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If, all those years ago when my boy asked for a baseball bat for his birthday, I’d known how much goddamn effort and money it would take, I would’ve steered August’s interest elsewhere.
That’s a lie. I wouldn’t have. I’m happy to empty my bank account and my social reserves and my patience in exchange for the smile on his face right now as he swings a bat testingly through the air.
I’m trying to be discreet as I watch him. Trying to not look completely stressed. Trying incredibly hard not to bite my nails down to the quick in anticipation.
I’m failing on all accounts.
He’s smiling, sure, but I hate that he's alone. He’s an introvert at heart, and I know there’s nothing wrong with that—hell, he got it from me-—but still. He didn’t have good, steady friends back in Texas—again, just like me—and I really, really want him to have friends.
And apparently, I’m not the only one.
I pegged Isaac Jackson-Evans as a troublemaker the moment he walked into my classroom. He has one of those faces, you know; deceptively angelic with big, blue eyes and freckled cheeks framed by wisps of brown hair escaping the most adorable little bun. My first day as his teacher, he’d waltzed right up to my desk, braced his palms against the wood like a grown-ass man, and let me know in a confident, unwavering voice that if I needed anything, he was my guy. And then hewinked.
It took all my willpower not to bust my gut laughing.
I watch with bated breath as, just like he did to me, Isaac marches up to my kid. If my very long dual career as a mother and teacher has taught me anything, it’s that kids can be so fucking mean, so when he grabs August’s arm, I’m already mentally curb-stomping one of my students.
When instead of, I don’t know, pantsing him or whatever I expected, he drags August over to a gaggle of smiling kids, I relax—marginally. A little more when, after a quick round of introductions and some erratic hand gestures, my kid smiles too. Exhaling deeply, I uncross my tightly folded arms, smoothing clammy hands down my thighs before shoving them in my coat pockets.
Small miracles. Today’s full of them.
“That August?”
Gaze darting to the woman I didn’t notice sneaking up beside me, I smile at one of the only coworkers who doesn’t act like I’m an extraterrestrial being to be avoided. “Yeah, that’s him.”
If not for Gideon, I fear my first day would’ve been even more daunting than it already was; unlike everyone else, she welcomed me with a warm smile, open arms, and a box of donuts.
I remember my first day here,she’d commiserated, propping herself on my desk and digging into a Boston cream.I promise, it gets better.
I’m still waiting for that promise to come to fruition, but Gideon as my only friend? Really nothing to complain about.
“He looks just like you,” Gideon repeats what everyone says about August and me, smiling as she points out two of the kids engaging mine in what looks like a riveting, quick-fire conversation full of overdramatic gestures and claiming them as hers. “The twins are mine. They don’t play but they like to watch.”
Small talk. That’s what we’re doing. Small talking. Chit-chatting. Just two moms, yapping about their kids. Normal parent things. I can do that. I think. “Do we always start late?”
“Maybe try-outs are beneath our new fancy coach.” Though snarky, there’s no venom behind Gideon’s words, and a laugh soon follows. “I’m kidding. Cass is a good guy but he’s never been one for punctuality.”
Huh. Maybe I’ll get along with this guy. “You know him?”
“I’m pretty sure I was his favorite person when he was in college.” Gideon chuckles again, then clarifies, “I worked at a bar that didn’t card.”
Small fucking towns; everyone knows everyone.
And Sun Valley, I soon find out when Gideon continues, takes that to a whole new level.
“Isaac is his nephew,” she tells me. “Hell, half the kids in this school call him Uncle Cassie, my two included.”
Great. “I’m gonna have to sleep with him to get my kid a spot on the team, aren’t I?”
“No.” Gideon smirks. “But once you see the man, you might want to.”
2
CASS
“You were not.”
My new drinking buddy—by some miracle, names are not something we’ve exchanged over the last hour—grins over the lip of her glass. My glass, actually. The cheap beer she claimed she wanted quickly lost her interest when the bartender slid a whiskey sour my way, and I can’t complain. The pink glossy imprint of her lips on the rim is my brain’s current fixation. “I was.”
