Shopping for a CEO (Page 53)

Caramel corn.

Andrew pats an empty chair next to him, on the end, with no one else next to me. “Saved you a seat.” There’s no trace of his earlier anger, which is a huge relief. As I settle in, he hands me a small cone of popcorn and we face the field.

Play ball.

As I look over the crowd at Fenway Park, an uneasy familiarity creeps over my skin. Andrew’s hand is on my knee and he’s avidly watching as the players get ready for the pitcher, the first inning about to open. Loud organ music pounds through the air, muted in here.

I’ve been here.

Not in this suite, but I’ve been here. At Fenway Park.

When Andrew asked me to this game, he questioned whether I’d attended a baseball game before. Other than once, in high school, I told him I had a vague memory of my mom bringing me to a game when I was really little. Or maybe my grandpa? I couldn’t remember.

Suddenly, an image of myself as a tiny girl and the faint olfactory memory of peanuts transports me back two decades. My hand is in the warm clasp of a man’s callused palm, the back of his hand covered with black hair. He puts a baseball cap on my head and it’s too big.

His laughter rumbles and he’s hugging me, the vibration of his chest against my ear so loud. His breath is sour against my cheek. I look up to find his face surrounded by a halo of bright sunshine. I have to squint hard to see his face.

Crack!

One of the pitches hits the bat and the shortstop makes a long throw to first base, barely beating the runner. Everyone’s on their feet, cheering.

The roar of the crowd.

A flash of sunlight and I’m blinded, except there is no sun outside right now. It’s a partly cloudy day, with no chance of rain, and no bright orb in the sky.

What am I remembering?

“You okay?” Andrew asks, concern in his eyes as I drop my cone of popcorn, the pieces spilling over my leg. Except my leg is tiny, and I’m wearing a gingham dress. It’s my favorite. It’s the one I wore for my kindergarten school picture, with tiny pink flowers against a chocolate backdrop, and brown piping along the hem.

I look at Andrew and see my father’s face.

“Mandy?” he says.

Except Andrew actually says, “Amanda.”

No one has called me Mandy since I was five. Since my dad disappeared. That was my father’s nickname for me. My dad, though, never brought me to a baseball game.

I stand abruptly, shaking my head fast. “Uh, excuse me.”

“Amanda,” Andrew repeats. “What’s going on? Are you sick?” He follows me to the doorway, his hand on my elbow. The gesture is protective and genuine. I’m worrying him.

I’m worrying me.

“I, um…can we just go for a walk?” I beg. The room closes in on me, even with the expansive view. The billboard flashes with numbers and videos. I can’t blink hard enough to get clarity.

“Now?” If I were in a better frame of mind I would see the fear in his eyes. Not anger. Not disappointment.

Fear.

“Yeah. I’m having this weird memory about Fenway Park.”

“From high school?”

I start to breathe through my nose in short little spurts. “No. Earlier.”

He cocks his head and bends down. I can smell the popcorn he’s been eating. “I thought you said you were maybe here with your mom or grandpa once.”

“I thought so, too. But now I’m remembering coming here with my dad.”

Shock registers in the way he moves. “Your father? But he abandoned you.”

“Right. This memory…I don’t know. I just need to go for a walk. I need fresh air. Please, Andrew? Please?”

Adrenaline pours through me like an overflowing bucket under a full-throttle faucet. I am nothing but one big, nauseated cell.

He looks over my head and outside, where the game is underway. His eyes scan the entire perimeter of the glass that faces the park.

Then he looks down at me.

Back up at the wall.

Down at me.

His face hardens. “I can’t. This is an important client meeting. And besides,” he adds, “you, um…photographers might be out there.”

“Photographers?” What is he talking about? Who cares about my picture being taken?

My breathing quickens. If I don’t get out of here, I’m going to pass out. Or vomit. Or just plain old die as my dad’s face takes over, the backs of his hands covering his face, his sobs cutting through me like a razor blade as I pat him on the back and ask Daddy for more ice cream.

“Right,” Andrew says quickly, his rapid-fire speech an anomaly, his eyes nervously bouncing across sights outside. “You know. Boston Magazine, media outlets. You don’t really want—”

Wrenching my elbow away from him, I walk as fast as I can down the stairs, pounding down them until I find a door I can burst through, the scent of the outdoor air sickening as I find myself next to a short man with a beard, making balloon hats for a crowd of children.

Rushing past them, I round a corner and find myself on the sidewalk behind the park, where street vendors offer me Cuban sandwiches and Italian sausage.

Deep breath. Deep breath. Deep breath.

How can I have a memory of something that never actually happened?

Only one way to find out.

I call my mom.

As her phone rings, I look toward the building, praying Andrew will follow. Yes, I ran away. Yes, I broke contact. But I need someone right now, because I am about as out of my own head and body as a person can get, and this feels suspiciously like I’m going a little—or a lot—insane.

“Hello?”