Ours Stars

Chapter 2 »»»» «««« I Can Thank the Bat

"I'm going to say this slowly, so your sunscreen inebriated brains can understand: Pay up, take your shit, and leave."

Some of them started to leave, but the others who still had to pay stayed, looking uncertain.

"Are you going to pay for these things, or do you want to taste this bat?" I hissed, scowling. They quickly got out the money and put it on the counter while taking their things and hustling out the front door, muttering "Pscho!" and "Crazy bitch!" under their breath. I wonder why they didn't say that when they were at bat's distance away?

I put the bat away, making a mental note to thank Enrique for the suggestion - which I had thought extreme at first - and counted the money. I felt a laugh playing at my lips when I was finished. The morons, in their haste, gave me twenty more dollars than they needed to. I slide it into the cash register, thinking about how great it will be when I tell Enrique.

I settled in my spot, picking up L.M.

"Take two," I sighed.

I read a grand total of two words when the bell jingled, my head snapped up with a sour expression, my hand already inching towards the bat when I realized it wasn't those guys again. Instead, it was just one.

The first thing I see are a pair of wet feet, wiggling their toes up at me in greeting - and now I'm thinking: I'm going to have to clean that up, because someone might slip, and law suits are no fun, and being fired is definitely worse.

And then my eyes travel up, the swim shorts he wears - also dripping water droplets onto the grimy tile - command my attention. Bright, highlighter orange, let me tell you, was not the worst thing about them. Because on the tawdry, glaringly bright background, were a couple dozen families of rubber ducks. One cut off at the edge, where the shorts met his tan knee, one askew on the pocket - they were sneezed and then mixed around blindly, smothering the shorts. And just when you thought it couldn't get any better - it would have been, if not tolerable, tenable if they had been homogenous. But as it stood, the ducks were embellished with stereotyped accessories. One was a doctor - a lab coat and stethoscope fitted daintily onto its tiny, plump body. Another a cowboy - a red cowboy hat perched over its too friendly, almost evil - looking, blank gaze and a blue vest with a yellow badge sitting proudly on its chest. I don't think I want to gauge my eyes out with a dessert spoon is sufficient enough to describe what I felt.

And - more out of self defense - my eyes leave the ungodly article of clothing and flicker over his chest up to his face. I've practically lived on the beach since I was old enough to say elua sab ma su la in baby jargon. Needless to say, shirtless guys - shirtless people in general - didn't faze me. Usually, Orange County was relatively normal. Throw in public restrooms, an occasional celebrity spotting, sunscreen slathered tourists, and a pinch of good weather - and you've got yourself a freak show. I'm generalizing but you get my drift: I've seen enough weird and wild to fill up two buckets and then some.

The rubber ducky swim trunks - definitely on the list.

His brown hair is a fuzzy straight - the way only guys can have and not look like they have a rabid, unshaved squirrel attacking their head - but sporadically curled around his face. Colored pencil, sky blue eyes look at me from across the small store - a little wide in surprise. And it strikes me, how incongruous his body appears - strange and contradictory - on the threshold. Never mind the shorts, I'll put him on the wacky list.

I sigh, dropping my cowboy boot clad feet down one at a time, and stand up, placing L.M. on the counter. I wait there for a moment, but he's still frozen, across the room. And I can't help but feel like I have something gross attached to my cheek or my bra is showing, and the urge to look in a mirror makes me fidget for a moment, then - being helpless - angers me.

"You gonna stand there all day?" I snap and narrow my eyes. Go ahead and call me a bitch, I think to myself. I have this new baseball bat I want to try out. But it seems, unfortunately, that he snaps out of the spell he was in, because he finishes walking in, the harsh light of the reflected sun illuminating the fresh puddles of water on the floor. I scowl at them, then up at him. That makes him halt, and then inexplicably, a wide grin forms on his face as he puts his hands in his pockets.

"You're cute," he says, and for a moment I'm not sure I heard him right, and am about to ask come again? But he continues. "When they told me they'd been threatened by a baseball bat wielding psychotic bitch, I had pictured a fifty year old smoker with a wart on her cheek and a lazy eye."

My eyes narrow even more and he takes his hands out of his pockets and crosses his arms over his chest.

"Care to see the 'psychotic bitch' in action?" I ask, my hand already moving towards the bat. "Because I can certainly help you with that today."

His mouth sets in that odd way that tells you someone's trying not to laugh, and in his eyes, only amusement. I want to drop kick him and his obnoxious shorts all the way to Guatemala. He steps closer, a couple feet away from me, and my hand closes around the bats base.

"I came to apologize," he says, sobered up, and I can hear the surprise in my voice when I say, "What?"

He sighs and steps up to the counter, placing his fingers precariously on the edge. And it's strange, because as he stands there - amongst the California post cards and the cheap plastic glasses - wet in some places, dry in others, glittering in some places where the light hits the water, wearing a small sad smile, he looks completely normal.

"My friends can be..." he struggles for a second, wincing.

"Complete assholes?" my recalcitrant mouth supplies, interrupting. He simply keeps smiling though and nods.

"Complete assholes," he agrees, placing his palms on the counter's surface. "They really don't mean any harm though, and I'm sorry they bothered you."

I realize how tall he is, suddenly. Towering over my medium height by at least a foot. What's left of my anger washes away, and under his light gaze is something heavier, unexpectedly discerning, and I fight the urge to look away or fidget.

"Well," I say quietly, now that there's only a counter between us. "Thanks, I guess."

He just stands there, unmoving. Then, he smirks a little, spreading his palms out on the counter and leans forward slightly.

"You know," he starts in an equally quiet tone, amusement painting his voice. "I really was expecting some old hag, but instead, I find this angel -"

And I don't even have time to get angry over the fact that he's trying to flirt with me or wonder if his apology was counterfeit, just a ploy because he thought he could get into my pants - because right then, a deep, angry voice fills the room behind him, and I'm a little surprised I didn't hear the little bell chime above the door.

"That angel happens to be my girlfriend."

And the guy spins around, startled as much as I am, leaving one hand on the counter, and we can now both see an annoyed Jason, standing by the door with his arms crossed over his broad chest.

I knew at that moment things were about to get, well, ugly.

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