Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 82132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
“Hell, how am I going to deal with it?” I ask the empty room.
I take a sip of my tea and ponder the question. It’s one I’ve pondered many times lately. Each time I think about it, though, the idea of being introduced to Gabrielle’s children as more than a friend isn’t quite so heavy. Maybe it’s because what I told Lark is right—they’re older. It’s much different from Izzy.
Izzy.
Her laughter echoes through my brain, bringing a smile to my face.
She’s between Dylan’s and Carter’s ages now. I wonder whether she remembers me. I’m curious whether she’s ever asked for me or quizzed Melody about my absence. She was so little then, and it’s been four years. I’m sure any wound has healed by now. Maybe she even has another father figure in her life . . .
The thought is both a gut punch . . . and a wish.
“I hope you have someone loving the shit out of you, Izzy Girl,” I whisper. “I hope someone is treating you like a princess.”
My gaze is pulled to the window over the sink. Carter is tossing a baseball up in the air between our houses. He can’t catch worth a damn, nearly hitting himself in the face every other time.
He’s a kid without a father. A little boy whose father probably hopes he has someone loving the shit out of him and his brother.
My heart races.
If it came to that, could I consider stepping into that role? Sweat beads on my forehead. Could I be the man to those kids that I hope is there for Izzy?
“Hey! Jay!” Carter yells, pulling me out of my head. The words are muffled as they cross the lawn and travel through my window.
I wave at him.
“Do you have a glove?” He holds his gloved hand in the air and jumps up and down. “Do you have one of these, Jay?”
“Oh, this damn kid,” I say, chuckling as I find a pair of slides.
I rummage around the garage, finding my old glove in a tote. I no more than get the garage door button pressed than Carter’s face appears inches above the driveway.
“Wanna play catch?” he asks, a smile stretched from ear to ear.
“What happened to basketball?”
He stands as the door fully opens. “Oh, I still like it. But I really like baseball.”
“You do?”
“Yeah, I played on a team in Boston,” he says, talking a mile a minute. “I played on the right side in the grass on the even innings. Step twenty steps behind the first base and then ten steps toward the middle. I stood right there and got every ball that they sent to me.” He makes a face. “But the poppers—you know, the ones in the air? Those were hard. One cracked me right in the forehead one time. I had to retire for a while after that.”
I try hard not to laugh.
“But I’m back, baby.” His fist pumps, leading me into the grass. “And Dylan won’t play with me because he’s being a jerk face to Mom again and she made him go to his room until dinner. And she’s making dinner, so she won’t play.”
“So, what? I’m your last resort?”
“Don’t think of it like that.” He runs a half a football field away. “You were my first other pick!”
Fantastic.
“I’m warning ya. I have a good arm on me,” he says, heaving the ball my way. It doesn’t make it to the halfway mark. He’s undeterred, jogging to the ball. “Did ya see that? I told ya I have an arm.”
I don’t even know where to start with this kid. It’s been decades since I played baseball, and I’m not sure if I even remember how to throw it anymore. Furthermore, how the hell did I get stuck doing this again?
Carter runs to me and puts the ball in my glove. “Okay. Your turn.”
“Hey,” I say as he sprints off again. “Not so far.”
His hands go to his hips. “Why? Are you not a good thrower?”
“It’s been a while and I need to warm up. I need to take it easy at first.”
“Fine.”
I throw the ball in the air far enough that it almost makes it to him before landing in the grass with a soft thud. Carter, none the wiser, picks it up and presses his lips together.
“That was pretty good,” he says. “You’ll get there. Keep practicing.”
God help me. I look at the sky and try not to laugh. Carter takes this as the perfect opportunity to throw the best, hardest ball he’s thrown all day . . . right into my eye.
He gasps as I shout, the mixture of sounds causing the birds in the giant oak tree in Gabrielle’s front yard to take flight.
“Jay! Jay! I’m sorry!”
My vision is blurry. I suck in a breath and pat the area around my right eye. It stings with each touch and burns anyway. I can’t see Carter in front of me. I know he’s there only because he’s pulling on my arm.