Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 114011 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 570(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114011 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 570(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
His little eyebrows pull together. “You’re not gonna sit in the car the whole time, are you?”
Yes. “Well . . .” I bend my hand over my forehead to block the sun. “I’m not sure what moms are supposed to do. I figured it was best to stay out of the way. You know how I like to yell helpful advice to you that’s not actually helpful.” Please accept this and carry on.
He grins. “You do that.”
“I know.”
“But I see other moms. See on the bleachers? And there are a couple by the fence, I think. And at the last practice, there was a mom in the dugout trying to keep the kids organized. She said she was never coming back.”
I laugh. “I’m smarter than that. I already know how messy one twelve-year-old can be. I want no part of . . . how many of you are there? Fifteen? Sixteen?”
I shudder, making him laugh.
“Still. You should get out and get some fresh air.” He nibbles his bottom lip. “Weren’t you the one telling me how fresh air is good for you?”
My response is on the tip of my tongue—I got fresh air at work today. But as my mouth opens to release my excuse into the air, a flash of the truth bolts across his eyes.
He wants his parent there too. And I’m it.
“Okay,” I say around the heaviness in my chest. “Get over there and warm up. I’ll . . . walk laps around the field or something.” And avoid Cole.
His face lights up, rewarding me with a megawatt smile. “Great!”
I really ought to be thankful. He’s not embarrassed by my presence and wants me there. With him. Part of his world with his friends. I know how lucky I am to still have a kid who wants Mom around.
I slip on my jacket and pointedly avoid acknowledging anyone or anything on the field except Ethan. He waves at me from right field before tossing a ball with slightly better “mechanics” to a boy with bright-green socks. As my gaze sweeps back to the outfield, I spot Cole near the pitcher’s mound next to a man wearing a visor.
The air is slightly warmer than it was this afternoon when Kirk and I walked to the shop office to see Burt. Burt had approved an invoice that was $300 too high and wasn’t too keen on his mistake being out in the open.
He was even less happy that I was the one to catch it.
I carry some of that weight with me as I walk next to the outfield fence. I wish there were a way to let the frustrations of work go when I clock out. But I find myself worrying about Kirk and the business more than I’d like.
“I wish I didn’t care so much,” I mumble as I step over a dandelion.
My steps come quicker as I find what I call a “worry rhythm.” When I finally look up, I’m nearly to the visitors-side dugout. My head is still at work, replaying Burt’s excuses, and doesn’t have time to scream at me to not look at the pitcher’s mound.
My gaze collides with Cole’s somewhere along the third baseline.
I stop walking. Stop moving. Nearly stop breathing as I get my bearings.
I’m sure he’s both used to my reaction—as he must get it wherever he goes—and wondering if it means I’ll say yes to his dinner invitation.
But what he can’t see is the knot in my stomach that refuses to unwind.
Maybe he didn’t notice that I liked his old post on social media. He might be the kind of guy who doesn’t check those things. I bet he has a million notifications anyway. It could’ve gotten buried.
The line of thought that I finally settled on around three this morning rolls through my brain. Not an hour has gone by today that I haven’t rested on this—the one plausible way out of the potential humiliation.
Cole says something to the man in the visor. The man nods and goes back to raking the dirt around the pitcher’s mound . . . and Cole walks toward me.
He saw it.
A smirk develops. It starts as a twitch of his lip and settles so deeply that I’m sure if I leaned too close to him, I might fall in.
Damn it.
I shift my weight from foot to foot, knowing I’m about to be called out for my mishap. My cheeks flush before he even gets off the field. There’s time to flee. I could absolutely walk back the way I came or even power walk behind the concession stand, where I might, if I’m lucky, be out of sight.
Before I can choose, his arms are draped over the fence and we’re three feet apart.
My focus immediately goes to his hands. I shiver at the mere thought of how his fingers felt pressed against my back at the last practice.