Chapter 39
39
[Ruthie]
B olan arrives home late from Arizona. When he falls into bed beside me, I’m holding my breath a second until I feel him scoot closer to me.
“You sleeping, baby?”
I’d only been dozing, waiting on him to get home.
“I’m awake,” I say groggily.
He presses a kiss to my shoulder and wraps his arm over my waist. “Is it okay if I hold you, flower?”
“I’d like that.”
Quiet fills the dark room, and soon Bolan is fast asleep.
In the morning, he spends time with Tulane, and we tiptoe around one another, knowing whatever has to be said, needs to wait. Tulane hasn’t seen her father in over a week, and Bolan surprises me by saying he’s going to take Tulane to the park for a while.
“Just give me a minute. I’ll go with you.” I’d been doing laundry again. Little ones might be little, but they go through lots of clothing.
“Actually, why don’t you take a break? Hang out. Enjoy the quiet.” He jostles Tulane on his hip and presses a kiss to her cheek. “We’ll be back in a little bit.”
Confused by the sudden rush to head out, I’m caught in a war with myself. A toss-up of hurt that he wants private time with Tulane, and possibly not me, and gratitude that he’s giving me a moment to myself. Parenting is hard work, and while I regret nothing, I could use some time to myself.
While they are gone, I get three calls from my father and tell myself if he calls one more time, I’ll answer.
Thankfully, he doesn’t, and I try to put him out of my head.
More important thoughts are swirling up there.
Because Bolan’s game is a night one, he asks me to get a sitter. He wants us to go out to talk afterward.
I’ve met a local high school girl who is smitten with Tulane, and I had her over last week to give myself that break Bolan suggested. I went to a movie and stared aimlessly at the screen, wishing Bolan and I had had more dates. More time. More of anything.
I haven’t attended one of his games without Tulane, so when I took a seat in the WAG section beside Lacey Sawyer, it felt like I was forgetting something.
“Hey, girl. Long time, no see,” she teases, wrapping her arms around her chest to protect herself from the chill of the early May evening.
“Yeah. It’s been a bit crazy lately. My California blood is struggling with this Midwest weather.” Not that I want to make small talk about the weather, but it is cool this evening and growing up on the West Coast, I’ve had some adjustments to make. I like it in Chicago, though. The easier pace than L.A. The friendliness of the neighborhood. The location with quick access downtown .
I walked to the stadium tonight, knowing I’ll meet Bolan after the game.
Lacey and I chat about her boys and Tulane while intermittently watching the game. We skillfully bypass a discussion about the social media video, Bolan and my marriage, or our history with that kiss.
“Bolan’s hitting so well for this team.”
His stats have been impressive. He’s one of the top hitters on the Anchors this year and he mentioned how he thought they might move him into the designated hitter spot, a valuable position, especially if he can’t keep catching. There are talks of bringing a third catcher to the team.
“He looks good,” I state casually.
“Mm-hm. That’s how you talk about your man,” she jokes, and my face heats.
When I glance out at the field, I catch Bolan watching me as he walks back to the dugout at the end of the inning.
During the fifth inning, the jumbotron shares birthday wishes, anniversaries, and the rare proposal. It’s a favorite time of mine at the ballpark, and it’s always fun to scan the crowd for the newly engaged couple. Only this fifth inning holds something extra special, and the fans go wild as I’m tapped on the shoulder.
“Miss Avery,” the security man in a red T-shirt addresses me.
“Mrs. Adler,” I correct, a prickle of unease skittering over my skin.
“You’ve been invited to a box.”
I don’t like the sound of this. “By who?”
“Graham Avery.”
I hang my head.
“Who is that?” Lacey asks from the other side of me, her stance suggesting she’s ready to take someone down if she needs to .
I glance toward the field, finding Bolan on the edge of the diamond, whistling and clapping for his Coach, who is kissing a woman on top of the dugout roof.
Bolan doesn’t look up at me, so I turn toward Lacey.
“My father.”