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Since Noah got home from his fishing trip a little over a week ago, Gavin’s been more responsive to my texts. I’m unsure what it could mean, or if it means anything at all. But I assume it’s an effort on his part for our little boy, and I ignore the hopeful part of it for myself. I’m still ignoring my heart, and because of that decision, life has become more bearable. It’s a small price to pay for gaining stability, which is what both my son and I need. Today I’ll push myself a little further into the land of the living, test myself, and try not to take it too hard if I fail.
With sweaty palms, I adjust the rearview to check my appearance one last time before starting the Jeep. I’ve been spending endless hours in my garden, and it shows on my skin and in my build. My hair is a bit lighter, and the muscle tone I lost is slowly coming back.
Soldier up, Katy.
Instead of being resentful of Mullins’s echoed words, I take comfort in them. In moments like these, I feel like she is looking out for me. No matter how crazy it seems, it helps, and it heals, and that’s all I care about.
“We Will Rock You!” Noah shouts from the back seat.
One of his daddy’s favorites. Ignoring the sting of it, because fuck my heart and the havoc it wreaks, I pop in the Queen CD.
“Time to get you amped up!” I hand him a juice just as the music starts, and he takes it, popping it with the straw. Sucking back his sugar rush, Noah rocks in his seat with crazed enthusiasm. I watch him with pressed lips to hide my grin, because I know if he spots my threatening smile, he’ll stop.
One day maybe you’ll be the one to teach him to dance.
We sing at the top of our lungs for the few miles to the ballpark. It’s times like this I know I’m present, and I’ll never take it for granted.
Parking at the edge of the field, I scan the lot and see Gavin’s truck a few rows over. Exhaling a deep breath, I smile back at Noah, who’s already unfastening his belt. “Dad’s here!”
Dad and Mom. My heart tugs at the fact he no longer calls me Mommy. Somehow in the past week or so we’ve been converted. I assume it’s learned behavior. Kids pick up on everything, and that realization makes me even more anxious about pushing myself today. The last thing I want is to humiliate my child.
We make our way toward field number four, where his team waits. As we get a little closer, Noah gives me a quick goodbye with a wave over his shoulder.
“Good luck, baby!” I call after him as he runs toward his teammates with his glove in hand. Loneliness threatens as I move toward the bleachers.
“Katy?” Gavin’s bewildered voice sounds from behind me.
Squinting against the sun, I look up to see him sitting at the top of the stands.
“H—hey, Gavin.”
He’s lost the jacket, but he’s still wearing his signature brown undershirt and camo pants. My heart does a flip at the sight of them. Hesitantly I approach as I pass the other parents lining the stands, busy with their boasting and chitchat. Stepping up to where he sits, I hesitate, and his reaction is instant, sliding over so I can take the vacant seat next to him.
“Sorry, I didn’t change.” He looks down at his outfit, untucking his shirt from his pants. “I came straight from work, but if I’d known you were gonna be here—”
“It’s fine.” And it is.
“You look good,” he offers, emotion clogging his throat. “I like your hair like that.”
On instinct, my hand runs through my curls, and my cheeks flame. “What? You mean brushed?” I joke.
“Is that all you did different?” My husband worries his lower lip, hiding a smirk. “Well, you should keep brushing it then,” he says with an exaggerated wink. “Seriously though, I’m glad you’re here. I know Noah must be ecstatic.”
My eyes drift from the top of his newly trimmed blond hair down his broad frame and summer-kissed skin. “You don’t look so bad yourself, Captain.”
“Working on it,” he says softly.
In seconds I’m blanketed in a familiar feeling that I’ll never be able to ignore.
Just then, Noah spots his father and me from the outfield and sneaks in a wave while the pitcher situates himself on the mound. My heart swells to bursting at the exuberant smile on his little face. Whatever discomfort I feel from being here is worth it ten times over to know I’ve made him so happy.
“He’s getting pretty good,” Gavin says as I try my best to stop fidgeting.
“I just wish I could have been here to see it.”
“You are here,” he assures me.
“You don’t have to do that,” I whisper, “but thank you.”
A thick, overbearing silence lingers between us as we try to keep our eyes locked on the game. We’re both rattling with uncertainty, and it’s physically painful.
“This is fucking awful,” I whisper with a shaky voice.
“Agreed,” he replies, his voice just as strained.
“I hate this. I know I did this.”
His silence pierces me deep as the kid at bat swings and misses.
“Gavin, I know this isn’t the place, but I’m afraid if I don’t say it, you’ll never let me—”
“Katy—”
“Hurting you the way I did is the biggest regret of my life. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
At first, I’m not sure he hears me, because his eyes never stray from the field.
Then he nods slowly, his Adam’s apple dropping with a hard swallow. “I know.”
“That’s all I promise,” I say as I bat a tear away. It’s then that I notice the gold band on his left hand. He hasn’t taken it off since the day I placed it on his finger.
Gavin follows my line of sight and realization strikes as I move to stand, on the brink. “I just need a second.”
He clasps his hand with mine and pulls me to sit next to him. Once seated, he doesn’t let go as the tears fall, and I furiously bat them away. The crowd yells their support as one of our players steps up to the plate.
“Don’t miss this, Katy. He’s up next.”
“Okay,” I say, trying to get myself together.
It’s only after a few seconds that I feel his eyes on me. I squeeze his hand before turning to him with tear-stained cheeks.
“I don’t deserve it.”
“You aren’t the only one who broke promises,” he says, returning the pressure of my hand. “Stay.”
“Okay,” I say, staring up at the cloudless sky with a sigh as I gather myself together. By the time Noah walks up to the plate, I’m feeling a slight sort of relief.
I don’t know much about baseball. Noah started playing while I was away in Iraq, and I never watched as a kid, but even I know he’s done something great when he steps up to bat and hits it way out into left field. Outfielders scramble to get to the ball as, one by one, the little boys stomp over home plate.
“Home run!” I yell, jumping up and down and damn near tripping down the bleachers. “Way to go, baby!”
I feel a tug at the bottom of my shirt, pulling me back. “That wasn’t a home run.” Gavin cracks up laughing, and it stirs something deep inside my chest. I didn’t realize how much I’d missed the sound of his laughter—or how long it’s been since I’ve heard it.
He shakes his head at me as if I’m the village idiot, but I’ll play idiot to keep that smile of his there. “I mean, it was awesome, but it’s only a home run if he makes it home. He’s on third.”
“He brought in two runners!” I protest.
Gavin shakes his head, still grinning ear to ear. “So, he helped score two runs.”
“Whatever, give me a mom pass. At least I know football.” I roll my eyes dramatically, shoving his shoulder for making fun of me. And for the briefest of moments, it feels like the old us. “Call it whatever you want, but our baby kicks ass at baseball.”
After the game, Noah comes bounding toward us with a beaming smile, and I already know what he’s going to say.
“Did you see?”
“Are you kidding? I’m so proud of you, Noah. You played amazing out there.”
