Easton crosses his arms and looks at me. We’ve never had an actual conversation about Penelope and me. Mostly because Foster is tangled up in our history, and it feels like a betrayal to talk to Easton about it.
“I’m out.” I set my darts on the rail.
Easton nods, knowing he’ll corner me later to really press the issue. Theodore shakes his head. Alvin and Simon go back to the dartboard.
I finish my beer and say good night, leaving Easton to manage the Chipmunks—which he doesn’t need help with. He’s older than they are. There’s a good chance they treat him like their bachelor god, all-knowing.
Outside, the air is cool. I stand on the sidewalk for a minute and blow out a breath.
“Late night?”
I turn to find Foster walking up the sidewalk.
“Diapers,” he says, holding up the bag. “She’s cute as hell, but damn, she shits a lot.”
He studies me for a second with that quiet attention of his that makes me feel as though he sees right through me. Does he somehow know where I’ve been tonight? And if he did, would he see it as a betrayal?
“You need to get out of your head.” He peels The Dugout sign off the door and walks it over to the trash. “I really wish they’d respect that Callie and my kid live here now.”
“There are still two single players in the building.” I hold the gate open for him.
“Are you sure there isn’t just one?” he asks, eyebrow quirked.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure, you don’t.” He stops just inside, his stare unnerving. “I’m serious though. You’ve got to stop being scared.”
“What?”
His expression says stop pretending. I think he might know more than he’s letting on. “You’re playing scared, and that’s never going to help get you where you want to be.”
He doesn’t wait for an answer. He walks up the stairs to his condo, presses in his code, and disappears inside without ever looking over his shoulder.
And I’m still standing here, terrified that if I tell him the truth, that’s all I’d see—his back.
Chapter
Twenty-Three
Penelope
* * *
This is why we can’t have nice things.
I checked the forecast this morning. Partly cloudy with a slight chance of showers in the evening, which I interpreted to mean we’d be fine.
We are not fine.
The sky has been darkening since ten. It’s now noon, and I’m pretty sure the curling iron I used to make my bob look cute was for absolutely nothing.
The North River cleanup has been going well up until this point. Volunteers, including most of the Chicago Colts, spread across a half mile of riverbank with orange vests and trash grabbers, which seem to be everyone’s favorite. Too bad they’re being used more for who can grab someone’s nipple rather than the Styrofoam cups littered around.
My dad is somewhere upstream, Drew at his side and picking up every piece of trash before my dad can reach it. Such a kiss-ass. Hazel is with Monroe and Lake near the family area, which is close enough that I can see them and far enough that it’s nice to have a little adult time.
I just wasn’t planning to have it with the adult walking beside me.
We fell into step at some point, and the group moved on, and we didn’t move with it. So I’ve been left with Decker, who’s scoping out every inch of grass to make sure not one piece of garbage is left. Even though Hayes and Leighton are behind us to pick up what we don’t.
