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

Lucy nudged her nose between the bars of the crib and stayed like that until I petted her head.

“You’re a good girl,” I said to her.

Then I sighed and stood up, making my way to the front room where I could hear Wrigley moving around.

“I’m gonna go,” I said to her as I rounded the corner.

Wrigley stopped in her pacing, her face betraying nothing.

“Okay,” she said softly. “I’ll…I’ll see you tomorrow before we walk to the game?”

We’d discussed on the way home whether or not we should bring Micah to the game or not. Over and over we went through all possible scenarios, and we decided that we should allow him to see the game.

The owner of the Lumberjacks had agreed to allow Wrigley and Micah the use of his box for the game, and I’d felt a lot better about them being there after that.

Then, there was the second hurdle of how to get him there.

With the casts that he had on, he wasn’t able to sit up in a seat. He had to lay down flat. Which also meant that he wasn’t allowed to sit in his car seat, or any car seat.

I’d hired out an ambulance to bring him home from Dallas, but that ride wouldn’t be available to take him around town.

But, since the apartment was about a ten-minute walk from the field, I’d said yes under one condition.

That she allows me to walk with them.

So, before tomorrow’s game, Wrigley would be walking with me and Micah to the field. An entire three hours before the game started.

And, hopefully, with my presence, nothing else crazy would be happening.

Her immediate acquiesce had left me reeling, but since I was no longer her husband, I didn’t have the privilege of knowing her inner thoughts.

Also meaning that I wouldn’t be having my questions ever answered.

“Yeah,” I rasped. “I’ll see you tomorrow around eleven. Okay?”

She nodded, her hair falling slightly into her face with the movement.

“Yeah, that sounds really, errrm, great.” She smiled stiffly.

That’s when I realized it was really time to go.

I’d stayed around her for too long, apparently.

“All right, have a good night,” I said as I hurried to the door.

The moment I was out in the hall with the door closed behind me, I stopped and braced my hands on the opposite wall from Wrigley’s door, and then let my head fall.

Mother. Fucker.

I couldn’t breathe.

I didn’t want to leave.

But I did.

I didn’t want to be somewhere I wasn’t wanted, and it was more than apparent that she didn’t want me there.

So I was going to have to suck it up and get moving before I couldn’t.

I’d wind up sleeping right here on the fucking floor if I wasn’t careful.

And then my phone rang.

My sister.

Fuck.

I turned around and leaned my back against the wall, closing my eyes as I placed the phone up to my ear. “Hello?”

“Georgie?” my sister said. “How’s Micah?”

I rolled my eyes. My sister hadn’t called in two weeks since my son had been hurt, and she was calling now?

“He’s okay,” I said honestly. “He’s been better, actually.”

“Oh,” she hesitated. “Well, I was calling because of the Christmas gifts you sent.”

I looked up at the ceiling. “Yeah?”

“You forgot to send the gift receipts, so I don’t know where you got them from. And since Roden and I already purchased this particular gift for our son, we want to return yours,” she explained quickly.

I felt my belly tighten. “Listen,” I scrubbed my hand down my face. “If you want to return one of them, return the one you got. Then get him something else. I bought these throughout the year, and I have no idea where the gift receipts are.”

She did this every fucking year.

Last year I’d sent them to her, too. But then my Grams had informed me that they were just returning the gifts to have the money. They weren’t even letting my nieces and nephews have the money from the return. They were keeping it for themselves. And they sure as fuck hadn’t gotten them the same gift.

Which pissed me off.

I would not be sending them the receipts this year. They could kiss my ass.

“I’m sorry, but what?” my sister asked, seemingly like she was unsure of what she’d heard me say.

“I said,” I pronounced purposefully. “That I’m not sending you the gift receipts.”

She hissed in a breath. “That’s what I thought you said. Listen, I can’t return my gifts. I tore the tags off of them.”

“I’m sorry. I guess he’ll just have two then,” I countered. “Was that all you needed? You could’ve just texted me and received the same reply about ten times faster.”

Fucking leeches.

“Well, I’m sorry if I took too much of your time. I won’t call again,” she countered.

Yeah. Fucking. Right.

She’d call again when she needed an extra hundred to pay her light bill, or the next time her car went into the shop and she was expected to pay anything out of pocket.