“I’d like that, too, honey. I have faith that, in time, they’ll accept you.” Pamela settled her hand on the curve of Lindsay’s back as they strolled side-by-side. “My parents, especially, they’ve chilled out over the years.”
I wish my parents would chill out and be more accepting of me too. When Lindsay left Evie’s final resting place less than forty-eight hours ago, the tombstone and its surrounding area popped with vibrant colors thanks to her special touch. She decorated it with an assortment of flower arrangements, put up a pair of sun-catchers, wind chimes, and a lavish wreath. Lindsay also left a memorial rock at the base of the marker with an engraved inscription:
If tears could build a stairway, and memories a lane, I’d walk right up to Heaven and bring you home again.
Though she was in Citronelle that evening, and mere miles from her family home, Lindsay insisted on ditching town after the cemetery visit. Mom, Dad, my sisters? No one wants anything to do with me there. She considered herself an outcast, vilified by family and friends once close to her, and the sole reason Evie committed suicide. I shouldn’t have pestered her as hard as I did about taking a job at the brothel.
I should’ve backed off….
Would Lindsay ever be welcome back into her religious and God-fearing family? I disgraced the Anastacio name and legacy by spreading my legs and becoming a whore. Thanks to all the media attention from Evie’s suicide, the entire town knew what job Lindsay had, and where to find her. It’s so humiliating! How long would it be before someone she knew – even if it was an acquaintance – came looking for a GFE? Lindsay had been half-expecting Big Dick – her creepy neighbor while growing up – to pop in unannounced and surprise her one day with a fistful of cash. That old man would give anything to fuck me.
Regarding her family, though, she had to face facts. It is what it is. Easier said than done, but Lindsay was trying her damnedest to adopt Pamela’s philosophy and push forward. I must accept that everyone hates me now and move on. Alison said I’m the worst sister ever and that I’ll forever burn in Hell. Birthdays and Christmastime would be rough. It is what it is. Move on, forge ahead.
Who needed those people anyway? You keep trying to tell yourself that, chicka. Coldness crept up Lindsay’s backbone, fluttering like a breeze through her sundress. Maybe one day, you’ll believe it… or not.
Didn’t she want to bust free from Citronelle? That was her primary reason for taking a job at the brothel in the first place, right? I promised myself long ago that if I ever escaped that wretched hellhole, I’d never look back. Dread slithered through and blanketed her veins. Well, you got what you wanted, didn’t you? Didn’t you? Too many mixed emotions swirled within her chest. You’re free, you’re an adult now, and you’re away from Citrosmell. You’re making mad cheddar, too, and could survive on your own if need be.
But look at what it cost you.
“Is everything okay, honey? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Oh, I’m thinking about my family.” On the exterior Lindsay appeared vulnerable, fragile, with moist eyes and a trembling lower lip, but behind the tears Pamela saw fierce determination. “I miss them.”
“Hey, I’ve got you. Shh.” Pamela stopped mid-stride and whispered against Lindsay’s cheek. “You’re okay. I know you miss them. Breathe, baby. Just breathe. You don’t have to do anything else. There, there, I’ve got you.”
Lindsay focused on Pamela’s assurance and exhaled. Oblivious to any onlookers, she wilted against her. Pamela was warm and supple, safe, and loving. So loving. Lindsay closed her eyes and tuned out everything except her calming heartbeat. God, I love you, Pamela. She’d never felt so safe in someone’s arms. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me….
Attending a major league baseball game at Oriole Park at Camden Yards in the Ridgely’s Delight neighborhood of Baltimore was quite enjoyable for Colt as a sports fan and even more therapeutic as a human being. On a muggy summer afternoon or a crisp autumn evening, nothing could compare to the sights and sounds of a professional baseball game and the countless spectacles one had to offer.
The grass, fresh cut and a verdant green. The dirt, soft, silky, and perfectly manicured. The vendors going up and down the aisles with their unique and loud, boisterous personalities, wanting you to purchase a snack or a cold beverage. The unmistakable, delicious scent of overpriced hot dogs and peanuts wafting through the air, permeating your senses. Seeing the star athletes that you invest your time and enthusiasm in as a fan, stretching and taking batting practice, and the anticipation reaching a crescendo as the game begins and they get down to business.
Hearing the pop of a screaming fastball hitting the catcher’s glove. The timeless crack of a bat and watching in full speed as the baserunner stretches a double into a triple. The energy of the crowd. Umpire, no! Bad call! He was safe! Fans yelling chants and taunts toward the opposite team, while their own supporters give it right back.
And then, of course, there is one truly magical moment that can make the memory of any baseball game on a random August evening last for a lifetime – catching your first foul ball.
Colt had been a baseball fan for as long as he could remember, but growing up in Flagstone, there were no major league teams for 450 miles. He chose the Los Angeles Dodgers as his favorite squad and was overjoyed when his father scored a pair of tickets to Game One of the 1988 World Series. There, he witnessed Kirk Gibson hit one of the most dramatic home runs in the sport’s history.
Though out of their way, William made a habit of taking Colt to a few major league contests each year, whether in Los Angeles, Anaheim, or San Diego. But the venue they attended most was Cashman Field in North Las Vegas, once home to the Las Vegas Stars, the class AAA minor league affiliate of the San Diego Padres.
When Colt turned eighteen and could afford to travel and do things on his own, he expanded his reach, attending MLB games in San Francisco, Oakland, Seattle, Denver, Kansas City, and New York, among other places. Once meeting Pamela, however, and travelling with her on countless trips to Maryland (and eventually moving here), Colt adopted the Baltimore Orioles as his official team.
Built in 1992 with its modern yet retro vibe, Camden Yards was the best professional sports stadium Colt had ever been in. It still looked brand new; it was open, inviting, sparkling, easy to get around in and, despite the team being a cellar dweller in the current win/loss standings, a cheerful atmosphere prevailed. Parking was a breeze and the concessions were appetizing.
“He was out!” Lindsay yelled toward an umpire when a call didn’t go the Orioles’ way. Colt glanced sideways as Lindsay sprung out of her seat behind the first base dugout as if she were on a pogo stick, her blonde ponytail flailing in the wind, and cupped both hands to her mouth. “Boo! Booooo! You need new glasses, ump!” An instant later, she plopped back into her seat and turned toward Colt with a happy, vibrant laugh, full of energy.
All part of going to the game.
How lucky was Colt? Though the Orioles got bulldozed by the Houston Astros on Saturday night by a score of 23-2, Lindsay was nestled to his right the whole time, sipping mineral water and eating popcorn. She had on a saucy, little white halter-top and a tiny pair of orange mesh shorts with a drawstring in front and the Orioles’ team logo brandished on her left hip. The shorts flattered Lindsay and were quite a distraction in the summer heat.
Colt gawked at those bare legs for four hours.
Even better, Pamela was to his left, dressed in a form-fitting orange tank-top with a blue sports bra visible underneath and a pair of black spandex shorts. Pamela bounced and giggled from first pitch to final out, and despite wearing earmuffs to combat excess noise, was a nonstop chatterbox, and tossed Colt an endless array of kisses at the most random times. Pleasurable, yes, and much appreciated, but Colt’s primary focus – and a sudden, undeniable desire – was shifting elsewhere.
Being here tonight, right here, right now – this is the first time I’ve felt Lindsay is legitimately part of us, like she belongs in our lives. His neck vibrated as he snuck another peek at an unblemished thigh. Fuck, she’s hot.
Perhaps a baseball game wouldn’t be the first place one would foresee Lindsay and Pamela spending their Saturday evening, but Lindsay jumped at the possibility of attending when they were brainstorming ideas earlier. She’d been a casual observer of the sport her entire life thanks to her father, a dyed-in-the-wool Dodgers fan, but had never been to an actual game. Pamela didn’t care for baseball – she was more of a football and basketball fan – but loved going to the ballpark regardless. No matter the outcome, a trip to Camden Yards was a social event – an experience – and a chance to wear a cute and sexy outfit, drink copious amounts of Duckpin Pale Ale, and mingle amid the masses.
Early in the contest, Pamela made a face and smacked Colt’s shoulder. “You’re being disrespectful.”
“What? I’m not being disrespectful.” He glanced at the seat in front of him, or more specifically, the mound of peanut shells collecting on the ground close to someone else’s feet. “I’m making a mess, but this is what you do at baseball games. You eat peanuts and enjoy them.”
Lindsay laughed. “You’ve had a lot of peanuts.”
He focused on her. “I like peanuts at the game and you throw them on the ground. It’s what you do.”
“Kind of messed up, but…” Lindsay motioned toward the aisleway littered with beer and soda cups, hot dog and nacho carriers, wax paper and yes, peanut shells, “… this is disgusting. Look, it goes all the way down.”
“Neanderthals.” Pamela shivered theatrically. “I feel terrible for the workers who have to clean this up.”
“They should give you a bag when you buy food here,” Lindsay said to Colt, “so you can put your garbage in it.”
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