Free Crush by Crystal Hubbard

streaked with silver, but his resemblance to Lucas was uncanny. Miranda enjoyed the preview of what Lucas would look like in another few decades.
    “What can you tell me about the Yankees pitching this season? Will it carry ’em to another World Series?”
    “Ignore him, Miss Penney.” Mrs. Fletcher took her husband’s arm and dragged him back a step. “We spent a summer in New York City, and he’s been addicted to American baseball since.”
    “The Yankees, my darling rib, not just American baseball,” Mr. Fletcher clarified. “Year after year, the Yanks are far and above the best baseball organization the world has ever seen. From Joe DiMaggio on down to Derek Jeter, who by the way is the shortstop by which all others should be measured— ”
    “As a Boston sportswriter, I’m afraid I have to stick up for the Red Sox,” Miranda said with a smile. “No team shows more heart than the Sox.”
    Mr. Fletcher’s eyes twinkled so much like his son’s. “Aye, that might be an argument worth having. But—”
    “Miranda, it was a pleasure,” Mrs. Fletcher broke in, “but it’s time I got this crusty old codger home and to bed before he starts reciting Roger Maris’s home run record.”
    “Home and to bed.” Mr. Fletcher bounced his heavy eyebrows. “That’s exactly the plan I had for you, love.”
    “Cheeky rascal!” Mrs. Fletcher swatted at her husband, who trotted out of her reach, luring her into a chase down the beach.
    “Sorry about that.” Chuckling, Lucas resumed his seat and guided Miranda down beside him. “They don’t seem to know that they’re not teenagers any more.”
    Miranda watched the Fletchers scurry along the shoreline. Mrs. Fletcher caught her husband, and they held hands, moving shoulder to shoulder before pausing for a long kiss. “How long have they been married?”
    “Forever. That summer they spent in New York City was their honeymoon trip to the U.S.”
    “They seem very happy. And very much in love.”
    “They are.”
    “My parents have been married for thirty-two years.” Miranda leaned back on her hands and crossed her legs at the ankle. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen them look at each other the way your parents do. I’ve never even seen them hold hands.”
    “People have different ways of expressing their love for one another.”
    “My parents don’t love each other.”
    He spun to face her. She stared unblinking at the sea with tendrils of her hair dancing on the breeze. “I’m very sorry to hear that,” he said.
    “Don’t be.” She folded her legs beneath her and struck sand from her hands. “They’ve learned to live with it. I guess I have, too. I know that they care for each other, in their own ways. My father plagues my mother with gifts. Flowers, jewelry, expensive vacations…It’s generosity built on guilt. I give him credit for always working hard and providing well for us. My mother was a stay-at-home wife and mother, the ultimate Latina June Cleaver.”
    “What went wrong?”
    She sighed. “I suppose things were never completely right, from the start. When I was first hired at the Herald-Star , I was sent to Baltimore to cover a Red Sox-Orioles game, and I was so excited. Camden Yards is a fantastic ballpark, the people in Baltimore are wonderful, and I was on an expense account on my first road assignment. I was the third man, so to speak, and the two other reporters decided that we should have dinner before the game. I got outvoted and we ended up at Hooters at the Inner Harbor, which is right near the ballpark.”
    Lucas spun a bit to face Miranda, who resolutely kept her gaze on the churning ocean as she recounted one of her most painful memories.
    “We’d just been served our chicken wings when I saw this tall, handsome black man walk in with a red-headed woman. He was kissing and groping her and carrying on like a senior on prom night. The thing is, I probably wouldn’t have given them a second glance if the man had not been