live healthy and grow old. It’s something I don’t think about too often, not wanting to torture myself with something out of reach. But now hope is lapping at the surface, thanks to the man beside me.
As we pull into a crowded parking lot, a sea of team colors greets us. Roman parks and reaches for a Yankees cap off the back seat. He adjusts it on to his head smugly, while I roll my eyes.
His husky chuckles disband the seriousness because now, it’s time to play ball. “Shall we?”
“We shall.” I jump from the passenger seat, overwhelmed by what I see as I stand by the open door in awe.
Loyal Yankee and Cub enthusiasts walk toward the stadium, laughing and appearing to forgive their friends for rooting for the opposing team. The vibe is vivacious, each spectator amped and ready for their team to win.
Roman locks the car, smiling from ear to ear. “This place is something else.”
He rounds the hood, stopping in front of me. “Regretting your decision?”
I know he’s not only referring to the baseball game but also to every decision I’ve made since coming here. He waits, each second filled with trepidation.
Thinking about all I’ve achieved, learned, and felt while at Strawberry Fields, I shake my head resolutely. “I don’t regret a thing.” And I mean it.
Roman doesn’t hide his relief. I don’t know if it’s my honesty or getting lost in the moment, but he offers his hand. Peering down at it, and then at the swarms of people surrounding us, I hesitate for an instant before slipping my palm into his.
The connection sends a tingle through me, and it’s not just the physical union, but rather, I become giddy at what it represents. I thought Roman didn’t care, that his detachment this week was due to him regretting showing his vulnerability, but I was wrong. He wants to hold my hand in front of all these people, representing we’re something a little more than friends.
“What are you smiling about?” he asks as we begin our trek toward the stadium.
“Nothing. I just like…holding your hand.” I cringe, realizing how stupid that sounded.
“I like holding yours too,” he confesses without pause, making me melt.
This is my cue, my opportunity to fish for something more. “Friends who hold hands.” That sounded even more ridiculous aloud than it did in my head. I really need to shut up.
As I’m cursing my inability to talk to men, he draws me to his torso so we’re touching shoulders. “We were never friends, Lola,” he declares in a confident whisper.
Although the indistinct sounds around us are penetrating, I hear him clearly. I’m glad he’s holding me; otherwise, I’d have tripped over my feet. I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything as I allow Roman to guide me through the throngs of people.
He releases me to hunt through his pocket for the tickets. Once we’re scanned through, he reaches for my hand once again. The action is so natural, highlighting his earlier comment.
We enter through the steel gates, and if I thought outside was nuts, that’s nothing compared to what’s going on inside. It’s raucous; the excited hollering from fans is humming throughout the air.
Something else thrumming through the air is the smell of pure wickedness.
Roman laughs when I smack my lips together unintentionally. “What is that greasy but completely intoxicating smell?” I snap my head from left to right, hoping to find the source.
“You have a lot to learn.” Tugging on my hand, he leads me toward the concessions.
When in line, I openly look at him, unashamed to show him how I feel. He looks down at me, perplexed, but a glimmer of something flashes before his eyes. This moment is beyond words; it is one I will cherish for the rest of my life. The thought gives me an idea.
Regardless of Roman’s beliefs, I reach into my back pocket and pull out my phone. Our gaze never wavers, caught in a deadlock, and it’s perfect. Positioning my arm above us, I snap a photo, wanting to capture this moment forever.
We don’t break eye contact, and I suddenly have an uncontrollable urge to kiss him. The internal war behind his eyes is apparent. He wants to kiss me too, but he knows things will never be the same if he does.
“Next!” The jolting demand shatters my trance-like state.
Roman sighs, nestling the tip of his tongue in the crease of his lips. Frustration palls him, but he also