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“Daddy!” Ryle jumps to his feet and runs to me. How did I ever think boardrooms and mergers were better than this? I scoop him up and continue on to high five Ethan.
“An anthill?” I lean over to see better, but yes, it appears my son and nephew are observing an anthill.
“My dad said red ants hurt you.”
“Are those red ants?” I ask quickly.
“No.” Ethan shrugs and shakes his head, apparently disappointed.
“Let’s play whiffle ball.” It seems like a good idea to distract them, and it sounds like fun.
“Yes!” Ethan and Ryle both holler. I put Ryle down and watch the two of them run to the garage to get the ball and bat.
“What’s going on, Uncle Truman?”
My nephew Craig moseys out the back door of the house and crosses the lawn to stand by me.
“Epic whiffle ball game,” I tell him. “Is Hattie home?”
“She’s in her room.”
“Well, go get her. We’re talking high stakes game here.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means,” I tell him as Ryle and Ethan charge back out with three bats—only one of them is an actual plastic bat—and a bucket of balls, “Losers buy the winners ice cream.”
“I don’t have any money,” Craig tells me.
“Then I guess you’d better win.”
5
Julie
I’m fixing dinner when the door opens, and Ryle explodes into the kitchen.
“Mom!” He throws himself at me and loops his arms around my legs. I look down at him and then at the door when I hear it close. Truman stands there with a small smile on his face. He’s still wearing the golf shorts and shirt he had on earlier, but he doesn’t look as crisp as he did then. In fact, his face is flushed and his hairline is sweaty, like he’s been working out.
“Hey.” I turn my attention to my son and remind myself I have no business looking at Truman so closely. So what if we made this child together? We broke up a long time ago, and wishing things were different doesn’t work.
“We played whiffle ball!” Ryle throws his arms out like he’s trying to rile up a crowd in a stadium. “And we won!”
“Dude!” I stick my hand out for a high five and peek at Truman while Ryle slaps my palm. “Way to go!”
“Dad says I’m a natural,” he continues. “He says I have an arm like a Baby Ruth.”
I bite my lips to hold back the laugh and cut my eyes to Truman again.
“Babe Ruth, huh?” I tip my head and narrow my eyes at Ryle. “Why have I never seen this Babe Ruth arm?”
Ryle stares at me with wide eyes. “You should have played with us, Mom!”
“Guess so,” I agree. “Go wash your hands.”
Ryle scampers out of the kitchen to wash his hands. I glance at Truman again and go back to finishing dinner. Ryle loves chicken, so I have some in the oven. I check the spaghetti noodles, decide they’re done, and carry the pot over to the sink to drain them.
“Chicken parm, huh?” Truman asks. His voice is still far away, but I feel his eyes on me. The pot slips, and I splash a bit of the boiling water on my hand. I gasp and pull it away quickly, but before I can say anything, Truman’s there, standing beside me. “Did you burn yourself?”
