Page 4

Danielle

I t’s early in the season, but so far there has been a good yield. We normally wouldn’t have a big enough catch to host a crab feast until summer, when the water gets warm. As I slide onto the bench next to the too-cute-for-his-own-good customer I now know as Mike Miller, the other baseball players at their table nod their hellos. They seem to be in a heated discussion about the way sports statistics are measured and if it’s fair to compare college athletes and professionals using the same methods. The guy directly across from me waves with two fingers to acknowledge that I’ve joined them.

“Hey, I’m Jordan. First base,” he says.

“Danielle. Waitress.” He smiles and fists bumps me. His hands are already covered in crab guts and Jackson’s signature steaming spices. After our brief introduction, he turns to rejoin his buddies in conversation. The short twists in his hair bob as he nods his head vigorously in agreement with someone. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about,” Jordan says to the player on his right. “You just can’t compare them. It’s apples to oranges.”

I guess this will be a private tutorial for Mr. Miller then. Not that I’m complaining.

I try to make sure I am giving Mike enough personal space, but it’s hard not to brush the person sitting next to you at a crowded picnic table, so my leg keeps making contact. I’m just going to ignore the fact that our thighs are touching and direct my attention to the task at hand.

“First, let’s get you acquainted with this little guy, huh?” I point to the steamed crab resting on the table in front of us.

“Whatever you do, please don’t give him a name. I’m not going to be able to handle it if you tell me I have to crack Santa Claws open and tear out his heart.”

I want to laugh, but I don’t know Mike well enough yet to be able to tell if he is kidding about not wanting to eat the crabs. It can be a weird experience for out-of-towners, so I try to reassure him, just in case. “First, solid crab pun, especially for your first time. Kudos. Personally, I probably would have gone with something more artistic, like Leonardo Da Pinchi . Second, never feel bad for eating a crab. He didn’t have a heart. Not metaphorically, anyway. Blue crabs are straight-up sea murderers who eat their own babies. They’re like the sociopathic kind of mean.” I pause trying to think of a catchy name for a crustacean serial killer, but come up empty-handed.

“So, more like Jack the Flipper then.” He chuckles. I’m a sucker for a cheesy one-liner and his dumb joke makes me snort.

“Ha. Nice, bro.” Jordan must still be half-listening because he reaches across the table to high-five Mike for that one, not caring this time that their hands are filthy. I give an exaggerated roll of my eyes, but my smile gets wider.

When he sees my dopey grin, Jordan says, “If you’re a fan of cheesy puns or dad jokes, Miller’s your man.” He points across the table to his friend, clearly trying to be Mike’s wingman. I like these guys. I’m definitely going to have more fun staying here a bit longer with them than I will with the sociology paper I need to write when I get home.

Plus, sitting here gives me a chance to get off my feet for a minute. I’m not looking forward to the three-mile bike ride back to the house. My legs are dead after this shift, but Honey needed to use the car today to get to her spicy book club. Spread Those Pages meets twice a month to discuss the latest romance novels. I still can’t believe Alice took Honey up on her invitation to join them and is off discussing the literary merit of Stud in the Stable: A Cowboy Romance with my grandma tonight. As much as I love books—and I love them a lot, which is why I’m slowly working toward a degree in library science— breaking down all of the erotic scenes in detail with my grandma while we share chips and onion dip sounds like absolute hell on earth.

“Okay, I am hearing that this can be a guilt-free experience.” Mike’s smirking. He was definitely kidding before, as evidenced by the continuation of terrible puns. He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who is going to leave the restaurant and write a scathing review on some internet message board for secret crab activists.

“Totally. We’re basically avenging Nemo’s mom right now. This is about justice. And vengeance.” I nod solemnly and motion to the bandaged finger where the crab cut him. “We’re like Batman.”

“You must be big on movies, huh? I can honestly say that’s the first time I’ve been compared to a super hero for sitting at a picnic table and butchering my dinner, but I’ll take it. I can get on board with justice. Not sure about the vengeance part. I don’t think Nemo’s mom was taken out by crabs. I’m almost positive that was a barracuda. My sisters made me watch that movie like a thousand times.”

“Yeah, I love pretty much all movies. Movies and party games are kind of my thing.” I don’t have the stamina to sit through a three-hour board game, but I’ve been known to rock a few rounds of Pictionary and I can hold my own in a DC versus Marvel discussion. “I concede that it was a barracuda in the cartoon version, but this is real life, and I promise these little crabby monsters have killed plenty of fish moms. They probably even took out their own wives and kids. They’re vicious.”

“Yes, I have heard they are very shellfish . But I had no idea they were so deadly.” I probably hear that same joke at least five times a week from dads ordering crab cake sandwiches on their lunchbreak and I usually just smile and nod politely, but something about the way Mike says it makes me laugh for real.

He angles his body to face me and points to the cartoonish Blue Crabs logo on his baseball cap. “Glad to know this image will instill fear in the hearts of our opponents.” Mike is what Honey would call “classically handsome.” There’s a tiny bit of light hair poking out from under his hat. His eyes are gray. They remind me of the misty fog that covers the bay on winter mornings. When he smiles widely enough to show his toothpaste-commercial-perfect teeth, there’s a dimple in his left cheek. I drum my fingers on the table to avoid reaching out and touching it. Weird. I’m not usually tempted to touch people I just met.

Even if I didn’t know Mike was on the baseball team, the tan he’s already sporting in April gives away the fact that he spends a lot of time outside. His biceps and the veins protruding down his well-defined arms are showing the results of a lot of hours spent in the gym. Or the batting cages? I don’t know, but they came from somewhere. His team shirt is stretched tight across his chest and shoulders. People have to put in a lot of work for that kind of muscle.

As he turns back to face the table, his shoulder nudges mine while he asks, “How can we be sure it’s a him anyway? Seems a bit presumptuous to assume.”

“He’s definitely male, that’s all we serve here. Our supplier is a big believer in throwing the females back to preserve the crab population.”

“Show me how you can tell.”

All the winking, smiling, and shoulder-nudging could make a girl think Mike Miller is flirting with her, and I just might be into that. Maybe. It has been getting a little bit lonely at night since Steve took the job in Richmond and decided I wasn’t worth the effort of trying to make it work long-distance. If I’m being honest, I do miss having someone to sit with on the couch and watch Netflix with me. Although, to be fair, that’s exactly what I did with Alice two days ago. I can imagine a night with Mike Miller would go much differently.

I turn the crab over so its white underbelly is facing up at us and point to it. There’s a phallic shape right in the middle.

“See this part? This area is called the apron,” I explain to Mike. “It’s much wider and more oval on the females. The males are pointier.” I keep talking while I pick up one of the discarded crayons on the table and draw pictures to illustrate my point. “My stepdad, Bob, used to say the female crabs wore big aprons and lipstick, because they also tend to have red marks on the end of their claws.”

“Aprons and lipstick, huh? How progressive.”

“My mom was a little more diplomatic and would tell me the boys had a ticket to the Washington Monument printed on their bellies, whereas the girls were destined for the White House because the shapes of their aprons matched those buildings.”

I feel like I’m babbling, but he seems amused by the anecdotes and says the White House tip from my mom will definitely help him remember.

“So, here is the controversial part,” I warn Mike. “I prefer to take the apron off and remove the shell first.”

“Whoa, let me stop you right there.” Jordan tears himself from the stats discussion to interrupt again. “Rookie, this is serious. We can no longer trust this woman. This tutorial is a sham. Demand your money back.” He shakes his head with mock sincerity, looking at Mike first, then back to me. “Everybody knows you go for the legs first. This is common knowledge.”

Mike’s shoulders shake with another silent laugh. “Yeah? Well, I didn’t see you stepping up to help me at any point over the past hour while I’ve been sitting here trying to crack into this thing,” he tells Jordan. “So, let’s give the lady the floor. Please continue, Miss Danielle.” He gestures to the table with a sweeping hand motion.

“Like I said, controversial.” I shrug. “But I prefer to take the legs off last. Once the legs are gone, it’s harder to work with a smaller surface area. But some people prefer to take the legs off first.” I purse my lips and tilt my head at Jordan. “That does help to pull out bigger chunks of meat. However, I think it also takes longer, and it makes the rest of the process a little bit harder. I’d rather jump straight to the main event.”

“No foreplay?” Jordan teases from across the table and I can feel my cheeks heat with embarrassment.

“Behave,” Mike admonishes him, then speaks to me. “You’ll need to excuse my first baseman. Some of us actually do have manners and want to hear this,” he promises.

“Teacher’s pet,” Jordan coughs into his hand.

After our lesson, Mike slowly picks his way through three more crabs. The guys offer a few to share with me, and I gladly take them up on it. We are still at our seats at the picnic table, but a few of the other players have dispersed to the grass to play cornhole. A boy who looks to be in about the third grade is going around and asking them all to autograph a napkin with one of his crayons. A player named Rodriguez gives up his turn at the game to let the little dude throw a beanbag for him. I recognize Rodriguez as the guy with the guitar from Brew-Ha-Ha. After being invited to play with them, the kid is positively beaming like this is the best day of his life. Hey, maybe it is. He’s having dinner with an entire professional baseball team. Now he’s on Rodriguez’s shoulders and the players on the lawn are surrounding him, chanting “champ-i-on” with their fists in the air. Life probably doesn’t get much better than that when you are eight.

As we finish eating, I offer everyone at the table a few wet naps from my apron pocket and point them in the direction of our outdoor sinks so we can all clean our hands. It’s been a nice evening, but I have to get home to the sociology paper that isn’t going to write itself. It will take me a while to ride home.

“It looks like you have mastered this art. I better get going. I want to get home before dark.” I touch Mike’s shoulder briefly with my goodbye and my fingertips tingle, so I pull them back quickly. Must be static cling, like the kind that makes your hair stand up when you rub a balloon on it. That’s the only explanation.

“Sure, no problem. I really appreciate your help. I think I’m going to be heading out too, actually. I need to stop at Major Dollar and pick up a few groceries before they close. Bye. Hope to see you around.”

“Yeah, bye. Thanks for letting me steal your dinner.”

I don’t know if I should tell him he’s headed my way. Mike seems sweet, but maybe it’s not the best idea to tell a man I just met where I live. What if he turns out to be a psychopath?

I walk around the building while he heads to the parking lot. As soon as I pull my bike around from the side of the restaurant where it was leaning against the wall and move into the main parking area, I stop to buckle my helmet strap under my chin. I can see the whole parking lot from here and I watch as Mike climbs into an older hunter green pick-up truck that sits almost as low to the ground as a regular car. It only takes a second before he spots me and hops back out of the truck. He jogs over to where I’m standing.

“Nope.” Mike shakes his head at me. “I’m sorry, but my mom would never forgive me if I let you take a bike home in the dark without offering to give you a ride.”

I squint up at him, realizing the sun is setting and it’s a bit later than I thought.

“I’m fine,” I protest. “It’s only a few miles, and I do it every time my grandma needs the car. I even have this fashionable night light, see?” Flicking the switch on the light attached to my handlebars doesn’t seem to deter him, so I say, “No offense, but I’m not in the habit of getting into cars with men I just met.”

“That’s fair. Can you call someone? I’ll wait with you.”

“No, it’s honestly okay. I need to get home and write a paper for school. Everyone I know is busy. My grandma and my best friend are together at their porno book club, and my parents are in Haiti doing relief work. It would be a pretty long commute from there.” I don’t know why I’m telling him any of this.

“Sorry, what kind of book cl—doesn’t matter. I really don’t mind giving you a ride. Friends don’t let friends ride their bikes in the dark.” He looks so sincere that I can’t help but tease him a little.

“Oh, are we friends now? That was fast. Here I thought you were just using me for my advanced crab dismemberment skills.”

“That too.” Mike’s eyes crinkle at the corners and I return his smile with one of my own. He continues, “I’d really feel much better if you’d let me take you home. We can throw your bike in the back of the truck. Besides,” he grins and gestures to his tee shirt. “If I wanted to murder you, I wouldn’t do it while wearing this. I’m too easy to identify right now.” He winks again. What’s with this guy and the winking? Normally it would feel sleazy, but when Mike does it, it’s kind of charming.

“I live close to the Major Dollar. I guess I can accept a ride that far and make it the rest of the way from there?” So, I guess I’m doing this. No big deal. Just hopping into a car to be alone with a handsome guy I met only an hour ago. Nothing to see here. Totally a thing I do all the time. At least I haven’t really told him where I live. It’s not like I gave him my address. He nods and takes the bike from me and lifts it in the back of the truck. Then he opens the passenger side door and motions for me to get in.

That’s how I find myself climbing into Mike Miller’s truck.

“Choosing to keep the helmet on, huh?” he asks, still smiling.

I totally forgot I was wearing it.

“Yeah, well, I haven’t seen you drive yet, have I?” I knock twice on the side of my head and hope to recover by making it look intentional. Because lots of people intentionally wear purple bike helmets when they are sitting next to cute guys in pick-up trucks. I make a show of pulling out my seatbelt as far as it will go and snapping it against my chest once it’s buckled to really drive the point home.

Mike chuckles and puts his arm around the back of my seat while he reverses the truck.

“So, your parents are in Haiti?”

“Oh, um, yeah. My stepdad is a retired dental surgeon and he accepted a position with a charity that fixes cleft palates in areas of the world that don’t have easy access to healthcare. My mom does the bookkeeping for them.”

“That’s really cool.”

“I guess.”

Mike looks at me from the driver’s seat like he’s waiting to hear more, but I don’t elaborate. Now is not the time to sit with a stranger and talk about how it felt when my mom left me in North Bay with Honey so that she could run halfway around the world with her new husband to take care of other kids instead.

“I can’t remember if you told me which position you play.” I change the subject. Mike happily returns his eyes to the road and launches into a discussion about baseball, and specifically why he likes being a shortstop. Apparently, it’s like being the leader of the infield.

I thank him for the ride as we pull into the parking lot of the Major Dollar.

“Sure thing. I just need to run in and grab a few dozen eggs,” Mike says.

“Wow. Either you really like eggs or you are about to commit a crime straight out of a Bugs Bunny cartoon.”

He laughs. “They aren’t all for me. Jordan and I live over in the old Westwood apartment complex and we do a lot of quick, high-protein meals like omelets.”

“Right.” It makes sense that four crabs and a glass of water isn’t enough to fuel a pro athlete. “Plus, it makes for a convenient alibi for all your drive-by egging activities.”

“What can I say? You’ve caught me. I’m an egg-strodinary criminal.”

“Hardly. You cracked way too easily, but omeletting it slide this time.”

“That was a good one.” He seems proud. “If you can wait a minute, I can take you the rest of the way home after I grab the groceries.”

Since he’s told me where he lives, I feel comfortable enough to tell him, “Thanks again, but it’s okay. I live just down the road from here.” I’m still being vague, but he doesn’t push for any more information.

Now that it’s time to say goodbye, I can’t help the awkward babble that continues to fly out of my mouth. “Guess I didn’t need the helmet after all, did I? Driving approved, good sir. I’ll be off now.” What am I even saying? He glances at me sideways and chuckles again, then he gets out of the car and motions for me to stay put while he circles around to open my door.

“We have another home game next Wednesday night. It’s a scrimmage for charity. I’d love to see you there. You could bring some friends, you know, if you want. The team needs all the support we can get. Stands have been pretty sparse lately, and this one is for a good cause.” The yellow fluorescent lights coming from inside the store give the parking lot an eerie glow and low hum as Mike hauls my bike off the bed of the truck. There are only a few other cars scattered around the lot. It’s gotten dark and I can’t quite see his face thanks to the shadows. Standing alone in a mostly-empty parking lot at night with a man I just met isn’t smart. I know that, yet I’m not scared around Mike Miller. Something deep in my gut tells me it’s okay to relax with him.

“Maybe. Thanks again for the ride.”

I take the bike, swing my leg over it, and switch on the light before I pedal away.

I wonder if he’s watching when I turn into the driveway right next door.