Of course, he did.
I finally let my foot off the brake and inch forward. There are so many kids in the neighborhood that I’m always afraid one will dart out in front of me. Kids these days aren’t always paying attention to their surroundings, they’re more interested in their cellphones or portable gaming devices. After I turn right, I make an immediate left down another road, and then right again until reaching the cul-de-sac where my ranch style home sits back off the road.
“Want to get pizza for dinner?” I ask after shutting the car off. I’m trying to do whatever I can to lift his spirits.
“No, thanks.” Chase opens the door and gets out of the car. He all but drags himself to the front door while I stay in the car, watching him. My phone rings and as I pick it up, I see it’s Chase’s father calling. I’m tempted to send him to voicemail, but he’ll call until I answer because he hates leaving messages.
“Hello?”
“Bell, it’s Greg.” He does this every time, as if my caller ID doesn’t tell me who it is or that after knowing him for seventeen years, I’ve forgotten his voice.
“I’m aware.” Since he walked out on Chase and me, I’ve been less than cordial. It’s a slap in the face to think you’re happily married to your high school sweetheart and running a very successful business, only to find out that your husband not only had an affair but got his mistress pregnant and has chosen her over his family. Fun times all around.
His lackluster parenting is what really prompted our move to Richfield, Montana. It’s hard enough going through a divorce, especially when it takes you by surprise, but when your eight-year-old son (at the time) misses his father and Daddy can’t be bothered to spend any time with him, divorce becomes incredibly messy. Greg didn’t balk when I told him that we were going to move to Montana — he just said he thought it would be a great idea, and that he had an old college buddy here that could “help me out” when I needed something. Now, even though we’re hundreds of miles away from each other, he’s constantly in my business. He couldn’t have cared less when we lived in the same city, but now I can’t eat dinner out without Greg knowing.
I don’t need anything bad enough from him to deal with that shit.
Besides, his college buddy is the same man who keeps cutting my kid from the baseball team. So, once again, Greg fails his family. So much for him ‘helping out’.
“Tryouts ended today?”
I roll my eyes. He already knows. “Yep.”
He must adjust a stack of contracts on his desk because I can hear papers shuffling. Not to mention he’s sighing heavily and muttering under this breath. “Bellamy,” he says my name with such frustration and exaggeration. I imagine he’s pinching the bridge of his nose. “He didn’t make the team. Brett called me right after. He really needs to try harder or he’s never going to amount to anything.”
I pull my phone away from my ear and flip it off, wishing like hell he could see me. “There’s more to life than baseball, Greg.”
“He’s a boy. Boys play sports.”
“And read books, play video games, ride bikes . . . he’s living the life of a ten-year-old, not that you would know.”
“Bell . . .”
“Don’t Bell me. Are you coming for Easter? You’re supposed to.”
He sighs. “Priscilla—”
“I don’t want to hear your excuses, Greg. I just want an answer. You need to spend some time with your son. If you’re coming let me know. As far as baseball goes, I don’t know why he didn’t make the team; Brett didn’t say anything to me so you can ask him yourself if you want to know why. Chase has done everything he can to get better. He’s gone to camps. He’s done all the workouts with Brett. So, I don’t know what else to do, but I do know it’s really none of your business.”
“He’s still my son.”
“Ha!”
“Bell, your attitude doesn’t help. I’m trying to do my best.”
“Right. Anything else?”
He grumbles something unintelligible. “I’ll talk to Brett. Maybe Chase can practice with the team.”
“And what, not play in the games? Where’s the fun in that?”
“It’s better than nothing and it gets him out of the house, making friends.”
He has friends . . . except he really doesn’t. He tags along with a few of the neighborhood kids, but no one ever comes over to the house and asks him to play. I glance at the house, wondering what my son is doing.
“Do you want to talk to Chase?”
“I’m on my way to a meeting. I’ll call him later.”