the rocking chair in his room with a stack of books.

“Oh, honey,” I say. “He’s downstairs.”

“I go get him!”

“No, it’s okay…” But before I can stop him, Ollie is tearing out of his room and yelling for ‘Brookie’ to come upstairs to read him a book.

“You don’t have to,” I say as Brooks appears on the upstairs landing, his hand clasped in Ollie’s.

“I’d love to,” Brooks says without the slightest hint of hesitation, and hello . If that isn’t the most attractive thing I’ve ever heard in my life. His fingertips graze my elbow as he passes me in the doorway to Ollie’s room. “If you’re okay with it.”

I stand there nervously, watching Ollie instruct Brooks to sit in the rocking chair before climbing onto his lap. He’s completely comfortable around Brooks and his easy trust in him makes me feel a hesitant sense of relief. I want to trust him as easily and completely as my son does. I fight back feelings of worry that Ollie is getting too attached to Brooks too soon. But how could I possibly try to stop Ollie from being his loving, pure-hearted self?

“Now, I should warn you,” Brooks says, glancing up at me with a grimace. “It’s been a long time since Big Dude has read a book.”

“I want Little Blue Truck ,” Ollie says, sliding a book out from the stack.

“Excellent,” Brooks says, shifting Ollie on his legs so he can hold the book out in front of him. “This one came highly recommended, am I right?”

I nod, leaning against the doorframe as Brooks begins to read.

Who knew that a story of a little blue truck and his farmyard friends could sound so entirely different when read aloud by the right man? Watching Brooks gently hold my son while reading him a bedtime story is enthralling. My heart thumps against my ribs as layers of fear I’ve carried for so long begin to dissipate.

I’m worthy of a love like this.

I’ve always known that Brooks was a good man. It’s there in the lift of his smile and the warmth of his gaze as he glances up at me over the pages of the book. I’m reminded of our conversation in the car last night. Brooks apologized for letting me go, and he’s proving in his actions that he realizes the gravity of his mistake.

I want to believe him. I want to believe that he wants me just as badly now as he did before his dad interfered. I want to let him in. Maybe it’s my turn to show him that I’m willing to completely set the heartbreak we both experienced in our past aside and take a step into the dark with him. If Brooks doesn’t try to kiss me tonight, then I’m going to have to kiss him myself.

Ollie wheedles two more books out of Brooks before I intervene and insist that it’s time for him to go to bed.

“Love you, my boy,” I say from the doorway. “Goodnight!”

He comes out three more times before finally staying in his room and falling asleep. I take a deep breath at the top of the stairs, blinking up at the ceiling and willing myself to find calm before I face Brooks again. I’m safe. I can trust him. I need to show him that I’m willing to try.

I find him in the semi-darkness of my studio downstairs, hands clasped behind his back, admiring my shelf of completed and partially-finished ceramics.

“You made all of these?” he asks when he hears me enter. I nod. “Amazing.”

“This is where I usually end up after Ollie goes to bed,” I say, joining him at the shelf and feeling a fresh wash of nerves at his sudden nearness. We’ve been together all evening, but there’s been an anticipation growing within me that is reaching its peak now that we’re alone. In the dark. In my studio.

“This is your space,” he says, hands still clasped behind his back. I wish he’d let them swing free so I can slide my hand into one of his again. I like feeling the scrape of his calloused palms against mine. The strength of his hands and length of his fingers.

“Yes,” I say softly. “I come in here, light a few candles, and sit at the wheel for as long as it takes for the stress of the day to melt away.”

“Sounds relaxing. Could we do it together?”

“You want to?” I ask, surprised. We hadn’t talked about any additional plans for tonight.

“Why not? I need a re-do after my first attempt.”

“Oh!” I gasp, reaching up to pull down his soup mug he made at my workshop. “I forgot! I meant to give this to you last night.”

He takes the finished mug from my hands, and our fingers barely brush in the exchange. “Wait a second,” he says, twisting the mug in the air to inspect it from all angles. “Did you tamper with this, Nora?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because it looks way better than I remember.”

“I may have trimmed it up a bit before firing it,” I admit.

“I knew it.” He sets it aside with a laugh. “Could you teach me how to use the wheel?” he asks. “This could count towards trying something new, right?”

“It’s not even Friday!”

“If I wasn’t here, is this how you’d be spending your night?”

“Probably.”

“Then don’t let me ruin your plans. Show me what to do, and I’ll do it.”

Listen here, Nora , I tell myself. Do not read into that statement.

Fifteen minutes later, candles have been lit, music is softly playing from my phone (I don’t own a proper speaker), and Brooks is seated at a stool in front of my wheel, looking up at me expectantly. He’s wearing one of my aprons, and I think it’s his best look yet.

He’s set up with a nice piece of clay that I had already wedged last night. I pull up an adjacent stool and explain the basics of throwing clay at the wheel.

“The pedal is here,” I say, gesturing so Brooks can locate it with his foot. “The harder you press down, the faster the wheel will spin.”

He tries it a few times and nods. I gather my materials and show him how to use a wet sponge and his fingertips to gently guide the clay into the beginnings of a shape.

“Do you know what you’d like to make?” I ask, trying not to be entirely distracted by the press of his shoulder against mine and the length of his strong legs on either side of the wheel.

“Maybe a bowl?” he suggests.

“Great,” I say, encouraging him to start spinning the wheel. Our work is slow, and Brooks is deeply focused on getting it right.

“My therapist says I try too hard to be perfect,” he says after pressing too hard and causing his clay to become uneven.

I reach over to help correct his error. The smell rising off his skin where his shirt falls open at the neck is delectable.

Brooks leans back and presses down on the pedal, allowing me to lift the wonky side of the bowl to an even height once again. “You can’t worry about getting things perfect here at the wheel. That’s the nature of making something with your hands. It’s going to have imperfections and flaws, but that’s what gives it character. That’s what makes it unique.”

Brooks continues to shape the bowl, stopping so I can make minor corrections and guide the shape into what he wants it to be.

“This is relaxing,” he says softly. “I get why you enjoy it so much.”

I sit back, watching the hunch of his wide shoulders and the curve of his profile, the length of his arms and the subtle movements of his strong hands as he molds the clay. There’s something terribly intimate about watching him work here in this quiet, candle-lit space of mine. Another piece of my armor burns away as he shifts on his stool, taking up the space beside me that had felt so achingly empty for so long. Brooks’s presence is so beautifully unexpected and deeply welcomed. I swallow down a gathering knot of emotion in my throat.

Eventually, he declares it finished and glances over at me for approval.

“Beautiful,” I say. I help him remove the bat from the wheel and use a stretch of wire to free the bowl. He follows behind me, helpfully following my instructions in an almost-perfect silence. It’s like a hazy golden spell has been cast over this moment and neither of us want to break it by speaking too loudly or by saying too much.

I’m struck by the powerful awareness I have of everything he does. My brain registers every subtle movement he makes, his hovering closeness and every lingering glance we share as we clean up. He washes his hands first, and I follow. I’m washing my hands in the sink, pumping foamy soap onto my palms when I feel him draw in behind me. My heart is thundering now, my breathing growing shallow. I turn off the water and wipe my shaking hands on my apron, not daring to meet Brooks’ eyes in the darkness.

He stays there, inches behind me, waiting for me to turn around. When I don’t immediately move, he lays the pads of his fingertips on my arm and guides me around to face him. I slowly lift my eyes, intending to meet his, but instead, my gaze finds his mouth, which is drawn into the slightest shadow of a frown.

“Nora,” Brooks says, and his breath dusts over my face. He angles his head, looking over me in concern, and his big hands land firmly on my hips. “I don’t want to rush you.”

My whole body is humming when I finally raise my eyes to meet his. His face is half-lit in the dim glow of the candles burning, but the intensity of his blue gaze lands somewhere deep in my belly. I slowly trace my hands up his forearms and find a gentle grip on his biceps. His hands flex in response, his grip on my hips tightening.

Brooks ducks his head, the tip of his nose nudging mine. My lips part in anticipation, and my eyes gently fall closed. He draws me closer by my hips with a confidence that makes my heart pump even faster. My hands explore the curve of his taut shoulders before joining behind his neck.

“I want to kiss you,” he breathes against my mouth. “I’ve wanted to kiss you all day. Ever since you walked out wearing this hat.” He reaches up and slides the hat off my head, gently setting it on the side of the sink behind me. My eyes flicker open, and he gently glides his fingers into my hair, brushing it away from my neck.

“I’m not a very patient man, but if you’re not ready for this, I can wait.”

“I don’t want to wait,” I breathe. “After you left, I waited for you. I thought maybe you’d miss me enough to change your mind. I wanted you to come back for me.”

“I should have,” he murmurs, and a shiver lances through my spine at the look in his eyes. I’ve seen it before, but it’s tinged with a masculine strength and confidence that Brooks didn’t have when he’d kissed me all those years ago. “But I’m here now. Can I kiss you?”

I dip my chin in the slightest nod, and the corners of Brooks’ mouth turn up in a relieved smile. His eyes are assessing, discerning. My heart is in my throat as he tilts my head up and catches my mouth with his.

His lips take mine in the sweetest, most gently assuring kiss, his hands holding me securely against him. I breathe him in, remembering this. The warmth of his mouth and the grip of his hands. Feeling the safe encircling of his body around mine. He kisses me again, and I melt into him as he brings both of his hands up to securely frame my face. The strength in his hands unravels me further, and I grip his wrists tightly on either side of my head, wanting more. Needing more.

Brooks tugs at my bottom lip with his teeth, parting my lips so he can deepen the kiss. I taste him, and candlelight shimmers behind my eyes. His kiss is heady, laced with shared memories. I drop one hand where I can feel his warm pulse flickering under the skin of his broad chest. He takes his time with me, as if he’s ensuring that I’m satisfied by every press of his mouth on mine, every caress of his hands. This kiss is as much for me as it is for him.

I’m dazed and weak when his lips drift from mine to press into my cheekbone. My jawline. My forehead. I circle my hands around his torso and lay my head against his chest, never wanting to move. Never wanting to be released from this safe haven he’s provided for me tonight. We linger there, and I let him hold me. I haven’t been held in so long, and being firmly locked in his arms is nothing short of healing.

Time bends while I’m in his arms, and before I know it, he's bidding me goodnight with a gentle kiss on my forehead. “I’d better go,” he says, and I want to beg him to stay, but I know he’s right.

“See you next Friday,” he says, smiling up at me from the bottom porch step. As I watch him duck into his car and drive away, I still feel the press of his mouth on mine and the warmth of his hands on me. A truth strikes my bones with a surprising clarity.

I could easily, readily love Brooks Alden again.