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So, rather than poke at her again and make her talk, I nod and turn my attention back to the field. The coaches are calling the boys back to the dugouts now. The umpires—I’m happy to see they look more like dads than young high school kids who wouldn’t give the boys enough patience and instruction—are standing at home plate, ready to get the game started.
Ryle’s team is taking the field first. Ethan is at first base, and Ryle seems to be playing the other side of the infield. Along with about four other boys. So, either they have two third basemen and two shortstops, or the outfielders are on the infield, too. Not that it matters in tee-ball. I played, and yes, I still remember what it was like. Once that ball is in play, it’ll look like a soccer game—all of the boys on the field will follow the ball, rather than covering the appropriate base.
Then again, tee-ball isn’t cutthroat. Not like the whiffle ball game we played the other day.
Jules takes a picture of Ethan on first when the first batter steps into the box. Knees bent and glove down, he looks ready for anything. I peek at Ryle, tickled to see him in the same stance, only he’s in the middle of four kids playing the left side of the infield.
“So.” Jules stretches her legs out making me speechless for a moment or two. I know for a fact her golden brown skin is smooth and soft. She’s wearing basic white Cons and no-show socks. I tell myself not to do it, but my eyes trek all the way up her legs to her denim shorts and white t-shirt.
She’s everything.
And I let her go. Not true. I pushed her away.
“What’s with you being in town so much lately?”
Eyes back on the boys in the field, I hope she doesn’t see me flinch. Is she upset that I’ve been around more?
“I want to be here,” I say with a shrug.
When I feel her eyes on me, I flick my gaze to hers. She stares at me boldly, and that ugly scene from years ago crams itself in between us.
“I’m missing out on too much,” I mumble. “I’m tired of the traveling.”
“Missing out on what?”
“Ryle.”
She’s quiet for a moment. Finally, she nods and drags her gaze away from me. I sag a little with relief, not that she’s the type to say I told you so. But I deserve it.
“Is it okay?”
“Is what okay?” she asks without looking at me.
“If I’m around more.”
“Truman.” She bumps my arm with hers, but she won’t look at me. “Of course it is! Ryle loves spending time with you.”
We stop talking, concentrating more on the game, such as it is. Ethan has a pretty good glove; he’s caught several balls lobbed and thrown to him. I wonder if the coach put him on first for that reason, or if the boys just picked their spots.
When they’re up to bat, I see Ryle peeking at me from the dugout. Knowing it wouldn’t be cool to wave at him—if other boys are watching—I give him a nod and the peace sign. He grins and turns away. Ethan is batting. My nephew tags the ball on the first swing and knocks it through a hole on the right side of the infield. The orange team goes after the ball en masse, and Ethan ends up on second base. I glance at Jules; she holds her hand up for a high five, but she’s recording Ethan’s at bat for Harper.
The high five is the first time we’ve touched in a long time. Her hand is warm and soft, and for a moment, I remember how we used to walk to classes together, hand in hand.
Ryle takes a few swings to make contact, but when he does, he pops the ball up. It drops around second base, and Ethan and a boy who batted between them move up a base. When Ryle’s on first, he looks at me and Jules again. Julie gives him a thumbs up, and I realize she’s being a cool mom. No waving to your little boy when he’s playing with his buddies.
The game takes right at an hour. They don’t do three outs—everyone bats through each inning. They don’t keep score; they’re all winners. Part of me gets that, but the competitive part of me doesn’t like it. On the other hand, both teams come off the field cheering and giggling and acting like happy little boys, and that’s what matters.
Ryle and Ethan find us on the bleachers when the game is over. They’ve both got a juice box in hand and a bag of carrot sticks. The carrot sticks make me cringe; I hope when it’s our turn to bring a snack, Julie doesn’t go all healthy mom on Ryle.
Both boys are dirty from sliding and diving. Ryle wears his glove on his hand, and it’s almost comical how big it is and how little it makes him look. Ethan, on the other hand, has clearly learned things from his cool older brother, Craig. His glove is on top of his hat, still pushed down so far, his ears stick out.
“Dude.” Ethan grins. “That was so cool.”
Julie and I exchange a look.
“I’m hungry, Mom.”
“Eat your carrot sticks,” Julie tells Ryle. Her words are like a knife in my heart. She’s going to bring blueberries or celery for snack when it’s our turn. I just know it.
