Quit Your Pitchin' (There's No Crying in Baseball 2)

“I do.”EpilogueI’ve got a great idea. Let’s take a group nap.

-George after watching his newly cast-free child for four hours

George

“You ready to meet your buddy that gave you a ride on his helicopter?” I asked my son.

Micah nodded his head solemnly. “Yes, Daddy.”

It’d been six months since his accident, and all six months were a struggle.

In the accident, Micah had broken both legs, both arms, and fractured his pelvis.

He’d spent six entire weeks in a cast from almost head to foot.

But it could’ve been worse.

He could’ve been gone altogether.

Wrigley walked at my side, her hands holding down her dress as the helicopter blades slowed.

Her hand was wrapped tightly around her lower half, making her four-month pregnant belly distinct in the long dress that flowed to her feet.

Her hair was a wild mess around her face, and she was laughing as she tried to hold everything in place all at once.

Finally, the blades stopped spinning, and the pilot and flight nurse got out, both of them making their way to us.

I put Micah down on the ground, and he started to run to them.

My boy wasn’t shy, that was for sure.

Cleo, the pilot, dropped down on his knee and offered his hand.

My son ignored his hand and threw himself in his arms. “I want to be a ‘opter piwot like you!”

I grinned and reached for my wife, bringing her into the curve of my arm.

She turned her face up to me and allowed me to see the happiness there.

“I think that you got a wild one on your hands,” she teased.

I agreed. “I think we do, too.”

***

Later that night, with Micah in his bed in his room, and Wrigley on the couch with her feet up, I hastily flipped through the recipe book.

“I don’t see a recipe for ‘Grammy’s Snowballs,’” I told her. “I see the sugar cookies. I see the peanut butter Hershey Kiss ones, and I see one with pecans…”

“I think that might be the one,” she called. “Does it have powdered sugar in the recipe?”

I scanned the hastily-scribbled recipe. “Yes.”

“That one is it.”

I continued to look at the recipe. “It calls for pecans, which we don’t have. And I’m fairly sure we don’t have enough flour for…”

“George?”

I looked over at her. “Yeah?”

“Your little girl is demanding Grammy’s Snowballs. Either you find a way to make them, or I might very well die,” she declared.

I rolled my eyes, then headed for the door.

“I’ll be back.”

Thirty minutes later, I had the ingredients needed and was heading back to my truck when I saw Dodger standing there with a camera on the sidewalk.

“Dodger, for the love of God,” I said as I pulled my keys out of my pocket. “Go the fuck away.”

Wrigley’s brother hadn’t gotten any better since we’d gotten married again over eight months ago. In fact, he credited himself for our reconciliation.

No, I had no clue how he thought that, but whatever.

As long as Wrigley didn’t buy the bullshit he shoveled, I’d be okay.

Even though, I think, there will never be a time that she trusts the tabloids or her brother ever again.

“I can’t, George,” Dodger said as he snapped another picture. “The fans love you, and my boss likes good ratings. Since he knows you won’t run away from me, he’s always sticking me on these stupid assignments. And no, I still have no fucking clue why he’s so obsessed with you. I’d much rather follow Sway Peters around than you and my sister. At least I can check out her ass without being disgusted.”

I would’ve laughed had I not known he was being one hundred percent serious.

“Have a nice night, Dodger,” I drawled, walking to my truck.

I heard him take about eighteen hundred more pictures before I got into my vehicle and drove away, and wondered why I was so lucky to be married to a woman who had that man as her brother.

My phone rang as I was about halfway home, and I put it to my ear without checking the caller ID.

“Hello?” I answered.

“Um, George?”

I frowned. “Diamond?”

It’d been over six months since we’d seen Diamond, or heard from her. Diamond was getting her act together, at least I hoped, and hopefully getting help.

She was slowly getting better—at least from what I saw progress wise over the eight months that Wrigley and I were separated. I hoped she continued to do so in the time that she’d been away.

“Yeah, it’s me,” she paused. “How’s Wrigley?”

I smiled. “She’s pregnant, and apparently craving your Grammy’s Snowballs.”

Diamond made a gagging sound. “Those things are disgusting. They taste like a meatball rolled in powdered sugar.”

I chuckled, then sobered moments later. “Are you well, Diamond?”

She paused for so long that I wasn’t sure she was going to answer.

“I’m better,” she finally answered. “I’m getting help.”

“Where?” I questioned.

“A couple of hours away,” she said. “And no, I’m not done yet, and no, I won’t tell you where I am.”