Chapter 18 Maxford #2
“Yeah, we got him in the recliner and their daughter rushed over. She’s a nurse, so she’ll figure it out from here.” Nola takes another bite. “These are good. Really good. I wouldn’t have pegged you for a baker.”
Emma cuts in before I can explain. “His sisters used to make him bake with them and guess what?”
“What?”
“His sister Madelyn met Louis, Liam, Zayn, Niall, and Harry. They had dinner together a long time ago.” It’s fun to watch Emma be in complete awe.
Nola’s face lights up. “I bet she has some good stories.”
“Yeah! He said we can call her sometime and ask her about it, didn’t you?” Emma turns to me for reassurance.
“You bet, kiddo.”
“I take it you’re no longer sad that Reese picked Lucy for the late over?” Nola asks.
“No way. Coach has way better stories.” She dusts her hands and gives Nola a hug and kiss before grabbing her iPad and heading toward the living room. At the last moment, she turns around. “Hey, Coach. I have one final question.”
I stop scooping to give her my attention. “Hit me with it.”
“I’ve been trying to understand all the parts of baseball so I can cheer you on, and I came across a term I don’t understand.”
This is a proud moment for me. She’s comfortable coming to me to learn something she doesn’t understand. Leave it to Emma to want to know everything about my job before she invests any time in it. “What’s that, kid?”
Her face scrunches up in confusion. “What is ‘painting the corners’?”
I go back to my task, placing balls of dough on the greased baking sheet and explain.
“It’s a strategy that takes a lot of skill.
The pitcher attempts to throw the ball on the very edges of the strike zone and get the batter to react.
Either the batter will swing and miss or swing and make contact with the ball but probably not hit as far as he would on a pitch right down the middle.
Or the batter will let the ball go by and get a strike called against them. It’s pitched that precisely.”
She lets that sink in. “So the pitch thrown is out of the batter’s comfort zone?”
From the corner of my eye, Nola straightens like she’s anticipating something as Emma continues. “It’s harder to hit the ball than when the pitcher throws it straight down the center, huh?”
“Exactly.”
“And then when the batter does hit it, it’s like an extra big deal?”
“Yes.” The gleam in her eyes makes me wonder if her questions are becoming more personal and less about wanting to understand a tactic of the game.
A devilish grin climbs her face. “That is interesting, Coach. It just makes me wonder, though, between you and my mom, which one of you is the pitcher and which one of you is the batter?” She gives an ‘awe-shucks’ shoulder shrug and turns on her heels.
“Well, I’m off to bed—I’ll let you two take care of cleanup. ”
I appreciate that Emma’s got some sass and is seeing through the dance her mom and I seem to be doing.
At the same time, I don’t miss the piercing look Nola gives her daughter and the mortification in her voice when she calls out, “I’ll come say goodnight in a few minutes.
Brush your teeth an extra long time, okay? ”
“Night,” I say, and Emma waves without looking back.
Nola opens the dishwasher and turns on the faucet to start rinsing off dinner plates and baking mess.
I put down the frosting I’ve been working on and sidle up behind her.
Even though it’s the end of the day, and the kitchen smells of an overabundance of sugar, I can still detect the scent of lavender shampoo in her hair.
In the window over the sink, I see a slow smile burn across her lips as she keeps her head down and fishes a handful of silverware from the sink.
I put one hand on her shoulder and with the other, I cup my hand around hers, slowly pulling the forks and spoons away. “I don’t think so. You made dinner. I’ve got this.”
“It’s really not a big deal,” she argues.
“Nola.” My voice is more gruff than I meant for it to be. Its effects cause the tiny hairs on her neck to stand at attention. “You cooked.”
She relents and sidesteps away, leaning against the bar and crossing her arms. “What am I supposed to do with myself?”
“What do you mean?” I place the silverware in the cutlery basket and start on the plates. “You should do whatever you want to do.”
“But I always do the dishes. It’s my chore.” She nods to the fridge where the chore chart clearly delegates her dishwashing duty.
“Right. And I’m here and can do them.”
She sighs. There’s a tiredness in her face and is that a hint of sadness? “Yeah, for another, what, six weeks? Then this all goes away.”
“Are you upset about something?” Nola holds her cards close. It’s not a tone of wanting me to change my plans and stay, but I can’t read her. “Did I overstep? I’m sorry. I came home, went to grab food, and Emma was upset about the Reese thing, so . . .” I point around at the mess I’ve left behind.
“No, I’m not mad about that at all. I’m having weird feelings.” She tucks a few flyaway strands back behind her ears.
I stop the sink and lean my hip against it. “This sounds like something I need to know about.”
“I’ve been Emma’s whole world for eight years. We’re each other’s emotional support human—for lack of a better phrase. It was just—”
“Strange to see me making cookies with her. I took over your kitchen and your kid, Adler. I’m really sorry.
I didn’t think it through very well before it happened.
” And I am sorry. I had a great time with Emma, but I’m not her dad.
I’m not her mom’s new husband—in the actual sense.
I’m the guy who’s shown up and thrown myself into an existing family, only to discover I really like it.
And from the look on Nola’s face, that makes things messy.
“Yes, it was strange but that’s not it,” she says.
I risk taking a step closer to her, closing the small gap that had been between us.
She doesn’t say anything, so I place my hands on her biceps and squeeze gently one time.
With a small smile, I ask, “Can you help me out here? I’m a lot of things: charming, athletic, grumpy, owner of a great butt; however, I’m not a mind reader. I’m not following.”
Nola gives me a sad half smile. “I wanted you to kiss me the other night on the front porch, you know. Before Emma interrupted us. And the night after you decorated the house for Christmas. It’s the only thing I’ve been able to think about all week and then I walked in to the two of you getting along like the best of friends and I can’t want you to kiss me again.
Because that’s selfish. I come with a plus-one who’s growing as attached to you as I am, and the reality we face is, you’re as good as gone. ”
I have so much I want to say, to ask her, to admit to her, but Emma calls from her bedroom. “Mom! Are you still tucking me in?”
Her eyelids lower and she inhales deeply. “Yeah, Em,” she calls back. “Hang on.”
This isn’t the time to get my answer. I drop my hands and ask, “What now?”
“We keep being friends,” she says quietly, bumping me out of the sink’s way with her hip and going back to the dishes.
Five minutes later, I lower myself into the ice bath, water to my earlobes. The conversation with Nola replays through my mind, specifically the line where she tells me this is the part where we keep being friends.
I’ve never hated the word more.