Page 14 of Curveball
“Fine. I’ll plan to be there.”
He looks expectant, as though he’s waiting for more from me, but that’s the only concession I’ll offer. I don’t want him to think anything I do is for him. It’s not, and I’ll make that clear at every turn. My job here is to protect my son. And, if possible, keep him from falling any further in love with his idol.
I turn on the heel of my very sensible loafer and stalk down the corridor and back to my normal daily routine. Away from any memories of hard abs and firm shoulders, and a steamy encounter with a man I had no business kissing.
The rest of the week looms long and heavy. It’s too close to the end of the school year to take on any new projects in class, and the kids are too restless anyway. Getting them prepared for final exams—no matter how crucial—is an ongoing exercise in futility. Nobody is as happy for Friday afternoon as I am.
A few hours spent digging in the garden will ground me, so on my way home, I stop by the nursery for mulch and a flat of petunias. The flowers are low maintenance and reliable, and the bright blossoms have me cheered by the time they are situated in the planting bed. I’m just getting the walkway swept up when Dylan drags in from baseball practice and drops his gear bag at his feet. His T-shirt is dusty, his pants are nothingthat resembles white, and there’s an impressive red dirt stain down the entire left leg—they just have to slide, don’t they—and my nose isn’t going anywhere near the socks he didn’t remove before changing from cleats to slides. Poor Kara! We both wave and shout our thanks to the carpool mom who has pick-up duty this week.
I can smell his armpits from five feet away.
He stands close, eyeing the improvements. “Hey, the flowers look good.”
I cover my nose and take a step back. “Kissass. When was the last time you noticed the yard?”
He sticks his nose into his underarm and comes out grinning but with his nose wrinkled.
“I notice it every time I have to cut the grass. I just don’t say anything about the flowers. You already know they look pretty or you wouldn’t plant them every year.”
I give him a long, assessing stare. “That almost makes sense. Now, get your gear put away.” I earn an impatient eyeroll, but I’ve worked this mom gig long enough to know what needs to be said out loud. “Get cleaned up, too. Dinner’s in about thirty minutes.”
Dylan stops mid-step on his way into the open garage.
“Not going to be here for dinner.”
Rolling the garden hose into a loose coil next to the house, I peer up at him.
“Oh?” I load as much censure into my expression as I can pack in.
“Come on,” he cajoles. “I already had house arrest the past two nights. And Gabe will be here in a few minutes. We’re going to meet Jenna and Harper at Zito’s for pizza.”
“Jenna and Harper? You mean, like, a double date?”
“Like a hangout, Mom.”
Which doesn’t sound like too many unfastened buttons away from a hookup.Jesus, I’m not ready for this.
“You have money?”
He takes another step closer to the house but tosses over his shoulder, “I have some leftover allowance in my wallet, but if you want to contribute . . .”
I pick up his gear bag and follow him in through the mud room. Damn that son of mine. I planned chicken for our evening meal—something healthy and nutritious. But now, I want pizza.
I have a little cash in my purse so I pull some out and leave it for him on the kitchen counter. My phone’s in my bag too, and I pull it out as well. I’ll need to call Zito’s and order my own dinner to be delivered. I’m thinking deep dish pepperoni with extra cheese.
I awaken earlythe next morning, with plenty of time to get ready and drive us to the ballpark by nine, the time yesterday’s email suggests we arrive. But I’m sluggish, and even a cup of coffee and a massaging shower don’t do the trick.Fucking third piece of pizza.
Dylan’s up, too, and if he moves through the house any louder, I may have to suffocate him in his sleep. Except, he’s got so much energy right now, I doubt he’ll ever sleep again.
“Let’s go, let’s go. They’re waiting for us!” He slides his Tennessee Terrors ballcap over his short dark hair and clomps into my room, calling out orders like a drill sergeant, tossing me my cap, my sunglasses. When I pass him on my way to the kitchen, he halts in his tracks and waggles a finger in the direction of my head. “You’re going to do something with that, right?”
I pop over to a decorative wall mirror andholy shit!My curls have taken on a life of their own. My hair’s still dampunderneath, so the best I can do is plait the mass into a braid over my shoulder while I wait for my second cup of coffee to brew into a to-go cup. I absently wonder about the bathroom situation at the ball field—because, face it,two cups of coffee—but then override the concern with shaky resolve.I’ve got this.
Once the lid’s secure on my travel mug, I fly back to my bathroom for something to secure the ends of my hair.
“Jesus, Mom, you’re being such a girl,” Dylan comments from right on my heels, like a damn puppy. Or a mosquito.
“I am a girl. Leave me alone.”
