Chapter 4
CHAPTER 4
Brooke
It’s been two days since I’ve run into Nate, so I’m probably due for a sighting.
Ah, speak of the devil.
I turn my head toward his place in time to spot him walking across the property like a well-groomed yeti.
I snap my head so fast my neck pops. “Ouch.” I palm the back of it and continue down the gravel road, hoping he didn’t see me see him.
At least today is Friday.
Mama had to pick up Timothy from school because they needed me to stay late. A few guys in their twenties decided to get drunk and play demolition derby with Jeeps in a mud pit.
They were rushed in as I was clocking out for the day. Easton and I found a broken arm and a fractured ankle among lots of bumps and bruises. Thank God they fared better than the Jeeps. Idiots are lucky to be alive.
Poor Timothy. I know I’m overprotective, but I see a lot at work. Plus, he’s really my responsibility. In reality, I’ve always had my parents to help with him. But that doesn’t make me want to protect him any less.
I pull up to their house. Timothy and I share the carriage house on the other side of the backyard. We lived in the big house until he was three, and he still has a bedroom and lots of toys there.
The front windows reflect the last bit of sunlight peeking through the trees. I blink at them as I climb the front porch. We’re all counting down the days until the time changes.
I open the storm door with a slight creak, then the heavy wooden door. As soon as I enter my parents’ house, I instantly relax. Something about growing up here and their unconditional love always calms me.
Even if I were to marry someday, I wouldn’t dream of moving us too far from the orchard.
I follow Timothy’s and Mama’s voices to the kitchen. She’s standing over the stove, stirring a pot big enough to feed an army.
On closer inspection, I see sugar and apples. Cinnamon apples, an even better comfort after a long day.
I kiss Timothy on top of his head and scrunch my nose.
“Hey, Mama.” He grins.
“Why is your hair so sticky?”
“He helped me make applesauce.” Mama winks.
I laugh. “At least he smells decent.”
Timothy jumps down from the counter and grabs his backpack from the corner of the room. He rushes toward me, pulling out a paper.
“Whoa.” He slams into me and bounces back. “Careful, buddy.” I cup his shoulder and steady him.
He flaps the paper in front of me. Mama laughs from the stove. “He’s been waiting two hours to show you that.”
“Okay.” I take the paper and hold it away from my nose so I can actually see the words: Apple Cart Armadillos Little League Sign-Ups . That’s an awful long way to spell purgatory.
“Can I do it? Tomorrow is the only day to sign up.”
I drop the paper on the kitchen island and stare blankly at my son. He’s handsome and smart and quick witted, but he’s never been accused of being athletic.
His dad is an MLB pitcher . Shut up, brain!
I shake my head. “Where did you get this?”
“The teacher had some for anyone interested to take home.”
“And you got one?”
He nods enthusiastically. I make eye contact with Mama over his head. She gives me a guilty stare.
“What?”
“I may have told him we’d sign him up tomorrow.”
I scoff. “Without talking to me first? Shouldn’t this be my decision?”
For better or worse, my dad and the older of my younger brothers come in the screen door from the sunroom.
“Bushels are loaded for tomorrow’s pickups.” Daddy kisses my mom quickly, then turns to the sink and washes his hands.
“Cinnamon apples are coming along too,” she says.
“I can stay and help with those,” Austin offers. He hurries toward the pot.
Mama swats at his hand with a rag. “Not until you wash your hands.”
“We all know he just wants to eat some,” I say, crossing my arms.
He takes the towel Mama used on him and pops my hip with it. I shriek. Timothy laughs.
“That’s not funny,” I say. “He hurt your mama.”
Timothy straightens, and Austin sits at the island. “What’s this?” He holds up the paper.
I moan and lean against the tile countertop.
“Are you playing, bud?”
“I want to.”
Austin looks at me.
“It may be too dangerous.”
My brother snarls. “Are you kidding? We used to play baseball in the hay loft with tree limbs and apples all the time and look how we turned out.”
“Exactly.”
Daddy grabs the towel to wipe his hands and stares at Austin. “All this time and I never could figure out how smooshed apples got in the barn. I even blamed the county’s cows once.”
I laugh. Austin smirks. Daddy shakes his head and sits at the table. “If the boy wants to play, I’ll get him some gear.”
I stare at the ceiling. “Seriously, y’all. Nothing has been decided. He’s never even tried a sport before.”
“Best try while he’s young rather than wait. It only gets more dangerous the older he gets.”
“Thanks, Daddy, that’s so reassuring.”
“I’m serious, Brooke. Ain’t nothing wrong with my boy playing ball. Your brothers played sports, you cheered, and we enjoyed watching all the games.”
“I’ll help him,” Austin says.
“Aren’t you supposed to be planning your wedding?” Mama asks.
Daddy, Austin, and I exchange a look. Mama’s current obsession is Austin and Haven’s wedding later this year. She can’t understand why everyone isn’t as excited about every single detail—especially the groom.
“By planning, you mean saying ‘yes, darlin’’ to whatever Haven shows me?”
“The man is wise beyond his years,” Daddy comments.
“No offense, Austin, but didn’t you quit ball when you were on JV?” I ask.
“I had to help here. If I played ball, it wouldn’t give me any time to fish and date all the cute girls.”
I roll my eyes.
“Priorities.” He winks at Timothy.
Yeah, he’s probably not the best role model.
“Thanks, Uncle A, but I already got a helper.”
“That’s right, Ethan was helping you the other day,” I comment.
“Not him, Mama, the real baseball man. The Nate the Great guy.”
Mama drops her massive spoon and it clanks against the pan on the way down. Apple goo oozes down the side of the stove to the floor. All the adults stare at me with wide eyes.
“Yes, Mr. Nate did offer to help the day we ran into him by the pasture.” I say it loudly in a clipped voice to get everyone off my back.
As usual, nobody cared to make mention that Nate moved close enough to hit the broad side of our barn with a baseball.
When you live in a small town that makes gossip an Olympic sport, it’s nice to have a family who doesn’t air your dirty laundry. I especially appreciated it at nineteen when I came home one weekend with a load of dirty laundry that included a few pregnancy pants.
They never pushed me for answers, just loved me and offered to help.
But in some cases, a little heads up would be nice. Like when your ex, who they all loved and wanted you to marry, buys the mansion at the end of your property.
Austin walks to the sink and wets some paper towels to help Mama clean the mess. I look at Timothy, whose eyes are wider than a Pixar puppy.
I squat so we’re eye to eye. It doesn’t take much, since he’s getting taller by the minute. “Timothy, if you really want to play baseball, like for you, not because your friends are playing, we can sign up.”
His cheeks raise into a wide smile that quickly fades. I frown.
“Can Mr. Nate the Great help me too?”
I sigh and straighten. “We’ll see.” I force a smile, then catch Mama’s and Austin’s reactions across the kitchen.
They both give me a pitying face. I appreciate the gesture, but it only increases the guilt of my ultimate secret. One that I think they might be on to.
I pat Timothy on the shoulder. “One thing at a time, sweetie. We’ll start with signing up.”
His big smile returns, and my anxiety lowers the slightest bit.
I take a seat at the island and whisper to myself, “One thing a time.”
* * *
The last thing I want to do on Saturday morning is sign my son up to play baseball.
Yet here I am.
It’s true, you really will do anything to make your children happy. Timothy’s face is evidence of that.
He hangs on to the back door of the car like a dog approaching the park. As soon as I stop, he jumps out and runs toward the crowd.
There’s a line of kids and adults in front of a folding table at the entrance to the ballpark. Morgan sits behind the table and waves like a madwoman when she spots us. We both wave in a much milder manner.
“I think Miss Morgan is glad we’re here.”
“Yep.”
It’s odd coming here for any reason other than to watch her sons. I never thought I’d see Timothy inside the chain-link fence, but there’s a first time for everything.
Jeffrey stands behind the table, hands on his hips, dressed head to toe in Atlanta Braves gear. I laugh to myself and dig my phone out of my pocket to take a picture for Nate.
Then I remember that I don’t have that kind of close relationship with Nate anymore, and I don’t even have his number. About a month after the breakup, I deleted him from my phone so I couldn’t call him in a moment of weakness.
“What are you doing, Mama?” Timothy nods at my phone in midair.
“Checking my face.” I click the button to turn the camera view to a selfie.
“Is it in case Mr. Nate the Great is here?”
I sigh and shove my phone back in my jeans pocket. “Timothy, that’s not his real name, and why should I care how he sees me?”
“You seemed a little embarrassed when he saw you on the four-wheeler.”
“Well.” I roll my eyes. “That had nothing to do with him. I’d be embarrassed for anyone to see me like that.”
He gives me a look that communicates how well he knows me and how mature he is beyond his years. The one person I can’t fake out is Timothy. I cup his face and widen my eyes. He narrows his, then smiles when I make a silly face.
The line moves and we’re now third. A man in full camouflage with the sleeves cut off his shirt crowds the table. Morgan’s head jerks to the side.
Uh-oh. He better watch out.
“Sir, you can’t make payments on registration fees.”
His biceps flex, making the rattlesnake tattoo on his arm dance. He turns his head and spits a wad of tobacco in the dirt. It lands awfully close to Morgan’s sandaled foot. She moves her legs back and snarls.
“Lady, I just got a twenty-four-month lease on a new Hype Fire bat.” He raises one hand, then slaps it on the table, causing Morgan to flinch.
“Well, sir, we don’t lease registration fees here at Armadillo Little League.”
He stomps away, letting out a string of words I’m certain Timothy will question me about later. I hold my breath and wonder what we’ve gotten ourselves into.
Morgan flips her hair over her shoulder and shakes her head at me. I bite back a laugh as she rolls her eyes.
“How are y’all doing this morning?” she asks the couple in front of us in her most pleasant Southern belle voice.
I bite my bottom lip to keep from laughing. Morgan is my spirit animal when it comes to dealing with difficult people. Sadly, I tend to smile and act as if bullies don’t bother me, then go home and cry about it.
This couple is normal from what I can tell. They turn in their forms, sign, pay, and go on their way. Timothy steps up to the table, beaming. I lay out our IDs and reach for my checkbook.
“I’m so excited you’ll be playing ball this year, Timothy,” Morgan says.
“Me too!” His eye catches a bat nearby. “Smith said he’ll buy me a bat and glove.”
When Timothy was born, my parents were big on wanting original grandparent names. They somehow landed on Granny and Smith while harvesting Granny Smith apples. Mama makes sure to explain that to everyone, since her name alone is least original of all.
“Yeah, good for you not having to lease them.” Morgan winks at me.
I laugh at her sarcastic tone. She continues helping me fill out the paperwork and I write a check.
“Oh, we need an extra phone number and your license number on this check.”
“Okay.” I wrinkle my brow.
Morgan must read my confusion, because she leans closer and whispers, “You’d be surprised at the people who try and scam us out of a hundred bucks.”
“After the snake-arm guy, I don’t think so,” I whisper back.
She laughs so hard she snorts, making me laugh too.
“That’s all, guys.” Morgan stacks our paper on top of more in a folder.
“When do we practice?” Timothy asks.
“Slow your roll, slugger. We haven’t even announced teams yet. It will happen soon enough . . . believe me.” Her final two words ooze with exhaustion.
“See you soon,” I say.
She nods, then turns her hospitality on for the next person. Funny how she’s never this courteous when checking people out at the Pig. And to think that’s her actual paying job.
We leave Morgan to work her magic and pass Jeffrey, who’s standing high and mighty in front of a field. His two sons are nearby dressed in jerseys with more accessories than I wore in my pageant days. But to their credit, I don’t see any fake eyelashes or nails.
I watch one pitch to the other. A lump forms in my throat as I imagine a ball coming that hard at my son’s head. Yes, he will be wearing a helmet to bat, but that still makes me antsy.
“Mama, look, it’s Mr. Nate the—” Timothy pauses, before spouting out, “the Great.”
My eyes follow his across the parking lot toward the batting cages. Nate stands in the sunlight, a T-shirt taut across his chest, his forearms muscular and glistening with sweat.
Ugh. I sound like the deprived single mom in a Nicholas Sparks novel. In particular, the one where she took care of dogs and the movie version included Zac Efron.
“He looks busy,” I say. Then I use that as an excuse to watch him dig dirt with a shovel a few more seconds.
Before I can snap out of my admiration trance, Timothy jets off in that direction.
I have two choices. I can go to the parking lot and hope he comes to the car after a quick hello, or I can run after him.
In true helicopter-mom fashion, I choose the latter. My ponytail bounces as I clutch my sling bag to keep it from banging against my chest. By the time I reach Timothy, Nate is leaning on his shovel, smiling.
His whole arm is glistening in the sun, and there are a few wet marks on his shirt, outlining his chest muscles. I clinch my teeth and silently scold myself for picturing him shirtless. Besides, we’re nearing thirty. He can’t look the same as he did at eighteen.
Maybe he looks better.
I grunt, and both guys stop talking and stare at me. I clear my throat and hope my face is flushed from running to cover my blushing. “Sorry, my throat is dry.”
“Here.” Nate lifts a water bottle in front of my face.
“That’s nice, Mr. Nate, but Mama shouldn’t share your germs.”
“You’re right, son, thanks.” I dip my head as Nate lowers the drink.
Poor kid has no idea he’s made up of half Mr. Nate’s germs. For everyone’s sanity, I’ll keep that to myself and pretend he has cooties.
Unfortunately, I raise my head at the exact moment Nate decides to raise the end of his shirt and use it to wipe his forehead. I clamp my eyes shut.
“I was telling Timothy that—” he says, then pauses. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
My eyes pop open to him staring at me. The good news is his shirt is back on his body. The bad news is I caught enough of a glimpse to confirm he looks even better now.
“Of course,” I say nervously.
“Okay. I was saying that I need to finish flattening this area in front of the cages.
“Don’t they make machines to do that kind of work?” My question is more rhetorical, as I know they do.
“Yeah, but I’m trying to stay in shape when I’m not on the field.”
Mission accomplished.
“So you decided to manually dig a ditch?”
He laughs. “I’ll probably regret that later.”
I smile, and he smiles back. My nerves tingle. This is too familiar and awkward all at once.
“Timothy, let’s go home and let Mr. Nate finish his work.”
“What I was getting at, Brooke . . .”
Whatever he says next sounds like Charlie Brown’s teacher. Hearing him say my name creates a lump in my throat.
“Is that good, Mama?”
“Hmm?” I turn to Timothy tugging at my shirt.
“Can Mr. Nate work with me tomorrow afternoon?”
My mouth parts to give an excuse, but I honestly have none. “If that’s all right with Nate.”
They both laugh.
“What?” I look at Timothy, then Nate, then back at Timothy.
“He just suggested it, Mama.”
“Oh yeah. I need to go home and drink water or something.”
They laugh again.
“I’ll see y’all tomorrow, then. Just come by sometime after lunch.”
“Yes, sir.” Timothy extends a hand toward Nate.
He removes a work glove and shakes Timothy’s hand. “Firm shake, I like it.”
Timothy smiles. I nod and give Nate a smile that I hope doesn’t look forced or cheesy, or forcefully cheesy. Then I escape to the comfort of my Corolla.