Bet Me by Jennifer Crusie
“Right,” Cynthie said, swallowing. “I just wanted to say, ‘Hi!’”
“Hi,” Cal said. Something in the bleachers caught his eye and he looked past her to see Harry climbing up to the top. “Where the hell is he—” Cal began and then he looked past Harry and saw Min, sitting at the top, her hair cut short in loose curls that glinted in the sun. She was wearing a filmy, flowing white shirt, and her face lit up when she saw Harry so that she looked positively angelic, and he lost his breath for a moment. “She cut her hair,” he said out loud, and Cynthie said, “What?” and followed his eyes.
Cal nodded to the bleachers, recovering. “Go up there and send Harry back down here, will you? He’s supposed to be playing ball, not flirting with older women.”
“Right,” Cynthie said, in that brittle tone that Cal knew meant “I’m very upset, but I’m going to be an adult about it.”
“You okay?” he said to her.
“Just fine,” Cynthie said, even more brittle, and went around the fence to climb the bleachers.
What’s her problem? Cal thought and then forgot her to look back at Min again, glowing in the sunlight while Harry wiped his nose on his arm and adored her. I am not interested in Minerva Dobbs, he told himself. She’s too high maintenance. She’s never peaceful. And, oh yeah, she hates me. Then Min smiled at Harry, and Cal thought, Damn, she’s pretty, and kept staring.
When Min got to the park, the kids were warming up, and she saw Harry out on the field, smaller than the other kids and grubby as usual, and felt a twinge for him. Then he saw her and smiled the Morrisey smile at her, and she thought, Oh, he’s going to be fine, and smiled back. She climbed up to the top of the bleachers and felt the wind ruffle her newly short curls and the fluttery sleeves of her organdy blouse as she sat down. She tried to watch Harry, but it was hard because Cal was there, and her eyes kept going to him. It’s purely physical, she told herself, but it wasn’t; she loved the way he was with the kids. He hated coaching, but he was doing it right. That was Cal.
Oh, stop it, she thought. You don’t even know him.
A slender brunette walked up behind Cal and put her hands over his eyes, and Min thought, Of course, and felt all her ludicrous happiness deflate. It didn’t matter that he was good with kids, since she didn’t want any. But it did matter that he was a beast with women, so—
Someone sat down beside her and said, “Hello,” in a beautifully modulated voice, and Min turned and saw a pale-haired, paper-thin woman smiling faintly at her. She had a heart-shaped face and huge gray eyes, her platinum hair was razor cut close to her finely boned head, and she couldn’t have weighed more than ninety pounds. “I’m Bink,” she said.
“Right,” Min said. “Hi. I’m Min.”
“It’s so sweet of you to come for Harry,” Bink said. “I do appreciate it.”
“Well, Harry’s a sweet kid,” Min said, looking back to find him, only to discover that he’d escaped from the field and was climbing the bleachers toward them, looking even grubbier as he came closer.
“Most people don’t notice that,” Bink said, looking at him with love.
“Hi, Min,” Harry said when he was one row down. He was beaming at her and she smiled back because anybody would.
“Hey, Harry,” she said. “How’s it going?”
“I have to play baseball,” Harry said. “Otherwise, pretty good.”
“Well, live through this and we’ll celebrate with a doughnut afterward,” Min said.
“Cool,” Harry said, bobbing his head.
“You’re looking good down there on the field,” Min lied.
“Thanks,” Harry said, still bobbing.
“You can really throw that ball,” Min said, guessing.
“Not really,” Harry said, but he didn’t seem depressed by that.
He sniffed and kept nodding, and Bink said, “I think Uncle Cal wants you, Harry,” and he turned around and saw Cal and the brunette watching him.
“Yeah,” he said and sighed.
“Just keep thinking about that doughnut,” Min said.
“Cool,” Harry said again, beaming at her.
Min smiled back.
“I gotta go,” Harry said, not going anywhere.
“Good luck,” Min said.
“Yeah,” Harry said, nodding for another minute or so. Then his smile faded and he trailed down the bleachers, avoiding his uncle’s gaze.
“That was nice of you,” Bink said, and Min looked at her, surprised.
“No, it wasn’t,” she said. “I like Harry.”
The wind picked up before Bink could answer, and Min half expected her to blow away. I’m so glad she’s sitting beside me, she thought bitterly. Because I didn’t look hefty enough sitting up here by myself. Then she kicked herself. Bink might turn out to be nice, she was certainly polite, and Cal had warned her about hating her body. Okay, she thought. I’m one of those heavy cream wedding invitations, the kind you have to touch because it’s so beautiful, and she’s the expensive tissue paper that’s wrapped around me.
“Are you all right?” Bink said.
“Yes,” Min said. “Why?”
“You were frowning,” Bink said.
“I have to work on my metaphors,” Min said. “So Harry plays baseball.”
“Unfortunately,” Bink said, and Min thought, She’s not one of the people who shanghaied Cal and Harry. I wonder—
“Hi!” somebody said brightly from Min’s other side, and this time when she turned she saw the brunette who’d been flirting with Cal. She had a heart-shaped face and big gray eyes, and her dark hair was thick and silky.
Kill me now, Min thought as the paragon sat down beside her. I’ve been bookended by the thin and rich.
“How are you, Bink?” the woman said, and Bink smiled at her faintly—Bink evidently did everything faintly—and said, “Hello, Cynthie.”
Cynthie. Min turned back to the brunette with renewed horror. Cal’s ex. Wearing, Min now noticed, a black halter top that wasn’t appropriate for a kids’ baseball game. Except that Cynthie was wearing it with no self-consciousness at all, probably because her breasts were those perfect perky kind men were always going on about. Bite me, Min thought and looked down on the field to see Cal staring up at the three of them with a very strange expression on his face. Probably realizing with horror that he’d been kissing a woman who was never going to wear a size eight. That hurt a lot more than it should have.
“There’s Cal,” Bink said.
“What’s wrong with him?” Min said. “Besides the fact that he hates this.”
“He doesn’t hate this,” Cynthie said. “He agreed with me that this was great for Harry.”
“Oh,” Min said. “This was your idea?”
“Yes,” Cynthie said, smiling.
Min turned to Bink. “Cynthie got Harry into baseball.”
“Yes,” Bink said. “Cynthie discussed it with Harry’s grandmother and they agreed it would be good for him. Harry’s grandmother can be very forceful.”
“Oh,” Min said, and turned back to the field to see a batter hit a wobbly shot into left field where a kid on Harry’s team bobbled the ball. Cal missed all of it, staring up into the bleachers at them.
Then Cal began to turn away, and the kid in the outfield picked up the ball and threw it with desperation and an impossible force for an eight-year-old. It smacked Cal on the back of the head, knocking him off balance so that he fell to his knees and then to the ground.
“No,” Min said and zapped down the bleachers and around the chain link fence. “Cal?” she said, going down on her knees beside him as he tried to sit up. “Cal?”
He looked dazed, so she stared into his eyes, trying to see if the pupils were different sizes. They weren’t, his eyes were the same hot, dark depths they always were, and she fell into them again, growing breathless, as music swelled behind her, Elvis Costello singing his heart out on “She,” and the voice in her head said, THIS ONE.
Then she hea
“Sorry,” one of the girls said, and the other said, “Is he dead?”
“Go away,” Min said and they left, taking the music with them.
“Cal, are you all right?” Cynthie said, and Min looked down at him again to see him still staring at her.
“Cal?” she said.
The assassin from the outfield came running up. “Did you see that, Mr. Capa? I really threw it.”
“Yeah, you did, Bentley,” Tony said, looking down at Cal. “You okay, there, buddy?”
“I knew I could do it,” Bentley said. “I saw Wyman getting close to third base, and something just told me I could do it, and I really threw that sucker, boy.”
“Cal, say something,” Cynthie said, panic in her voice.
“Boy, I really threw that sucker,” Bentley said.
“Yeah,” Tony said. “Too bad you missed third base by a mile and took out Mr. Morrisey.” He crouched down next to Cal. “Say something or Min takes you to the ER now.”
“Did you hear music?” Cal asked, still staring into Min’s eyes.
“I really threw that sucker,” Bentley said.
Tony handed Min his car keys. “Go. The Cherry Hill ER is up the road a mile.”
“I know the way,” Cynthie said, standing. “I have a car.”
Min helped Cal to his feet, trying to steady him as he lurched, and Tony took his other side.
“I’ll take him,” Cynthie said. “My car is just—”
“No,” Cal said as he righted himself. “If I’m going to throw up, it’ll be in Tony’s clunker.”
“Drive fast,” Tony said to Min, and helped them both to the car.
Cal lay on the table in the ER, trying to remember what had happened. He’d been staring at Min, watching the breeze flutter the ends of her blouse and tousle her curls, and he’d been telling himself that she was a pain in the ass and that he didn’t want anything to do with her, and then that ball had come out of nowhere and—
“Cal?” Min said, leaning over him. The fluorescent light above backlit her hair and she looked like an angel again.
“Hi,” he said.
“The doctor said you’re going to be all right,” she said, trying to look cheerful. “I just filled your prescription.” She held up an amber plastic pill bottle. “For the pain. In case you have headaches. Do you have a headache?”
His head felt like it was in a vise. “Yes.”
She opened the bottle and dumped out two pills into her palm. “Here,” she said, handing them to him. “I’ll get water.”
Cal thought about telling her that he’d already had a pain pill and then decided that since the damn thing wasn’t working, two more would be good.
“You scared me,” she said, when she came back with the water. “You got hit in the head. People get killed that way. I don’t know how many a year. I haven’t had time to look it up.”
Cal propped himself up to take the pills. “Bentley,” he said bitterly.
“I’m sure he’ll be sorry,” Min said. “When he gets over how hard he threw the ball.”
“Little bastard,” Cal said without heat. “Was there music? I could swear I heard—”
“—Elvis Costello singing ‘She.’” Min nodded. “You did. Some kids had it on a radio. Which is weird because I don’t think it gets a lot of airplay. My sister’s using it in her wedding.” She sounded as if she were babbling, which was so unlike Min that Cal chalked it up to his general dizziness. “I called Bink on her cell and told her you were okay and I was taking you home.”
“Your sister likes Elvis Costello?” Cal said.
“No,” Min said. “My sister likes music from Julia Roberts movies.”
“Oh,” Cal said and focused on her. “You cut your hair.”
“Diana took me to her stylist,” Min said. “To go with the new clothes. I did what you said.”
“I didn’t tell you to cut your hair.” His eyes dropped to her blouse, looking through the thin fabric to the equally thin camisole underneath, and he almost fell off the table.
“Easy,” Min said, breathless as she tried to prop up his weight, and he looked down the open neck of her blouse and saw pink lace under the camisole.
“Pink,” he said.
“Oh, good, you’re feeling better,” Min said, relief in her voice. “Come on. I’ll take you home.”
“Okay,” Cal said. “I like your hair.”
Half an hour later, Min pulled up in front of Cal’s apartment, having followed his increasingly groggy directions. “Let’s go,” she said, and opened the car door for him.
“I can get up there myself,” Cal said, weaving a little as he got out. “Take the car—”
“You’re not going up there alone.” Min pulled his arm across her shoulders. It felt good there, if heavy. “My mother raised me better than that.”
“Well, then you’re going up first so you can’t look at my butt.”
“There’s an elevator, Charm Boy,” Min said, kicking the door shut behind them. “Move it.”
“Wait a minute,” he said, and she stopped so he could get his bearings, but he put his hand on her curls again, patting them. “Springy.”
“Right,” Min said and herded him upstairs to a white, slightly battered apartment that looked like something he would have lived in during college. She steered him through a living room furnished with Danish modern furniture that would have made all of Denmark cringe, into an even bleaker, uglier bedroom. “How are you feeling?” she said as she guided him toward his headboardless bed.
“Better,” he said, sounding groggy. “The drugs kicked in and I’m not coaching baseball.”
“There you go,” she said, “Always a bright side.” She shouldered him toward the bed, and he bounced when he sat down.
“You’re a lot more aggressive than I thought you’d be.” He fell back onto the pillows, but his feet still hung off the side.
“You’re a lot heavier than I thought you’d be,” Min said, and realized that was probably because he moved so well when he was conscious. Semiconscious, he moved like a lurching glacier. She pulled off his Nikes, and her heart skipped a beat. “You’re an eleven-D.”
“Yes,” Cal said, sleepily. “Tell me that proves I’m a beast. You haven’t said anything lousy to me all day.”
“Elvis wore an eleven-D,” Min said, and Cal mumbled, “Good for him.”
She picked up his feet and threw them on the bed, and then realized that he was way too close to the edge; if he rolled off in his sleep, he’d hit his head on the battered bedside table. She shoved at him to get him to the center of the bed.
“What are you doing?” he said, half asleep as she tried to rock him over.
“Trying to keep you safe,” she said between her teeth as she put one knee on the bed and shoved again. “Roll over, will you?”
He rolled just as she shoved and knocked them both off balance. She grabbed at him to save herself, and he pulled her down with him.
“I should be awake in about eight hours,” he yawned into her hair. “Stick around.”
“Fine,” she said into his chest. “Fall on the floor. Get a concussion. See if I care.” He didn’t say anything, so she shoved at him again, but it was like shoving at a wall. She stopped to consider the situation. There was something very protective in the way he held on to her. Thoughtful.
He began to snore.
Instinctive.
“Okay,” she said, and squirmed around until she got one foot on the floor and shoved off, toppling him over onto his back in the middle of the bed, which stopped his snoring. Then she stood up and looked at him, sprawled out on an ugly, generic bedspread in a plain, cheap bedroom with lousy, awkward lighting. He looked like a god.
“It is so unfair,” she said to him. “Couldn’t you at least drool or something?”
He began to snore again.
“Thank you.” She opened his closet door and found a blanket folded on the top shelf, over a tasteful collection of expensive suits. “You are so weird,” she said to him as she snapped the blanket over him. “This place does not look like you at all.”
He breathed deeper, and she looked down at the beautiful strong bones of his face, his lashes like smudges on his cheeks as he slept, and thought, I could love you.
Then she straightened and returned to reality. Every woman in the city thought that when she looked at him so it wasn’t as if . . . Oh, the hell with it, she thought, and put his shoes where he wouldn’t trip over them, got him a glass of water for his bedside table, made sure his pills were within reach, and pulled the blanket up so he wouldn’t get chilled. Then, at a loss as to what to do next, she patted his shoulder and left.
On Monday, David picked up the phone and heard Cynthie say, “I talked to Cal. He thinks she smells like lavender. He noticed she cut her hair. His nephew loves her. There was a copulatory gaze in the park.”
“Isn’t that illegal?”
“Don’t make fun, David. This isn’t amusing. We could lose them.” He heard her take a deep breath over the phone. “The best thing for you to do right now is to ask her to lunch. Evoke joy. Did you even call her?”
“She’s not returning my calls,” David said, trying not to sound annoyed.
“How do you feel about that?” Cynthie said. “A little angry?”
“A little,” David said. “But—”
“And you’re angry that she never let you pay for dinner, too. She was rejecting your sexual advances, just as she’s now rejecting your phone calls. So now—”
“This is ridiculous,” David said, moving beyond annoyed.
“Your problem is that you’re angry with her and she can sense that, so you’re going to have to get over it. Now.”
“I’m not angry, damn it,” David snapped.
“Ask her to lunch and insist on paying. You’ll feel much better, the anger will go away, she’ll see you as a potential mate, and then you can make your move.”
“This is such crap,” David said.
“I don’t care,” Cynthie said. “Do it. Or she’s going to end up with Cal.”