Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
“It’s a false sense of security,” I say.
“Exactly.” She punches in the code on the outdoor panel once we hit the driveway, and the door screeches closed behind us. “So this neighborhood is called Magnolia Hills and it was established in the seventies. It’s one of the more walkable areas in town. There’s a jogging path. A little park with a fishing pond a few blocks that way.” She points to the left. “Down this way is a playground. And the elementary school is about four blocks from here. There’s a little strip of businesses and restaurants about half a mile away. Sometimes we like to walk to get coffee or dinner or check out the farmers’ market in the summertime. It’s a very livable area. Great place to raise a family.”
“Sounds like it.”
“Just about everyone here has young kids, except for a handful of residents. Last year there was a bit of a baby boom, so Lucia should have plenty of little playmates as she gets older,” Rossi continues. “Once a month, we try to get the babies together to let them play—and so us moms can socialize with other adults. It’s crazy—I thought being a mom … and a single mom at that … would’ve been pretty isolating, but I’ve met some of my closest new friends because of this little angel.”
Up ahead, a green painted sign points us toward the playground Rossi was talking about.
“Lucia loves to swing in the baby swing here—you mind if we make a pit stop?” Rossi asks.
“By all means.”
A minute later, she’s buckling the baby into some kind of safety swing contraption and giving her a gentle push. Lucia claps, giggles, and bounces.
I wait next to the stroller, hands in my pockets as I take it all in. A small handful of families are here, all of them in other parts of the expansive park. Monkey bars. Tunnels. Slides. Everyone is spread out, running, laughing, not having a care in the world.
If I had to guess, it’s been twenty-five years since I last set foot in a park.
“I watched your game the other day,” Rossi calls from the swing. “That grunting thing you do when you hit the ball, is it on purpose or …?”
Chuckling, I say, “It helps with rhythm, helps hit the ball harder. Hard to explain, but there’s a science behind it.”
I didn’t always grunt—it was one of the things Coach taught me in the early days. At first, I refused, telling him I didn’t want to sound like a fucking zoo animal. And I couldn’t watch other guys do it without busting out laughing. But like all things, a little time, a little maturity, a little bit of pulling my head out of my ass, and I was able to see the light.
Rossi gasps, hand cupped over her mouth as she stares toward the slides. “Oh my god.”
“What?” I follow her gaze, searching for something epic based on her reaction. “What is it?”
Ambling toward me, her eyes on whatever prize lingers in the distance, she says, “That’s Melanie Saint James … over there. On that bench by the slide.” Sucking in a breath again, she adds, “And that’s her son, Maddox.”
“I’ve never heard of either of those people …”
“She’s a mommy influencer.” Rossi keeps her voice low. “Millions of followers. She’s a single mom, did IUI like I did. She even wrote a book about it. Huge inspiration to me. You have no idea.”
Shrugging, I say, “Go and introduce yourself. I’ll stay here with Lucia.”
Her brows knit as she turns her focus to me. “You sure? I just … I knew she lived around here, but I’ve never seen her in person … I’m just … this is … I don’t really get starstruck but I—”
“Go. Say. Hi,” I tell her. Heading toward the baby swing, I take over pushing duties as Rossi makes her way to the woman with blonde waves down to her waist, a preppy striped sweater and tight jeans.
With Rossi’s back to me, I have no idea what’s being said and have no way of gauging how their little exchange is going—but whatever is said, it doesn’t last long. Within seconds, Rossi’s returning to our post.
“That didn’t last very long,” I say. “You should’ve got a selfie or something.”
Swatting her hand, she exhales. “She didn’t want to be bothered.”
“What do you mean?”
“I told her I was a huge fan, that I followed her on Insta for years and before I could say anything else, she sort of snapped at me and said, ‘Can’t you see that I’m busy?’ Then she pointed at her kid.” Rossi tucks her hair behind her ear and folds her arms across her chest.
I’ll admit, I’m not always in the mood to be approached by fans, but if I was a mommy influencer—whatever the fuck that means—and another mom came up to me at a park, I’d think it’d be fair game.