Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 94687 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94687 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
She sighed. “Over too fast. But New Orleans is always a good time.”
“You flew in this afternoon?”
“Yes. And I’m so tired. I wish I had tomorrow off too, but I already took six full days off for this wedding.” She pulled a bottle of water from the fridge. “Want one?”
“Sure, thanks.” I took the bottle she offered and twisted off the cap.
With her back to me, she reached into the fridge again for a second bottle. “Josh went out to grab some groceries. I have no idea what we’re doing for dinner, but you’re welcome to stay.”
I hesitated. Took a sip of water. “I’ll probably eat with April.”
She shut the fridge door and spun around. “You will?”
“Yeah. We’ve been hanging out.”
Her eyes narrowed. “And by hanging out, you mean . . .”
I shrugged.
Her mouth fell open. She uncapped her water bottle and took several big swallows. “Come on. Let’s go sit on the porch and you can fill me in. I have a feeling I’ve missed a lot since the wedding.”
We went out her front door and sat on the front porch steps. It was a warm, mild evening, and the sun was just starting to slip behind the houses across the street. “Remind me to buy you guys some chairs for out here,” I said, lowering myself onto the cement.
“Josh wants to put a patio in the back. This porch isn’t even big enough for furniture. This is more of a slab.” She sipped her water and sighed. “Although the patio will probably be put on hold with the baby coming.”
“See? Kids ruin everything.”
She kicked me with one foot. “So tell me about you and April. Is that why you’re still here?”
“No,” I said quickly. “Not entirely.”
“But partially?”
“You could say that.” I took another drink of water.
“What’s the other part?”
“I’ve been working with the baseball team over at the high school. David and Virgil Dean kind of guilted me into it, but it’s actually been a pretty good time.” I sipped again, remembering the talk I’d had with Virgil today.
“That’s great.”
I watched a few kids go by on their bicycles. “I wasn’t sure how I’d feel getting back into baseball without playing the game myself. I thought I might hate it.”
“But you don’t?”
“Not really. I mean, I’m always going to be angry that my career ended the way it did. It’s never going to make sense or seem fair to me. But . . . I guess I shouldn’t let it dictate the rest of my life.”
“No. You shouldn’t.”
I tipped up the water bottle, finishing it. “April has been on me this week about how I need to stop wallowing in the past and decide what I want the future to look like.”
“You mean she wants you to stop being a grumpy old man? Stop living like a hermit? Admit there’s life worth living off the pitcher’s mound?” My sister poked my shoulder. “Gee, where have you heard that before?”
“Yeah, well, you don’t have long red hair and dimples.”
She laughed. “Okay, fine. I guess it doesn’t matter who got through to you as long as someone did. I was getting worried about you. And you live so far away, I can’t check up on you like a sister should. You make it hard to meddle.”
“Well, guess what? I’m about to make your life easier—and mine harder.”
She looked at me. “What do you mean?”
I readjusted my cap. “I’m thinking of moving back.”
“Here?”
“Yeah.”
Her spine straightened. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah.” I laughed. “Are you glad to hear it or not?”
“Yes, I’m glad! I’m just shocked.”
“You’re not the only one.” I shook my head. “A week ago, I wouldn’t have considered it for a minute.”
“That’s because you were too busy wallowing.” She poked my shoulder again. “So what changed your mind? Wait, let me guess—red hair and dimples.”
I laughed a little. “She’s part of it. I like being around her. But also . . . I guess being back here isn’t as painful as I thought it was going to be. I mean, I still don’t like when people come up to me and ask me what the fuck went wrong, but I suppose they’re going to do that no matter where I am.”
“That’s true,” she said. “It’s not like bad manners are limited by state lines.”
I remembered something Virgil had said. “And hiding out was only going to work for so long. It’s not like I’m eighty. I’m not even forty. I don’t want to spend the next half of my life obsessing over the first half, wondering what the hell went wrong.”
“That sounds like a lonely, miserable way to live,” she said softly. The kids on the bikes rode by again, and this time they waved at us. We both waved back.
“And this thing with April,” I said, but then I couldn’t think of a way to finish the sentence. “I don’t know. It feels good.”