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Emmett set his blender off, and I winced as I removed a light blue shirt from its hanger.
“You guys give me no credit,” he said once the grating sound was finished. “I date a lot in order to effectively assess my preferences, as well as her true potential. I’m sure you can understand that, especially since I phrased it in Julian-speak.”
“Very nice.”
“I don’t appreciate the sarcasm, but at least I can take comfort in the fact that I’ll still get married before you.”
“Unlikely,” I hit back, but I paused in the midst of buttoning my shirt, realizing that my instinct to fight Emmett came out before I recognized that he was baiting me. “If you ask about her again, I’m going to kill you the second I see you,” I said between my teeth.
“Would that be worth it though? Jail time means no fucking Sara.”
“Don’t talk about fucking her.”
“I’m talking about you fucking her, asshole.”
I growled when I realized I’d missed a button. “Don’t talk about her in general is what I mean,” I muttered, glancing at the time. “And in case you still smell like last night’s tequila, I suggest you shower now and get going so you’re not thirty minutes late like you were last week.”
“Fine. Hey, anyone ever tell you how much fun you’re not?”
I whipped a tie out of my drawer and rolled my eyes.
“I’m hanging up, Emmett. See you at the stadium.”
“Who’s that?”
I looked down at my phone. I’d vaguely registered the sound of its ring, but there was too much on my mind to fully process it till my mother nudged me and asked the question. It was Turner calling. I looked away.
“You’re not going to pick it up?” Mom asked.
Her sixtieth birthday was last week, but she still looked every bit the regal, bright-eyed girl my father called princess since the day he met her. I turned from the game to face her with a quizzical look.
“Since when have you been eager for me to take work calls on Sundays?”
“I’m not,” she said, moving her hair with her as she shrugged. She still wore it down and curled just above her shoulder like she did when Emmett and I were kids. The only difference now was that it was tinted silver-grey instead of blonde. But whatever color she wore, she looked classically beautiful. The only time Lia endeared herself to me was when she said Mom reminded her of Grace Kelly.
I had always thought the same, though I would admit her voice was a stark contrast to the wispiness of old Hollywood.
When she spoke, my mother’s voice was blunt, borderline harsh. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
“I just figured it might be someone important calling. And yes, I know, ‘it’s always someone important calling,’ but considering you’ve let two whole calls go to voicemail since we’ve been here, I thought maybe something, or someone had taken your mind off of work for once.”
“Emmett introduces you to a new girlfriend every week. Why not pin your hopes of grandchildren on him instead?” I teased.
“Because of that reason exactly. He’s not going to settle down with anyone anytime soon.”
“You don’t know that!” Emmett called over his shoulder at us. He was down front in our suite behind home plate, one arm hugging Ozzy to his chest and the other draped over Grandma’s diminutive shoulders. Last year, she wouldn’t go near Emmett’s dog. Now, she had the thing eating peanuts out of her hand. “Gram, no more,” Emmett groaned, turning back around.
Mom laughed at them both, but I could see that look casting over her, and her smile fading slowly as her lake blue eyes floated toward the outfield.
Not now, Mom. Please.
I wasn’t prepared for another trip down memory lane, but it had happened during last Sunday’s game as well, so I probably should’ve known it was coming.
Following my mother’s gaze, I looked out toward the back of the stadium.
We used to sit out there a good twenty, twenty-five years ago – back when the Hoults “rolled deep” as Emmett said. Our family took up a big chunk of right field every Sunday, when we packed our things and made a day of going to the stadium. It was our grandparents, my family, two pairs of aunts and uncles, and their children. Over the years, we became friends with the other season ticket holders in the bleachers, as well as their own kids, and it practically felt as if we owned the outfield.
Unlike Grandma, Mom never cared for baseball. She said she went to the games every Sunday to play with the kids. It worked out well. No one’s love for baseball matched Grandma’s, and no one’s love for kids matched my mom’s. Everyone was happy.
