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“Baseball is America’s favorite pastime,” I retort a little bit forcefully.
He winks. “Only because very few have the privilege that would afford them to know a better game, like golf.”
“You and I both played ball I high school,” I remind him.
Kal laughs again as he rises from the desk. “I think I need to feed my future wife. You seem a little hangry.”
I simply look at him.
He takes my hand and kisses it. “You’re upset. I’m sorry. I don’t think baseball is a lame sport. Are we good now?”
I nod, and he pulls me up into a hug.
“Let’s go grab lunch at Ollie’s.”
I settle in his arms, breathing in the masculine scent of his aftershave. Although it is warm and familiar, it still doesn’t do anything to take away how much of a jerk he just was.
Against my hair, he whispers, “I can’t wait for the day I no longer have to share you with anyone else.”
Wednesday
Awaken from the depths of a peaceful slumber, I’m not serenaded with the notes from Tracy Chapman’s “Fast Car,” but rather chaos outside my window. My serene morning is now shattered by the relentless sound of pounding hammers, the whirring of power tools, and the splitting of wood.
I must be having a nightmare, I think as I lie here, tangled in my sheets, feeling a mix of annoyance and resignation, knowing the few peaceful minutes I normally get have been taken from me.
With a sigh, I resign myself to the reality of the situation and slowly untangle myself, knowing that I can’t linger any longer. It’s time to face the day, construction symphony and all.
Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I roll over and grab my phone and see the time. “What the heck?”
I overslept. It’s seven in the morning. I need to get Nora up, fed, and to school and myself to work.
I spring out of bed, throw on my robe, hurry into the hall, and turn left toward Nora’s room.
My foot hits something furry, a loud squeak startles me, my legs fly out from under me, and my butt hits the hardwood floor.
“Mother-father,” I groan.
“You found Squeakers!” Nora squeals from downstairs.
“She found something.” Gram chuckles. “You okay up there, Whitley Mae?”
Lying there, I see Nora’s little pom-poms through the banister rails as she climbs the stairs.
I hold a thumb up. “I’m good.”
“Morning, Mommy. Gram said we should let you sleep in.”
She holds her hand out like she’s going to hoist me up. I take it and curl up to a painful seated position.
“You got another long day, sleepyhead.” She uses her hand to muss up my hair. “Pitter-patter, let’s get at’er.”
“Who are you, and what have you done with my little morning monster?”
“Popa B and my new friend John Paul are teaching me how to hit better.”
Apparently, I should have been more specific about what I meant when I told him—no, insisted—that he stop trying to date my daughter.
“But John Paul, him told me the biggest secret.” She leans in and whispers, “To be a great baseball playa is to get up early every morning, except Saturday.” She shrugs. “He told me him and you hit the ball in the same yard ’cause you were best friends.”
