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Head still tilted down over my phone, I bite my lip when I hear Truman’s voice.
“Hi.” I press the button to lock the screen and look up at Truman cautiously.
“He looks like a stud.”
How could Ryle not look like a stud? Truman Woolff was a three-sport athlete in school—he played baseball, soccer, and basketball. Ryle takes after his dad in a lot of things. That thought hurts just a little. Ryle will never know that Truman didn’t want him when I got pregnant; he will never hear that from me. But that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten the fights Truman and I had over the pregnancy and the future.
With a nod, I look away from Truman and search out Ryle in the group of boys. The coach has them file onto the field and break into partners. Truman, looking casual and effortlessly handsome, stands in front of me, hands in his pockets.
“You got him a nice glove.”
Truman’s comment draws my attention back to him.
“The salesgirl assured me if he’s going to stick with it, it was better to get one a bit bigger.”
Truman nods his agreement. “Absolutely.”
My phone buzzes again. I feel Truman watching me as I check it.
“Dani? Or Eric’s cousin?”
The reminder of him catching me in that little fib the other night is a little mortifying. He’s met Eric’s cousin, but only once. Truman’s never met any of the guys I’ve dated, and I don’t talk about them or dating, in general, around Ryle. I wish he was asking now who’s texting because he’s jealous and not just to tease me.
“Harper,” I answer simply.
“Oh.” He nods, obviously surprised that his sister would text me.
“She asked me to send a picture of Ethan.”
Truman twists around to look at the boys on the field. They’re lined in pairs, playing pitch and catch. Sort of. The good news is, their opponents, dressed in bright orange, don’t appear anymore put together than our boys.
I’m watching Ryle and Ethan throw a ball back and forth. They’ve managed five throws in a row, and I’m seeing that Ryle does have a good arm. I never played baseball or softball, but I understand it and enjoy watching major league games. And I can see that my son has some talent. What comes of that talent remains to be seen.
Truman clears his throat. When I glance at him, he’s watching me.
“Can I sit?” He nods at the bleacher beside me.
“Yeah.” I shrug and look back at the boys.
I don’t watch him climb up over the bottom two bleachers to sit beside me. But from the corner of my eye, I see the lean muscles in his thighs flex and bunch as he moves. When he’s sitting beside me, he leans in close and bumps his upper arm to mine.
“You okay?”
Startled by his question, I turn my face to look at him. His face is so close, I can see the flecks of gold in his eyes and smell spearmint on his breath. The smell brings back a hundred memories at once. Kissing him after classes. Hanging out at his parents’ house to watch movies with him. Going out after his games to celebrate—pizzas in high school and beers when we were of age.
Right before we broke up.
“You seem upset about something.”
I am, but it’s ridiculous to be upset about it, so I laugh it off and shake my head. Nothing will come of that stroll down memory lane, so it’s best not to go there. And it’s silly for me to be upset with him for wishing me well the other night. He wants the mother of his son to be happy. I’m the one being immature, pouting because I read too much into one night at the house.
“I’m good.”
9
Truman
I want to call her out on that, saying she’s good, because to me something feels off. But I remind myself Jules has a life outside of me. No, actually, Julie’s life has nothing to do with me now. We’re coparenting Ryle, but nothing else about her is any of my business. Including whether or not she’s okay right at this minute.
