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“What’s that?”
She acts like she’s so much older, talks like it too. I forget she’s only four. “That means you and I toss the ball.”
“Just us?” she asks, her eyes wide.
“A promise is a promise.”
She pulls on the bag that’s resting over Larissa’s arm. “Mommy, I need my glove,” she says excitedly.
Larissa laughs at her daughter; it’s a beautiful sound that fills the now quiet stadium. There are still a few players standing around, and the staff, but the rest of the kids and their families are gone. It’s just the three of us still messing around out here in the outfield. “Hold your horses,” she tells her.
“Mommy, I don’t have horses,” Paisley says, exasperated, making Larissa and me laugh. Digging in the bag, Larissa reaches her glove and hands it to her daughter. “Ready, East?” she asks me, putting the glove that’s a little too big on her tiny hand and reaching for me with the other.
We take a few steps away from Larissa and spread out a little. I’m maybe five feet from her. “Okay, the first thing you want to remember is always have your glove up and ready.” I show her what I mean, holding up my glove. “Bend your knees like me,” I instruct her. She bends down, legs spread apart, mimicking my stance. “Good job. Now hold your glove up like this,” I tell her again. She does as instructed, and I toss her the ball. It hits her glove, and she uses her other hand to keep it inside the glove.
“I did it!” she cheers, jumping up and down, letting the ball fall from her glove.
“You did. You’re a natural,” I tell her.
“Did your dad teach you how to catch?” she asks innocently.
A smile tilts my lips when I think of my father, Jeff Monroe, and baseball. “He did. Playing baseball was his job.” She’s a smart little girl, but I’m not sure she would understand if I said he played professionally. “My uncle’s played with me as well.”
“You have an uncle?” she asks, her eyes wide.
“I do.”
“I don’t have one of those,” she says, looking over at her mom for clarification.
“No, sweetie,” Larissa says gently. “Mommy and Daddy were both only children, so you have no aunts or uncles.”
“But I want them. Can we get some?” she asks, her innocence grabbing hold of my heart.
“It’s not that easy, P. Maybe one day.”
“Fine,” she grumbles, and I have to bite my tongue to keep from laughing. Little Paisley Gray reminds me so much of her mother.
“You ladies hungry?” I ask them.
“Starving,” Paisley says dramatically, dropping her shoulders as if she’s been waiting days for me to offer her food.
“How about some pizza? There’s a great place just down the street.”
“I only like cheese on my pizza. That other stuff is nasty.” She wrinkles her little nose.
“Cheese is it.” I look over at Larissa. “What do you say? Can I buy you ladies some dinner?”
She opens her mouth to protest, but Paisley beats her to it. “Of course. Mommy says that when people do something nice for you, you say thank you and accept it. Thank you, East,” she says, wrapping her arms around my leg in a hug. I smooth back some of her dark curls.
“What do you say, Ris?” I ask, holding my hand out for her.
She looks at me then to her daughter and back to me again. She exhales loudly, as if the words she’s about to speak pains her to say them. “Thank you, Easton.” Her voice is super sweet with a hint of sarcasm that her daughter doesn’t pick up on. To my surprise, she takes my offered hand, and her palm fits against it as if we’re two puzzle pieces meant to be together. With a smile on my face and a gorgeous girl on either side of me, we leave the stadium to get some cheese pizza.
I’m sitting across the booth from Easton and P, who insisted she sit next to him, and watching their interaction. He’s been great with her all day. When the pizza, cheese of course, was delivered to our table, she asked him to cut it up for her, and even though I protested that I could do it, he did it himself. All while smiling and listening to my daughter yammer on about how she wants a pink glove but they were sold out when we went to the store.
“Mommy, can I go play games now?” Paisley asks with pizza sauce all over her face.
“Not like that you’re not.” Easton laughs and gingerly wipes her mouth with a napkin.
