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

I snorted. “Your sister misses you.”

She waited a beat before answering. “I miss her.”

“Why’d you call?” I finally asked.

I pulled into the driveway of our home and shut the truck off, but didn’t get out.

Instead, I waited for her to answer.

It was a long time coming.

“I wanted to make sure that she was happy. And I wanted to make sure that I didn’t fuck up y’all’s lives by my actions.”

I frowned. “Diamond, we both know that you weren’t you when that happened. You didn’t fuck anything up. Our marriage was never built on the best foundation.”

“And now?” she asked. “Is it now?”

“Now it’s got a goddamn bunker a mile-deep underneath of it. There’s no way it’ll ever break,” I admitted.

She laughed. “That’s good.”

“When are you going to call Wrigley?” I asked.

She cleared her throat. “When I’m well.”

With that, she hung up, and I was left wondering whether I should tell Wrigley about the call or wait for Diamond to make the first move.

I was still contemplating my choices as I made my way inside our home.

Lucy met me at the door, licked my hand, and then went to lay down next to the couch.

I made my way over and grinned at what I saw.

Wrigley was asleep, hands thrown over her head, with her belly exposed. Micah was smooshed in between Wrigley and the couch, his head resting on what was left of Wrigley’s lap.

Our other baby, baby girl Hoffman, was dancing in her mother’s belly, a foot or an elbow tracing its way across her belly, back and forth. My rescue puppy that I’d gotten while separated from Wrigley lay at the floor by their feet.

I’d never seen a more beautiful sight in the world.

After taking a picture, and then studying my world for a few more long moments, I made myself useful.

I made my woman cookies.

And Diamond was right. They did taste like meatballs covered in powdered sugar.