Fireworks

The wind stung my face as we sat down on the topmost bench of the bleachers. The baseball field laid out in front of us was barren and black with night. It was beginning to flurry and Trevor grabbed the sleeve of my jacket, dragging me closer to him.

"Why are you so far away, Ginger Snap?” he asked and he wrapped an arm around my shoulders once our sides were touching. He rubbed on my arms like he was going to magically warm all of me up with a cheap arm rub and I couldn't help but roll my eyes.

“What are we doing here? It’s freezing.” 

I glanced at the weather app on my phone. Six degrees. 

“I missed this. It gets cold in Tacoma, but not like this. I miss real winter.” 

“You didn't have to miss it, you knew where to find it. Why are we here, specifically?”

He grinned at me. He enjoyed my bad attitude. He always thought it was funny when I was grumpy. You’re cute when you’re mean, he used to tell me. I wondered if he still thought that. “I’m trying to make you remember that we used to have fun together, once upon a time.”

“Okay…”

“This place triggering some memories yet?”

I squinted at the Babe Ruth field. I could see the chain-link backstop donning signage from local businesses that had sponsored the league for the previous year, the dugouts, and where home plate would be if it weren’t stored away for winter, but that was about all I could make out in the dark. 

“Brennan going postal with a bat on that pitcher? You getting hit in the head with a fastball? Ricky breaking his ankle? Which memory are you trying to dredge up?” I rattled off all of the most traumatic Babe Ruth memories.

He raised an eyebrow at me, turning his face back to the field, “uh, none of those.”

I remembered watching countless games of Brennan’s on top of the first baseline dugout with Ricky, Jason, and Trevor when the three of them were too young for Babe Ruth; me and Trevor sharing candy with each other, but not with the others. Watching games, by myself, on top of the dugout the next year when they all played. Going on concession stand runs for the boys and cheering for each player like the team’s own, personal, solo cheerleader and errand girl. Rainy games where they’d still play and Coach Dave would let me sit in the dugout just as long as I promised I wouldn’t ‘distract the boys too much,' but then Ricky and I would always get in trouble for telling inappropriate jokes and swearing too loudly. I didn’t want Trevor to know I remembered any of that. Any of the best stuff.

“Close your eyes and open your mouth,” he commanded and I looked at him cross. 

“Um, what?”

He gave me the eyebrow again and chuckling to myself, I did as he told. 

Junior Mint on my tongue. 

My eyes flashed open. A memory, long stagnant, emerging from the deep abyss within my brain; pulling itself up out of the wreckage of drinking too much and memory suppression until, three Junior Mints later, there it was in all its nostalgic glory. 

It was the summer before my freshman year of high school and I was 13. Trevor was about to turn 15 and some fool at the DMV let my brother Brennan get his license.

It was the first year the town had the fireworks at Cove Beach instead of the town beach and as we were driving there, late per usual, we saw the first one that was set off burst over the treeline from the road by the Babe Ruth field. It was the perfect view. No one else there. No paying for parking. No fighting for a place to sit and watch. Everyone else in town would be crammed onto Cove Beach, but not us. Brennan slammed the car over the curb and we all filed out- Brennan, Trevor, Ricky, Jason, Jason’s flavor-of-the-week Denise, and me. In the dark, we climbed the fence onto the field. Summer ball in full swing, the grass was perfectly manicured, the pitchers mound covered in a blue tarp. 

The air was hot and heavy but the grass felt cool to the touch, so we all laid there in the outfield, six in a row, watching the show. The only thing lighting the night other than the fireworks were stars and lightning bugs, and Trevor and I were secretly sharing a box of Junior Mints. Sweet summer perfection.

And then, as I was reaching for the box of candy, Trevor put his fingertips on top of the back of my hand, stopping me in my tracks. I thought he was just trying to stop me from taking the candy, so I turned my head to him with a smartass smirk on my face, ready to make a smartass comment to my best guy friend. But when I looked at him, he was looking back at me, expressionless. He turned his hand around mine until we were palm to palm and he weaved his fingers through mine and smiled before turning his face back up to the light show. I stared at him for a few seconds after he’d turned his eyes away, not sure what to make of it. Wondering if everyone else could hear my heart pounding against my rib cage, because it was pounding so hard that I thought it might leap out of my chest and pitter-patter right there on the ground between us. 

Trevor grabbed my hand closest to him with both of his. His smile the same as it was way back then, but we're in our mid-twenties now and he's grown into his ears; he has stubble on his face. He was radiating heat and his hands felt good on my numbing, circulation-challenged fingers. 

“Fireworks?” I asked.

“Fireworks.” He confirmed with a satisfied look on his face.

I pulled my hand away and tucked it back under my arm, “God, I hate you.”