Page 10 of Home Safe

“Give me your phone,” Samantha commands, holding her hand out.

“What? Why?” I ask, eyes narrowed. Yet, I still unlock and hand the phone over to her before she answers.

“I’m putting my phone number in. We all had to pass background checks and take CPR classes to work at the camp this week. I’d love to watch Jason for you whenever you need it, if you’d feel comfortable,” Samantha says, tapping away on my phone screen. “He’s such a fun kid, and my schedule is really flexible. Perk of working for your brother full time.”

“Oh, Samantha, that’s really kind of you to offer, but I don’t know.Jason’s behavior can be a little bit . . . unpredictable sometimes. I still haven’t figured out how to handle it, to be entirely honest. I would feel terrible putting you in that position,” I slowly explain.

Samantha reaches over to gently touch my arm, eyes full of empathy. “Behavioral outbursts don’t scare me. I understand more than you realize because I’ve been in Jason’s position.”

My expression must show my shock. Samantha smiles and continues, “Griffin’s parents adopted me and my younger brother, Ian, when I was a teenager. We were in the foster care system for a few years before we wound up with the Wests permanently. Ian and I had the same underlying trauma that manifested in different ways outwardly. Not to mention years around other kids in the system. So trust me when I say that Jason’s behavior couldn’t possibly surprise me.”

I’m struggling to process all this new information in order to respond, but Samantha seems to understand that as well. She places her hands on my shoulders, looks me dead in the eyes, and says, “Let me do this for you, Danae. Please. I want you to go to your book club. Or to a coffee shop or out with friends or whatever it is you like to do to keep your cup filled. Jason needs you to be in an emotionally healthy place if you’re going to be there for him in all the ways he’s going to need you for the long haul.”

Tears sting my eyes again, and I clear my throat before nodding. “Okay. That absolutely sounds appealing, but . . . would it be too much to ask if we could maybe get lunch together this weekend first, the three of us? I realize that sounds so demanding when you’re trying to do something kind, and I’m sure you have a packed schedule—”

Samantha cuts me off with a wave of her hand. “That’s not demanding. That’s you being a good mom and vetting the people who might be around your kid. I could do lunch on Saturday if that works for you.”

I pause to wipe a tear then huff a small laugh. “Thanks for understanding. Maybe this is the real reason Jason came to this camp—so I could connect with you. Good thing I didn’t withdraw him!”

Samantha raises an eyebrow. “Withdraw? Why would you have done that?”

I grimace. “Um, I hope this doesn’t make you retract your offer, but I hate baseball. As in, Iloathebaseball.”

She bursts out belly-laughing. “I mean, I did have a little bit of a clue that you weren’t a huge fan when you had no idea who Griff was yesterday. I swear I won’t hold it against you. Well, I might hold it against you just a little bit that you hate America’s favorite pastime but not enough to retract my babysitting services. Why do you hate it so much?”

“Long story,” I say, hoping she won’t expect me to share said story. Thankfully, Samantha checks her watch.

“I need to get back there to help, but don’t think you’re avoiding the hot seat forever. I’ll be getting that long story out of you someday,” she says with a smirk.

Unlikely, I think but don’t say. “See you at three,” I say with a smile.

Chapter six

Griffin

“What do we say to Señor Ortiz?” I prompt the kids. They follow with a chorus of enthusiastic “Thank yous,” which Adrian receives with exaggerated gratitude. He gives a flourishing bow worthy of the final run of a Broadway show. Even though he’ll be back at camp again tomorrow.

Adrian Ortiz is the Crowns’ third baseman and my best friend. We hit it off right away when he joined the Crowns five years ago. His playful energy and over-the-top antics have made for somewhat of a media sensation—one I’m frequently included in, since I play right into his mischief more often than not.

He was generous enough to commit to helping out with the camp for two days. We’ll also have one of our pitchers here tomorrow working with kids on pitching skills, but Adrian loves this camp almost as much as I do. He may not have any personal experience with the foster care system, but he had his fair share of feeling like somewhat of an outsider when he first came to America from Venezuela. Adrian was a teenager when he got drafted to one of the Crowns’ farm teams, where he spent several years developing as a player.

We send the kids out to the lobby and pick up the equipment around the practice field together. When we walk through the hallway to the office, Sam comes through the door from the lobby to meet us.

“I gave an extra autographed poster to the kid who got hit by the fly ball today,” Sam announces. “He didn’t seem bothered by it, and the liability forms cover everything, but I thought it couldn’t hurt to go the extra mile to smooth things over.”

“Smart,” I tell her, setting a box on the desk. “Aside from that incident, today seemed to go smoothly.”

“That little red-headed kid is so cute,” Adrian says, grin wide. “He’s got a wild throw, but man—kid has enthusiasm.”

“Oh, you mean Fireball,” I say with a laugh. “His name is Jason, but he was the first to earn a nickname yesterday. He’s a sweet kid.” I fill Adrian in on my talk with Jason yesterday and the subsequent conversation with Danae.

“Oooo, someone’s got a crush!” Adrian says, poking me in the sides.

“What? You’re ridiculous,” I firmly respond, swatting his hands away. “How do you make the leap from me telling a mom about a heartfelt conversation with her kid to ‘Oooo, you have a crush?’ You moron.”

Adrian waves a hand in front of my face. “It’s written all over here. And in your tone of voice.”

Sam chooses this moment to fill in the rest of the story about Danae not recognizing me. Adrian nearly falls over laughing.

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