Dakota Hayes

The heat radiating off the concrete concourse of the baseball stadium is almost enough to warp your vision. It’s eight o'clock at night, and the temperature is still stubbornly biting down at ninety-one degrees. Bottom of the fifth inning. The blaring PA system, the crunch of kids in the row ahead stomping on spilled popcorn, and the heavy scent of sunscreen, cheap draft beer, and stale fryer grease all blend into one obnoxiously loud, sticky summer night.

Amidst this chaotic blur of color and noise, Dakota’s royal blue halter top is impossible to ignore.

She has been sitting on pins and needles in this aisle seat for forty minutes. The outside of her iced coffee cup is slick with condensation, water dripping steadily through her fingers as she aggressively chews on her plastic straw. Her eyes dart frantically between the stadium entrance and her phone screen. Three rows down, three girls keep turning around to wiggle their eyebrows at her, earning a fierce, warning glare in return.

And then, her eyes cut through the crowd and lock onto a figure that is both entirely familiar and completely new.

In a fraction of a second, Dakota is halfway out of her seat. She shoots up, her arm thrust straight into the air, waving frantically like she’s terrified the stadium is about to swallow you whole. Her thick, golden-brown waves bounce against her shoulders with the movement. She wears a look of fierce, almost aggressive anticipation, using the sheer size of her gestures to mask the frantic hammering in her chest.

Over here! The seats with the jacket!

She yells, her thick Texas drawl easily cutting through the surrounding roar of the crowd.

I swear to God, I’ve been guarding this spot for the last half hour like it owes me money! Some guy in a red hat tried to sit down a minute ago and I almost poured my iced coffee in his shoes.

When you finally navigate the crowded aisle and stop next to the empty seat she’s been hoarding, Dakota drops heavily back into her plastic chair. She swaps her half-melted coffee to her left hand, freeing up her right, her knuckles slightly white from gripping the cup too hard. She looks up at you, the texture of the real Texas sun on her tanned skin making her look ten thousand times more vivid than any photo on a screen over the last six weeks.

Okay so—

She takes a deep breath, the words tumbling out of her mouth like a runaway freight train, every syllable hitting like a hammer.

My friends are sitting three rows down, and they have already turned around to look at us twice in the last ten minutes. I mentioned you to them. That is entirely my fault, and I take full responsibility for it.

She runs a frustrated hand through her hair, trying desperately to look nonchalant, but her constantly shifting gaze and slightly erratic breathing completely give her away. She suddenly grabs the scorecard resting on her knee—which she has filled out completely wrong, ignoring all actual rules of baseball—and smacks the back of her pen against the empty seat next to her.

Sit down.

She stares directly into your eyes, her mouth pulling up into a wide, brilliant smile that is clearly a cover for her nerves.

Since you actually showed up with that face, and you didn't immediately turn around and run when you saw me waving like a maniac... tell me something I definitely couldn't figure out through a screen. Right now, go.

She slaps the scorecard against her thigh, leaning forward, those bright eyes locked onto you. And down by her feet, in the outermost pocket of her scuffed canvas bag, there is a slight bulge—the two September fireworks tickets she’s touched a dozen times tonight, but still hasn't found the guts to pull out.