Chapter 11
CHAPTER 11
Nate
It’s déjà vu when Shelby hooks the sticky wires to my arm. I lean back, pleased that it doesn’t hurt as much as last time.
Dr. Trenton will be happy to know I haven’t so much as touched a piece of furniture except to open a drawer for clothes.
Seriously. Since the house is five times the size of my Atlanta condo, I hired Mom to clean it. She protested at first, then agreed to take payment if I let her cook for me anytime she wanted.
Best deal I’ve ever made. Maybe one day I’ll convince her to try my oven.
“Hey, Shelby, I’m going to lunch at twelve,” another PT assistant says.
“Okay, thanks.” Shelby smiles at her, then finishes adjusting my machine.
Twelve .
If it’s close to twelve here, that means it’s close to eleven at home. Or Apple Cart. Technically I live here too.
I pull my phone from my back pocket with the hand that isn’t stinging from voltage lines. Yep. It’s ten ’til eleven. Timothy’s first game is going on right now.
I bite my thumbnail and groan.
“Are you all right? Need me to turn it down?”
“Huh?”
Shelby nods toward the machine.
“Oh no, it’s fine. I remembered somewhere I needed to be.”
She laughs. “Practice?”
“Yeah, but not mine.”
Her face contorts with confusion.
“The machine is fine, thanks.”
“It will cut off in ten minutes. Dr. Trenton should be here by then.” She takes her hand off the knob and half smiles before making her way to the next guy.
I wiggle my hand, then uncurl my fingers. They’re almost asleep. Using my non-dominant hand again, I get on Facebook.
I don’t have an account. There are a few fan pages dedicated to me or the Braves as a whole, but Nate Miller as a personal profile doesn’t exist. However, Mom is a very active participant.
Anne Miller is my pseudo when I want to stalk people for fun. Or in this case, check to see if anyone posted about the kids’ game.
She’s still logged in on my phone from the time she borrowed it to check Jim Vann’s live weather radar.
Sure enough, she’s friends with Morgan. I know Brooke isn’t on Facebook, as I’ve checked many times in the past. I check again for the heck of it. Nope. Might as well click on Morgan.
She has nothing about this particular game, but does appear very active on Facebook. Mostly complaining about people leaving trash in the Pig parking lot and how tired she is all the time.
“Nate.”
Dr. Trenton’s voice startles me, and I drop the phone. He picks it up and hands it to me.
“Thanks.” I pocket the phone quickly and realize the machine has stopped. Shelby walks over and starts unsticking the cords.
“How are you feeling today?” he asks.
“Much better.” I put on an optimistic face.
“Much” might be a stretch, but I’m hoping he will give me a clean bill of health.
“Let’s see.” He stands behind me and waits until Shelby pulls the last cord and rolls the machine away. “Stand for me.”
I stand and try not to flinch when he digs his fingers into my shoulder blade. He mashes around a few minutes, then starts our routine of stretches and pulls. I go through the motions, relieved there is minimal pain.
“Much better than the last visit.” He slaps me on the shoulder and grins.
I don’t even move under the pressure. My cheeks hurt from smiling so widely. “You think I can start training soon?”
He draws in a breath and picks up my chart. Then he makes some notes and looks at me. “I think you can slowly integrate heavier weights and some pitching to see how your arm reacts.” He holds up a hand. “Nothing too heavy. I’ll write up a plan and we can Zoom in between visits.”
He scribbles some more notes and talks to himself, then writes a little more. “I suggest speaking with your trainer about a revised workout.”
I grit my teeth.
“I understand you don’t want to show pain, but if you go back to normal too soon, it could make matters worse.”
I nod. “Good point. I’ll talk with him.”
“Be smart and safe, and I’m confident you’ll make a full recovery.” He extends a hand, and I shake it.
The words “full recovery” are music to my ear. However, I can’t get the kids’ game out of my mind. As soon as I’m in my truck, I pull out my phone. When I unlock the screen, it’s still on Facebook. As suspected, nothing about the game.
I toss my phone on the dash of my truck. My stomach sours at the memory of Brooke riding with me when I first moved to Atlanta. It’s a miracle my old truck made it here. Even more of a miracle that it survived my spontaneous trip to visit her on a bad tank of gas.
That was the last time I saw her in person while we were still together.
We’d talked and texted and video chatted plenty the next few weeks. Each time, she acted a little more distant. I assumed it was because she was busy adjusting to college and new classes. Add to that a weird roommate with a very fast lizard, and I’d feel out of whack too.
What I didn’t expect was when I wanted to plan a weekend together and she broke up with me instead. All I could get out of her was how our lives were going in different directions and it was for the best. I could hear her crying on the phone.
All I wanted was to hold her and assure her we could make it work. I never got the chance.
* * *
Brooke
The pastor asks everyone to stand for the invitational song. I turn my head to hide a yawn and spot Nate across the church. He grins at me. I straighten and turn toward the front. It was an innocent grin. Definitely one fit for church.
But it didn’t keep my mind in a churchy spot.
I’m daydreaming about everyone but us disappearing and him dipping me over a pew for the best kiss of my life. Nothing more, just a great kiss.
Still, not the best idea in a Baptist church during Sunday service.
“The Old Rugged Cross” plays in the background. I focus on that, which helps. No romantic vibes there.
Soon the song ends and the preacher closes us in prayer. I bow my head and keep my eyes closed until the final “amen.”
I barely have my head raised when Timothy plunges past me, smooshing my legs against the pew. “Watch out, son.”
I turn around to Mama shaking her head. She was on the other side of him before he darted away.
“Where’s he going?” I ask. Craning my neck while in chunky sandals still doesn’t give me a good view of him as he meanders through adults.
“Don’t worry, he went to Nate.”
Of course he did.
Not that it’s a bad thing for him to be with Nate. But it means I will have to be with Nate to retrieve him. God, please don’t let him give me that grin again.
That’s probably the most sincere silent prayer I’ve lifted up in this church.
We take our time shuffling into the bottlenecked aisle. Daddy gets lost in the crowd when someone engages him in a tractor conversation. Mama slows down next when someone asks her about pies.
I continue alone, wishing for once my brothers still sat on the family pew. Facing Nate with no allies makes me even more vulnerable to his attack.
Timothy has him cornered by the wall.
“Hey,” Nate says when I make it to them.
Timothy turns around to acknowledge my presence for a split second before continuing to blab to Nate. We make eye contact for a moment over his head.
And I’ll be dead alive if he doesn’t give me that grin again.
I lower my head to hide the blushing and listen to my son recount yesterday’s disastrous practice game. He finally stops to catch a breath, giving Nate a chance to respond.
“Hey, my mom has lunch with her book club today, and I’m starving. Would the two of y’all want to go with me to Mary’s?”
Not the response I expected.
“Yes.” Timothy beams.
“I guess it’s fine. I didn’t have any grand plans other than maybe grilling burgers.” I lift my head slowly to Nate staring at me.
That does not help with the blushing!
“Why don’t we go ahead and get a good seat before the Methodists take all the booths?” he suggests.
“Okay, we’ll meet you there.”
“Mama.” Timothy whizzes around to me. “Can I ride with Nate?”
“It would actually make sense for you both to ride with me. Save on parking.”
“Great,” Timothy answers for us.
“Great,” I whisper under my breath.
The only upside to the three of us leaving church together—in the same vehicle—is that most everyone has left already.
Apparently not Mrs. Maudy. She adjusts her glasses and smiles widely at us in the sunlight. I smile back, but keep walking. The guys didn’t notice her, so I think we’re safe.
“Brooke!”
Don’t look, it’s a trap .
“Oh, Brooke!”
“Mama, someone’s calling you.”
I clear my throat and speed up, but Timothy stops. “Mrs. Maudy needs you.”
I tilt my head to check, but I’m certain she doesn’t need anything aside from a good scratch on her gossip itch.
“Good to see you two together, hon!”
That makes us all turn her way. She waves wildly, then give us two thumbs-up. I groan and Nate chuckles.
“Have a nice afternoon.” He waves back.
I make a beeline for his truck, more embarrassed than ever. Nate smiles as if he’s enjoying this, although he does unlock his truck so I can find refuge. He and Timothy climb in a few minutes later.
“You must be really hungry, Mama, to run like that.”
I laugh off Timothy’s comment and stare out the window. It doesn’t take long to get to Mary’s, but he fills the silence by discussing the game.
“Anyway, I need to work on my speed and not tripping. Could you help me with that?”
“Yeah, buddy.” Nate parks the truck and unlocks the doors.
Paul and Ms. Dot are on the other side of my window, waving and smiling. Actually, Paul nods since he’s loaded down with to-go plates.
Apple Cart County could use a weird-weather warning to give everyone something else to worry about. They’re all way too concerned about who’s with who.
I give the two a slight wave, which satisfies them enough to move on. Timothy beats us to the restaurant door and holds it open.
“Thank you, son.”
He smiles and waits for us to enter before closing it behind him.
“Timothy, manners will get you far in life. A much more reliable skill than sports,” Nate says.
Timothy’s face falls as he slides in a booth. Nate slides in the other side. I almost sit by him out of habit.
This was our booth a decade ago.
Then I snap back to the present and sit by my son.
“Sports got you far,” Timothy says once we’re all seated.
“Yeah, but people get old and retire from jobs and sports. You’re never too old to be kind.” Nate nods across the restaurant toward a group of older people. “Nobody in here thinks of me as Nate the Great. In here, I’m Nate.”
“But your jersey’s behind the cash register.”
Nate laughs. “My high school jersey, not my Braves jersey.”
“Still your jersey.”
“What I’m trying to say is people who really know you care about who you are, not what you are. Always be kind and real. That’s what matters most.”
Timothy nods and smiles.
I study Nate as he pulls a menu from behind the napkin holder. If his grin didn’t win me over this morning, his humility might seal the deal.
“Hey, sugar, good to see you in here with these sweet peas.”
Mary’s voice calls my attention, and I look away from Nate before he catches me staring.
“What can I get y’all to drink?”
“Sweet tea?” Timothy whispers to me.
“One glass.” I glance at Mary and she laughs.
Nate orders tea, and I order water. She fills us in on what’s left on the hot bar. It’s not uncommon for certain vegetables to run out quickly during the Sunday meat-and-three special.
Macaroni usually goes first. Even though it’s not technically a vegetable, most Southern menus categorize it as such. And all Southern eaters choose it over anything green.
Mary finishes her laundry list of items and smiles at us. “It’s so nice to see y’all.”
I clench my teeth, waiting on the “together,” but it never comes. I exhale in relief and shock. Mary has quite the reputation as the unofficial matchmaker of Apple Cart.
If she isn’t hinting about something more between Nate and me, maybe it’s all in my head.