Swing and a Mishap (Summersweet Island 2)

“On it, Ms. Bennett!”

When Dominic is gone, I take a minute to watch Owen make his own perfect catch, letting him and his two other teammates nab a couple more for a few minutes before I move them over to batting practice and transfer the rest of the batters to the outfield for pop-up drills. Closing my eyes, I rest my elbows on top of the fence behind me, letting my hands dangle down in front, ignoring the quiet chatter of the moms in the bleachers who have moved on to talk about their weekend plans. I take a few deep, calming breaths and enjoy the smell of the ocean and fresh cut grass, and my favorite sounds in the world—the thwacks of bats connecting with balls and the pops of pitches flying into gloves.

I spent the rest of last night after Tess and Birdie left finishing off an entire bottle of wine by myself and then staring up at the ceiling in my bedroom all night after a quick shower, barely getting two hours of sleep. I’m tired, hungover, and annoyed with myself, and not even a few hours off from the Dip and Twist this afternoon can make me feel better. Listening to the moms talk about Shepherd just reminds me that he’s here, and I didn’t imagine it. I tossed and turned all night long thinking about how I behaved when I saw him standing there in front of me, and thinking about that again right now just amplifies my headache and the nausea churning in my stomach, not even my favorite sounds making it better.

I called him a pile of human garbage.

“How are you holding up?”

My eyes pop open, and I turn my head to see Birdie standing on the other side of the fence, resting her arms on top of it right next to mine. Her blonde hair is parted down the middle in two French braids, and she looks as adorable as always in one of the outfits she wears to work—a white fitted T-shirt with the SIG logo on it in black, and a matching black-and-white short golf skirt. I paid more attention when grabbing a shirt out of my closet this morning and at least didn’t put on one with Shepherd’s freaking last name in all caps on the back. But I’m still wearing one of my kid’s old T-shirts like always, with another pair of ratty jean shorts and my favorite worn-in pair of white Converse. At least I put a new messy bun in my hair when I woke up instead of leaving in the one I went to bed with after my shower last night. That’s progress I’d say.

“I want to vomit into the nearest trashcan, and I wish someone would turn off the sun. It’s so bright,” I whisper and then hiss after that last part, making my sister laugh.

“Sorry. Tess and I probably should have taken the rest of the wine with us when we left. And I didn’t mean about your hangover. I meant about he who shall not be named.”

“You can say his name. It’s fine,” I tell her, pausing to glare at my son a hundred yards away and then shouting across the field when he unnecessarily falls to the ground and rolls after making a catch. He almost dropped the ball with his need to make himself look cooler. “Stop trying to showboat, Bennett! Just catch the ball!”

“Oooh, Owen got yelled at by his moooom!”

Sadly, that burn wasn’t shouted by one of Owen’s teammates, but by his aunt. Owen sticks his tongue out at Birdie before getting back in line.

I have never been one of those parents who wears rose-colored glasses around her child. I will be the first one to call him out when he’s being an idiot. When I made the decision about stepping in to coach, I made absolutely certain Owen would be okay with it. He’s always been okay with me helping out at practice, but this is different. I’m running practices, and I can’t let my own kid walk all over me or get away with anything, or fifteen other teenage boys—all of them taller than me by at least six inches and outweighing me by no less than thirty pounds—will think they can do the same thing. Owen doesn’t want me to treat him differently than anyone else on the team, so I don’t. And that includes calling him out when he’s being an idiot.

“I called him human garbage,” I finally say with a sigh a few minutes later when the boys are all doing what they’re supposed to for the time being.

“If it smells like garbage, then it probably is garbage, and what that man did to you smells like absolute shit.”

“You have very strange analogies sometimes,” I muse, quickly sobering as my thoughts go back to what we’re discussing. “I don’t like that I was mean to him, Birdie. I’m not a mean person. I could be a smartass and a little lippy when we were talking, but not mean. He’s not a pile of human garbage, he’s the exact opposite. He’s sweet, funny, kind, caring, and generous. I can’t treat him badly just because he found someone who appreciated all those things about him and he didn’t need me anymore. I can’t be mad at him for having a life or for falling in love, but I am still hurt. We were friends. He called me his pen pal. I mean… it was silly of me to ever have any kind of fantasies about him or get mad about him finding happiness.”