White Lilies (A Mitchell Sisters Novel) (11 page)

I have to wonder what it would be like with Erin sitting between us. Would she cheer at all, and if so, for what team? Would she understand the game? Would she be having as much soul-feeding fun as we are right now? Would she find her husband extremely irresistible despite being outfitted in enemy garb?

Tension is high in the game. The score is tied and a fast grounder down the line to right field gives the runner on third an opportunity to make it home. The Yankees’ right-fielder makes an incredible throw to home plate, omitting the cut-off man, putting the ball directly into the catcher’s mitt just in time for him to get the tag.

“Heeeeee’s OUT!” yells the umpire, as he makes the signal with his arms, prompting massive cheers and high-fives from most of the stadium.

Griffin springs up from his seat and all but climbs over the people in front of us. “Better have your fucking eyes checked, Blue. I could tell from here, he was under the tag.”

Everyone in our section turns to us, looking at Griffin’s uncharacteristic outburst. Several fans light-heartedly disagree with Griffin’s statement. I’m not so nice about it, however. “
You
need to get your eyes checked. He was clearly tagged at least a foot off the plate.” We’re still standing, so I put my hands on my hips for emphasis. “And why is it okay for
you
to cuss?” I raise my brows at him.

I push aside the realization that I secretly like the fact that he spontaneously cusses, too. Some guys sound crass or childish when they cuss, but the way he does it makes my insides tingle.

He ignores my question. “The guy was safe!” he argues, loudly.

“No, he wasn’t!”

“And you’re the expert?”

“I have eyes. It was the right call, Griffin.” I point my finger at the catcher. “He has an impeccable record. He hasn’t missed a tag at home in thirteen games.”

Griffin stares at me in wonder. Then his eyes harden once again. “What the fuck does that matter? Just because he’s good, doesn’t mean the call should go his way. The guy was safe, Sky.”

“He was out!” I shout in his face, not even caring that I had onions on my hot dogs. “So fucking out. And don’t call me Sky.”

“Don’t say fuck!” he shouts back at me.

The seats in the stadium are spacious, but we’re standing with mere inches between us as we yell back and forth. We continue shouting ridiculous absurdities at each other until we realize everyone else is sitting back down and we’re the only ones still standing. And all eyes are on us.

Our eyes simultaneously go wide and I could swear I see the hint of a blush cross over his face. I hastily sit down and he follows, crossing his arms in a huff, clearly still pissed off about the call. Or our argument. Or both.

I hear a low belly chuckle come from behind me. I turn my head to see an older man with a burly white beard. He’s wearing a Yankees cap and a large foam finger. “How long y’all been married?” he asks.

Griffin chokes on the sip of beer he was taking. He looks at the guy and then back at me and I’m sure I’m bright red. He shakes his head. “We’re not married.”

“Oh.” He looks back and forth between us. “Well, you sound just like me and Bess did forty years ago. Ya got that same fire in ya for each other. Maybe someday you’ll be expecting your sixth grandbaby like we are.”

I vehemently shake my head at the man. “No, we’re not together. He’s married.” Foam finger guy raises a questioning brow. “To my best friend,” I add. He shakes his head and chuckles as he puts his hands up in defeat and leans back into his seat.

I open my mouth to explain, but Griffin puts a gentle hand on my knee and shakes his head. I know what he’s telling me. It’s not worth trying to explain to the stranger. Our situation is complicated. How it must look to other people can be confusing. Just wait until the pregnancy is showing—we’ll really start to turn heads then. I roll my eyes, silently agreeing with Griffin. He removes his hand from my knee and I’m all too aware of just how much I miss it.

There are several more controversial calls in the game, but quite conspicuously, Griffin and I remain silent. We simply eye each other and laugh. Fortunately the ‘bad’ calls evened out in the end. And although my team won by two runs, Griffin doesn’t whine about it, so I decide not to gloat.

All in all, it was a fantastic game. If you take the fight out of it, I’d even go so far as to say Griffin and I have become friends.

We follow the crowd up the stairs and through the tunnel and I head to the nearest bathroom while Griffin leans against the wall to wait for me. A few minutes later, I emerge, looking for Griffin only to find him absent from the spot where I left him. I turn around to search for him and smack right into someone’s chest. “Sorry,” I say, looking up at the large specimen.

Suddenly, my eyes and the stranger’s eyes spark in recognition as a slow and steady grin crawls up his face. “Well, looky what we have here.”

I cringe at his heavy Boston accent. I assess his fiery-red hair and wonder what I ever saw in the guy. “Oh, hi.” I look around for Griffin, conflicted on whether or not I want him here. On one hand, it might diffuse the situation if the guy thinks I’m here with another man. On the other hand, I really don’t need Griffin witnessing my past indiscretions.

As I look around, the man—whose name I never did find out—continues talking, saying something about going back to his place for a repeat. His accent grates on my every nerve. It’s not that I dislike people from Boston or anything. I blame Mr. Hewitt, my fourth-grade teacher. He was the meanest teacher I ever had. I also think he disliked me because he once dated my mother, before she met my father. I was doomed with him from the start. He had an incredibly thick accent that haunted my dreams. To this day, I’ll occasionally have a nightmare about Mr. Hewitt singling me out in the class, telling everyone what a poor student I was.

So, it’s not really this guy’s fault that I hate him because of his voice. I just know deep down, I could never be with a guy who talks that way. Gorgeous or not. If Griffin could only sustain a minor head injury that would result in him speaking like Red, all would be well in my world.

“You up for it?” his eyes question me along with his words.

“Uh, no thanks,” I answer politely, even though I’m not sure what the question was. I was pre-occupied looking for Griffin, who I now see exiting the men’s bathroom.

Griffin comes up next to me, but that does nothing to keep Red from eyeing me seductively. He asks again, right in front of Griffin, “Aw, come on, we had fun, didn’t we?”

I narrow my eyes at him.
What the hell?
“You’re a douche, you know that? You have a wife and kid. Or are you choosing to ignore that little fact again?”

He laughs. “That didn’t seem to bother you six months ago when you were riding me for the third time.”

I’m sure my stunned face pales. I can feel the burn of Griffin eyeing me speculatively as I spit out, “I didn’t even know you, you asshole.”

“Right. You were too wasted to ask,” he says.

I don’t think I’ve ever been so mortified in my entire twenty-four years. Griffin must think I was a complete slut. A bottom-dwelling whore who would pick up any guy in a bar. Then I close my eyes briefly, because he’d be right. That’s exactly who I was. Maybe it’s even who I would still be if I wasn’t hiding behind this whole surrogate thing.

I see Griffin shift around defensively. He takes a step closer to me and says to the asshole, “You need to leave. The lady isn’t interested.”

“Lady?” Red smirks. “Okay, if you say so. What are you, today’s piece of meat?”

“Hardly.” Griffin puts a possessive arm around me.

Red raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, I guess I can’t blame you, man. I’d have gone back for seconds, too. Had I known her name, that is.” He’s clearly trying to humiliate me further to get a rise out of Griffin. “But, I’m not sure one man is enough for that pussy, so don’t count on the little whore being faithful.”

In a split second, it all happens at once. Griffin’s face turns as red as the guy’s hair. He balls up his fists and lays the dude out with one punch to the jaw. He carefully pushes me aside and prepares to go after the guy’s friends if any of them are stupid enough to jump him.  His friends are decent sized, but they’re no match for Griffin. I think after watching their extremely-well-built friend go down after one punch, they wisely decided not to defend him.

“Pick up your asshole friend and get him out of here before I do some real damage.” Griffin hovers over him, ready to act on his threat. He keeps me well behind him and the other guys in front of him. Everyone around us thinks he’s just protecting what’s his. They’d be right, but not for the reason they think. He’s watching out for his child. He probably couldn’t give a rat’s ass what some random guy thinks about me and my sexual past.

The crowd dissipates after Red is helped away by his friends. Griffin stares after them on the defensive until they’re out of sight. Then he turns away. “Fuck!” He grabs his hand and cradles it in the other one.

I’m about to call him on his choice of words when I look at his hand and see it’s already starting to swell. “Oh my God, Griffin.” It looks bad.  He must have cut it open on the guy’s face. Blood is running down his arm and dripping onto the dirty concrete floor. “Wait here.” I run over to the concession stand and step in front of the patrons to ask for a bag of ice and some paper towels. I quickly return and place them on Griffin’s hand. “We should get an X-ray of your hand.”

“I’m sure it’s fine.” He shakes his head at it. I’m sure he’s thinking he shouldn’t have done it. He should have walked away. All the guy was doing was calling a spade a spade.

“I am so sorry,” I tell him.

He shouldn’t have to defend me like that. My actions put him in that position. I can’t pull my eyes from his mangled hand. My vision gets blurry from unshed tears.

“Hey.” Griffin puts his good hand under my chin to raise my head to his. “This is not your fault.”

I lower my head in shame as wetness travels down my cheeks. “You’re wrong. It is.” I close my eyes, squeezing out the remaining tears. I’m no longer worried about being embarrassed. He’s heard the worst things about me. Things I can’t defend. Ugly things.  “Everything he said is true.” Even though I’m talking in nothing more than a whisper, I can tell he hears me. “You punched him, but you didn’t need to.  He was right. And now your hand . . . I’m so sorry.”

“I punched him because he was being an asshole.” He puts his good hand on my shoulder and lowers himself to look at my face. “I don’t care what you did in the past. He had no right to say those things about you as if you aren’t a human being.”

All I can do is nod. I silently wonder how many other men out there think the same terrible things about me. I lost my chance to find a guy like Griffin. I lost it long ago. This is me. This is my life. I’m tainted now. No decent guy would want a girl with my history. And now I’m carrying a kid that isn’t mine—well, not really. That probably ruins my chances even more. What kind of guy brings a girl home to his parents after she rented out her womb? I’m destined to end up alone. Or with a scumbag like Red.

Suddenly, it dawns on me what I’ve been thinking.
A man?
I want a man like Griffin? A good guy to spend my time with? My
life
with?

And now I know for sure. As I stand here and help Griffin tend to his wounds, I find the answer to the question that has plagued me for months. Not only am I jealous of Erin’s relationship with her husband—I’m jealous of her specific husband. The man who stands up for sluts on virtue. The man who can go to a ballgame with a pretty girl and not betray his wife. The man who I know will protect his child at all costs.

The man I’m completely in love with but can never have.

I quickly excuse myself and run back to the bathroom where I can break down without having him witness how pathetic I really am.

chapter ten

On the ferry over to Liberty Island, I watch Erin absorb everything she sees as if she were a child. She told me she’s been here before, but never took the time to appreciate it.

Guilt overcomes me each time I look at her. I spent the better part of the week since the baseball game trying to figure out how to turn my feelings off, but I keep going back to what Baylor told me once—you can’t choose who you fall in love with.

Well, why the hell not?

After Gavin and Baylor got back together, she admitted she always loved him, even when she didn’t want to. Even after the horrible thing he’d done to her. She told me her heart wouldn’t let go of him. She tried to date other people. She even had actual relationships with men, one lasting almost a year. But they never worked out in the end. She told me how hard it was to live her life knowing she would never be with him.

Is that what I’m destined for? A life of longing? Comparing every man to Griffin, knowing they could never measure up? How ironic but maybe somehow, befitting, that a slutty girl who has always proclaimed she’d never love, falls in love with someone who is forbidden.

Maybe it’s not really love I’m feeling. Maybe Baylor is right and it’s my hormones gone amuck. Lust—that’s what this is. That’s what I feel when he touches me. Looks at me. Exists in the same world as me. Can you really blame me? He’s gorgeous. Any woman would feel the same. Then again, as my mind pages through the throngs of attractive men I’ve hooked up with in the past, I know that what I felt for them doesn’t even come close to what I feel for Griffin.

Prohibited. Off-limits. Banned. Maybe it’s the challenge—the certainty that I could never be with him that has me wanting him. Yes, that’s all this is. I take a deep breath and then blow out the tension, realizing this is all a childish game of wanting something I can’t have.

I smile watching Erin’s eyes fill with excitement as we approach the monumental statue that most New York City natives take for granted. “You know, they do allow babies on this tour. It’s not like you’re going to roll over and die when you become a mom.”