The Troublemaker

Chapter Nineteen

“Did you guys bring my groceries for the whole month?” I take in the things they’re emptying out of the bags and storing for me.

“Don’t we always?” Mom shoots me a look, then looks at Mitchell. “This one doesn’t eat unless she’s fed, it’s almost like we’re still spoon-feeding her.”

“That’s not true.”

“Really? What have you had today?” She turns her back and places a carton of orange juice in the fridge.

“Nothing, but that’s because we’re supposed to have breakfast together.”

“Right, and if we hadn’t scheduled breakfast with you, I bet you wouldn’t have consumed anything.”

“She only eats when she’s at the coffee shop, and barely,” Dad adds. “I’ve held meetings there because the coffee is so good. Have you tried the coffee?” he asks Mitch, who shakes his head before dad continues, “It’s phenomenal. Last meeting lasted two hours. When I got there she was nibbling on a muffin, when I left half of the muffin was still there.”

“That’s because I was working and you were there during lunch, which is rush hour,” I say.

“We went out to lunch yesterday,” Mitch says, “and she ate all her food. And some of mine.”

I glare at him. Now it sounds like we were on a date. Mom raises an eyebrow at me. I glare at her as well, but it’s short-lived because the subject is changed once more and while Dad and Mitchell continue putting away the groceries and start talking about baseball, Mom and I work on making breakfast. Throughout, I glance over and look at Dad and Mitch and find his eyes on me multiple times. The butterflies in my stomach are fluttering nonstop and I have to remind myself once again that this guy broke my heart and doesn’t deserve it back. I’m all for forgiving people. I’m all for giving second chances. Unless your name is Mitchell Cruz. That’s where I draw the line. I may be a lot of things, but an idiot is not one of them. The four of us take the food over to the table, which is small, but fits the four of us, and start eating.

“Dad, can you give up the baseball talk for five seconds?” I ask. “I’m sure Mitchell is tired of thinking about that sport.”

“I doubt it,” Dad says.

“I’m not.” Mitch chuckles. “I probably should be, and some days I definitely question whether or not I’m cut out for it, but it’s all I know.” He shrugs a shoulder.

“Do you think you’ll graduate?” Mom asks in her Dean of Education voice that I hate when discussing my own education.

“Please. He could’ve gone pro without attending college,” Dad says. It’s the first I’m hearing of this.

“Why didn’t you?” I glance at Mitch.

“Injury.”

“Hm.” I drop it because I can tell he doesn’t want to talk about it, but I make it a point to ask him later. For the story, of course.

“How’s the story coming along?” Mom asks me.

“It’s . . . going,” I say, because I don’t want to get into the fact that I haven’t even started writing the story.

“How much of it do you have done?” Dad asks. “When can we read it?”

“Not much.” I sigh, taking a sip of the apple juice in front of me. “I kind of have writer’s block right now.”

“Oh.” Mom frowns. “I thought you could only have writer’s block if you were a fiction writer. I wasn’t aware that was a thing amongst journalists.”

“Well, apparently it is.” I feel myself scowl, so I go back to my food.

“I’m sure it’ll be great,” Dad says, all cheerful. “Have you interviewed any players?”

“I have, and I follow them around a lot so they’re in their element.”

“She’s been running with me at five thirty in the morning,” Mitchell says. “So I can fully attest to the fact that she’s committed.”

“Hopefully committed enough to stay out of parties,” Mom adds.

“I’m going to a party tonight in hopes that it’ll help cure my writer’s block.” I grin.

“What party?” Mitch asks.

“A party. You don’t have to know which one.”

“I thought we were going to Netflix and chill.”

“So you’ve been hanging out a lot then,” Mom says, looking between Mitch and me. I feel my cheeks flame. I don’t know what his reaction is because I refuse to look.

“Yeah, well, this assignment, you know.” I shrug a shoulder.

“Do you go out to eat with all the players?” Dad asks.

“Not yet, but I was actually talking to Dylan about maybe grabbing dinner one of these days.”

“When?” Mitch looks at me. Again, I refuse to look at him, but I can feel his eyes burning a hole through the side of my face.

“One of these days,” I say.

“Hm.”

We finish having breakfast and Mitch excuses himself to go work out shortly after. Dad walks over to the couch and starts typing up something on his phone and Mom wastes no time in interrogating me.