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It’sway past my bedtime by the time we leave San Diego.
The team insisted on taking us for dinner. I was yawning before the game even ended—I knew baseball games were basically never-ending but Jesus, professional ones really have a way of dragging that I hope their youth counterparts never achieve—but there was no way I was depriving August of an evening with his athletic heroes. I put on a brave face and powered through, and even though a stiff wind could blow me over right now, the sleepy smile on the face of the boy passed out in the backseat was so, so worth it.
It took all of ten minutes for the magnitude of the situation to chip away at August’s naturally introverted nature. Someone asked him a question, then someone else did, then a couple jokes were thrown his way and he was sold. The questions I knew he’d been hoarding came out freely, and he even found it in him to request a group photo—of course, the Wolves happily obliged. I’m half-tempted to ask Cass to stop at a Target or something on the way home so I can pick up a frame for what’s undoubtedly going to become August’s prized possession but I can barely keep my eyes open, let alone shop.
A sigh from the driver’s seat draws my tired gaze there just in time to catch Cass shaking his head. “What?”
“We shouldn’t have stayed as long as we did,” he fusses, scraping a hand over his jaw. “You’re exhausted.”
I wave off his concern. “I’m always exhausted. It comes with the territory.”
“We should’ve left right after the game.”
“For my benefit?” I can’t resist prying. “Or for yours?”
His flinch is miniscule but telling. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing bad,” I placate the defensive snip in his tone. “I just mean that today was a lot for you.”
Cass doesn’t confirm nor deny. He just hums, resurrects the same pensive, distressed expression he’s been wearing all day—that deepened when that coach of his spoke to him.
“What’s the deal with the Devils?”
That broad, well-developed back of his tenses. “What do you mean?”
“I heard what Delgado said about Ryan reaching out to them. You threw a hissy fit over a jersey but you’re okay playing with them?”
Cass scowls. “I did not throw ahissy fit.”
“That’s not the point.”
“It’s complicated.”
“My favorite.”
A cough hides his laugh, another scowl disguising his smile. When I pat the space beside him, he only slightly hesitates before rejoining me on the bed. “The Devils are a California team, right?”
Cass nods. “Based out of San Francisco.”
“That’s not that far.”
Something serious flashes across his face. “I know.”
I want to ask if the closer proximity to Sun Valley—to his family, to the baby, to me—has anything to do with why he’s entertaining the idea but I don’t. I wouldn’t know what to do with the answer, no matter what it was. “Do you even wanna play with them?”
“I wanna play.”
It’s as simple as that. No elaboration necessary. End of discussion, and I try not to take the shutdown to heart. I don’t like that he seems averse to discussing the future—our future, really, at the risk of sounding self-important—but what can I do? I can’t force him to spill his guts, and I’m too tired to try.
The longer we drive, the more I drift into that odd, dozing state of consciousness where you can never quite tell what’s real and what’s not, everything halfway between fiction and reality. I can only assume things are leaning towards the former because Real Cass isn’t wearing a lilac suit. Real Cass is behind the wheel and diligently driving the short distance to Sun Valley, not gazing at me the way Dream Cass is. Real Cass would never be so reckless as to avert his eyes from the road or take a hand off the wheel to tuck my hair behind my ear, to stroke his knuckles down my cheek—although, Dream Car isn’t moving so I guess Dream Cass isn’t all that reckless either.
The warm, heavy weight on my thigh certainly feels real but when I open my eyes, nothing is there. And we really aren’t moving. My head lolls towards the window, the lamppost on the sidewalk lighting up the building we’re parked outside just enough to identify it as my apartment block.
Voices murmur from the backseat and I shift to watch Cass coax August awake. My eyes burn with a yawn as I reach for the door handle but someone beats me to it, Cass insistent on helping me out. The next thing I know, we’re in my apartment and August is mumbling goodnight before disappearing into his room while I’m guided into mine.
“How, exactly,” Cass starts to ask, kicking my bedroom door shut behind him, eyeing the small space critically, “do you plan on fitting a baby in here?”
I toss him a tired scowl as I wriggle out of my shorts, a relieved moan escaping me because the waistband digging into my stomach has been driving me mad since somewhere around the second inning. “I’ll make it work.”
