Page 81 of Caught Up In You

And from the look of him, not him, either.

He spends the rest of the game scanning the field like a lifeguard searching for a drowning child. As the seconds tick by, I see his shoulders creeping upward, the flex of his jaw.

He may be fooling everyone else, but something is clearly off with him.

“Is Owen okay?” I ask Grace.

“Yeah, why?” She doesn’t even look up from snapping lids on Tupperware as she packs up the remains of her brunch, now mostly decimated by spectators.

“He seems upset.”

Grace finally looks up, squinting into the sun to inspect Owen. He’s standing ramrod straight, his muscles bunched.

“I mean, he’s always pretty intense about his job,” she says with a shrug. “He’s one of those guys who’s really focused, but he doesn’t let that get in the way of being a person, you know? He’s probably got his shit figured out more than the rest of us.”

Grace would know better than me, having grown up with him. But Owen doesn’t look focused to me.

He looks terrified.

When the whistle blows and the Cardinals win 3–0, the players dogpile their goalie while Archer shakes hands with the opposing coach.

Hazel comes skidding across the grass, a sleeping Eden in the carrier on her back.

“I got it!” she says in a hushed squeal, which is ridiculous, because the kid hasn’t been awoken by any of the whistles or raucous cheers. When Eden goes out, she really goes out. “Twenty hours a week, some in the office and some out in the field, working on the landscaping for parks around the entire county! And if the budget comes through in time, she said I can help design the new butterfly garden at Henry Park!”

Despite her attempts to be calm and quiet for Eden, my sister is practically vibrating with excitement. And I’m so happy for her that she’s managed to have Eden and still pursue her dream. When Libby left, Hazel started taking care of the haphazard array of plants in the yard with an almost religious zeal. I watched her bring them to life, design new garden beds, and scour free listings for stones to make paths. My bookish littlesister applied every bit of her smarts to turning our tiny patch of grass into a colorful wonderland. And that tenacity is still burning bright, both in how she cares for Eden and how she works to build her career.

“That’s so great, Haze!” I say, pulling her into a hug. “I can talk to Ernie about lining up our schedules so I can be home with Eden when you’re working.”

As if summoned, my niece wakes with a grunt and a squeak that quickly becomes a squall when the sun hits her little eyes. I pull her out of the carrier, bouncing her on my hip.

“Actually, I was thinking Mom could do it,” Hazel says, taking the baby from me.

I scoff. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. I mean, she’s great with Eden, and you’ve already rearranged your life so much for us. I want you to be able to have some space.” She glances over my shoulder, and I turn to see Owen, the med bag slung over his shoulder, heading our way.

“You sure you can trust her?” The thought of relying on Libby to arrange her schedule in advance, to show up when she’s needed, to take care of Eden at all feels like expecting your cat to make you dinner.

Hazel sighs. “Wyatt, you’ve got to start cutting her some slack. She’s doing everything she’s supposed to do. She’s only got six more months of parole before she’s released to probation.”

“Assuming she doesn’t fuck up before that,” I mutter. “I wouldn’t take that bet.”

“Come on, Wy,” Hazel says, a warning in her voice, but I don’t have to argue with her, because Owen arrives and slings an arm around me.

“How’s my favorite patient?” Owen asks, smiling at Eden. She squeals at him, and Owen and Hazel fall into a conversation about babyproofing. On the surface he’s his usual smiling, helpful self. But his fingers are tapping out a near frantic rhythmon my shoulder. When I glance up, I see the flex of his jaw, the effort in his smile.

“Okay, well, Mom and I are going to head home if I can pry her away from Felix,” Hazel says with a not-at-all-annoyed eye roll. “She’s asking him about remodeling our kitchen.”

“She’s not touching that kitchen,” I practically growl.

“I think she’s just interested in talking to a strapping young McBride boy.” Hazel smiles as if this is hilarious and not disgusting.

“Please go rescue him,” I beg.

“I’m on it!”

Hazel trots off with the carrier flopping against her back and Eden bouncing on her hip, expertly intercepting Libby.

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