Page 106 of Run Home

So it was a boost of dopamine to hear Samantha say out loud that I was there for her exactly how she needed me to be last night. A boost that will keep me going when I’m tempted to avoid the extra work.

Once we have the food spread out on the patio table in the backyard, Samantha asks, “How are you feeling about the playoffs?” She dips a piece of her favorite sushi in soy sauce as she waits for my answer.

I take time to think before answering. “I feel good. Like we really have a shot. I was feeling that way last year before Griff got hurt, and then the season kinda fell apart after that.”

Samantha frowns. “I know he hasn’t doubted his decision to retire. I know he loves the new life he has with Danae and Jason. But I do miss seeing you two out there together.”

Sighing, I agree. “Yeah, me too. I still think about it every time I step onto the field. But I have to admit, things have finally been clicking more with Carson. He’s still way too uptight for his own good, but he’s getting there.”

“He has the best possible model to show him how to have a good time,” Samantha says after swallowing a second bite of sushi. “How to have a good time while also being awesome at the sport.”

Grinning, I say, “You’re finally gonna start puffing up my ego, huh? Took you long enough.”

“Ay, menso, don’t make me regret complimenting you,” she says, harmlessly snapping her chopsticks at me. She sits back, a thoughtful expression on her face.

“What are you thinking about?” I ask gently.

Her eyes find mine, a hint of hesitation still in them.

“What do you want to ask?” I prompt. “It’s okay.”

She takes a breath and asks, “Will you tell me a good memory of your mom? The counselor today talked about the importance of us recalling the good things in our lives together, not only the hard things. And I was thinking that I’d love to know a happy memory of your mom to connect to her.”

My chest tenses initially, and Samantha quickly recants. “But you don’t have to right now. You can tell me another time.”

“No, I want to,” I tell her. She sets her chopsticks down and takes my hand.

Staring out at the layered purples and pinks of the sunset, I imagine the same sky in Venezuela. Closing my eyes, I try to picture the vibrant colors of the city through my mother’s artistic eyes—the brightly painted buildings set in stark contrast to the lush trees of the mountains. Beams of yellow sunlight glinting off of the water of Lake Valencia. The rich forest green of las palmas against the azure-blue sky.

“When we would walk outside—whether it was through the city streets or through the trees—mi mamá loved to point out all the colors. Like the whole world was a painting to her,” I say. “I don’t have a lot of clear memories of her. But the memories I do have are in vivid color. Mamá was full color, all the time.”

I return my eyes to Samantha’s face when she squeezes my hand. Her eyes are soft, and the breeze picks up a strand of her hair, dancing it across her face. I reach over to tuck it behind her ear, savoring the sense of grounding I feel every time I touch her skin.

“No wonder you’re so vibrant, always bursting with life,” Samantha says. “It’s in your blood. In your heart.”

When she leans her lips to mine, it’s soft as a whisper, yet somehow slams into my heart with more force than our most passionate kisses.

For once, I don’t capture a longer kiss, instead holding her forehead against mine as I close my eyes. As I let myself float in the wave of sadness that comes.

“She would have loved you, Samantha,” I whisper. “She would have loved who I am with you.”

Samantha draws back enough for our eyes to meet, and she places a hand on my cheek. She quotes the first line of the poem on my wrist. “‘La tierra giró para acercarnos.’” She pauses. “Maybe your mom turned the world to bring us together.”

Chapter forty

Adrián

Iadjust the sweatband keeping the curls off my forehead, then put my hat back on and lean in to watch the batter. We’re tied 4–4 in the top of the ninth inning in game seven of the American League Series. With home field advantage throughout the playoffs, we’re playing our hearts out in front of the Crowns fans, trying to make it that final step to the World Series.

We need one more out, then one run, and we’re in.

The first pitch is wide, a clear ball. The batter swings and misses the second pitch. Our pitcher checks the runner on first before throwing the third pitch, and that familiar crack of the bat sounds through the stadium.

It’s a pop fly heading down the third base foul line, and I run toward it, keeping my eyes on the ball’s trajectory. I can get this. I can end it.

Nearing the rail where fans stand level with the field, I watch where the ball is going to drop—just on the other side of that rail. Without losing sight of the ball in the air, I lean against the rail and dive with my glove extended, twisting my arm above my head to catch the ball.

The eager seat holders catch me as I tumble over the rail with the ball secured in my glove. As soon as the fans right me to my feet, I hold my glove aloft, making sure the umpires know I caught it. I can already see the instant replay on the jumbotron, clear evidence that I caught the out. Fans slap my shoulders and wildly celebrate as I hop back over the railing. I turn to clap in appreciation to them for allowing me to make the catch without interference before I jog to the dugout.