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“Do you think Castillo and Cali gossip about the rest of us?” Jacob asks one day, while they’re sitting in the stands eating lunch. “Like, they seem to be able to understand each other somehow. What do you think they’re saying?”
The two in question are on the field, tossing a ball back and forth. Castillo is mostly stationary, but he’s putting Caligula through the works: diving, rolling in the grass, leaping up to catch pop-ups. It’s impressive, and it also looks exhausting.
“I don’t know,” Beck says. “Castillo is pretty straightforward, I doubt he would be talking about any of us. They’re probably just swapping the best places to get sunlight, or something.”
“We live in a garden. There’s sunlight everywhere.”
(A story about the Boston Flowers, and love, and loss.)
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Bookmark Notes:
“Do you think there’s a way for us to talk to each other?”
Beck doesn’t plan to ask it, not really; it just sort of comes out. She doesn’t regret it, even if now isn’t the best time. But what better time to have a serious conversation than the twentieth inning of a game that’s lasted all day, and hasn’t led to a single run?
Cali doesn’t respond. That is, of course, typical. Beck looks up at her, standing too far from second base, and wishes she could hear… anything, really. Any kind of response.
It’s certainly gotten easier. Cali doesn’t have a mouth, or a face, or any kind of vocalization. It’s just her eyes and her petals and her hands.
“I’m not saying I don’t appreciate your presence,” Beck says, and realizes before she even starts that she’s heading toward a rambling train of thought with no easy exit. “I do. It would just be nice, sometimes, to be able to understand exactly what it is you mean to tell me.”