Total pages in book: 185
Estimated words: 180510 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 903(@200wpm)___ 722(@250wpm)___ 602(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 180510 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 903(@200wpm)___ 722(@250wpm)___ 602(@300wpm)
“She is too. But she’ll be at your next game. Now, grab your shoes and I’ll get your bag. We don’t want to be late.” My hands cup her face a second before I give her a big smooch on the cheek. “I love you, Button. Let’s go have some fun.”
As soon as we get to the ball fields, Reagan bolts toward her team.
“Your glove!”
She turns and stomps her way back to me as if it’s my fault she forgot her glove.
“What do you say?”
She mumbles a thank you before breaking into a full sprint again.
“I don’t want to play!”
I glance over at the girl throwing a fit in the minivan next to my car.
“I don’t like T-ball. It’s stupid.”
“Find a better word than stupid if you expect me to listen to your little rant,” her mom says, grabbing her glove before tossing the girl over her shoulder.
I don’t expect that, so I snort a laugh and cover my mouth when she glances in my direction. The daughter pulls her mom’s blond ponytail.
The mom ignores her, closing the sliding door and locking the minivan like she’s a pro at getting things done with a young girl held hostage over her shoulder.
“I don’t know a better word than stupid,” the girl says, yanking the ponytail a little harder.
“Then tough luck, little duck.”
Tough luck, Mr. Duck.
Following the echo of her words, I make my way to the field where the kids are warming up. A few seconds after I take a seat on the bottom bleacher, that mom takes a seat on the same bleacher a good four feet from me.
She gives me a smile. “Which one is yours?”
I nod toward Reagan. “The one chasing butterflies.”
She laughs. “At least she wants to be here.”
“Sort of. She didn’t want to wear the shirt because her mom told her she doesn’t have to be like everyone else.”
“Ha. Well, I agree with your wife. But I also feel your pain of trying to get a strong-willed child dressed and to the game on time.”
“Well, her mom and I never married, so that might be why I was caught off guard. We should communicate better.”
“Oh, sorry. That was a poor assumption on my part.”
“Nope.” I shake my head. “Totally logical assumption.”
She stretches out her hand. “I’m Layla.”
I shake her hand. “Colten. And the butterfly chaser is Reagan.”
Layla laughs again. “The sack of potatoes I had over my shoulder is Nora.”
Several other parents climb the bleachers behind us.
I smile and nod at them.
“Nora’s dad was a high school girls’ softball coach, so she’s determined to never touch any ball that’s hit with a bat.”
I chuckle. “As the son of a high school boys’ basketball coach, I can honestly say I feel Nora’s defiance.”
“Oh, no … don’t tell me that.”
I shrug. “Sorry. Nora’s dad might want to lower his expectations in this sport.”
Layla keeps her gaze on the girls. “Unfortunately, that will be pretty easy. He passed away last summer.”
“Well …” I, too, keep my gaze on the girls. “Crap. I just … yeah. Sorry. I stuck my foot in my mouth.”
“No. Really. It’s fine. I didn’t know Reagan’s mom isn’t your wife. Some assumptions are natural and fair. Joe had cancer. Battled it for nearly ten years.”
Joe. Of course, his name was Joe.
“My family and his thinks I need to date. Move on. Blah, blah, blah.” Layla laughs. “But some people you don’t move on from. I fear my brain knows he’s never coming back, but my heart doesn’t reason the same way.” She tips her chin and blows out a long breath. “Wow … that was a lot to share with a stranger. Cleary, I needed to get that off my chest, and family isn’t the best sounding board. I’m uh…” she makes a popping sound with her lips “…just going to shut up now.”
I don’t respond because Reagan is first up to bat.
“You’ve got this, Button!”
Reagan whips her head in my direction.
I cringe. “Oops. I guess I need to call her by her name in public.”
Layla laughs, but it’s subdued. I should respond to her. But what do I say?
Reagan gets to second base but out at third. She scuffs her feet along the dirt toward the bench, pouting like a champ.
“Nice job. Chin up. Just have fun.” Reagan doesn’t respond to my pep talk.
A good ten minutes pass while we cheer on the teams. Then one of the girls trips and skins up her knee, so the game is paused.
“I lost my fiancée last January,” I say. Through the corner of my eye, I see Layla turn toward me, but I keep my gaze on the dirt by my black sneakers. “I met her when we were nine. And you’re right, the brain and the heart don’t speak the same language. I don’t trust my brain, so I’ve been writing down things about her, about us, in a notebook because I don’t want to forget the good stuff.”