Page 40 of Curveball: The Baby and the Grump

I launch right into my apology. “Freya, I am so sorry. I got completely distracted at practice because we were going curveballs and plays and?—”

“It’s fine.” She cuts me off in a voice that very much suggests it isn’t fine. “I’m glad you’re not dead.”

“Me too,” I say and wince because that’s not what I meant at all. She’s going to think I’m not being serious at all right now.

“Of course,” she says, and I wince again.

“Look, Freya, why don’t we do dinner tonight? Or lunch tomorrow? I’ve been dying to see you. I’ve missed you this week.”

“Sure,” she says, and I’m not certain if that’s a ‘sure, let’s get lunch’ sure or a ‘sure you have’ sure.

I shake my head to myself, trying not to get worked up. “So, lunch, yeah?”

“Look, Jackson, I’ve got to work, okay? I’m sorry. I’ll see you some other time.” There’s a catch in her voice that sounds almost like she’s about to cry. I’ve screwed this up so badly.

“Soon, yeah?” I say, not caring if I sound desperate.

“Okay. Bye,” she says, then hangs up before I get a chance to explain anything else.

“Shit!” I yell, standing up and kicking the bench. How could I be so stupid as to do this? How could I believe there was any way she wouldn’t get bored of me?

Ben comes back into the room and I glare at him, willing him to say something. He doesn’t, but I can feel him looking at me, judging me, having thoughts about things he knows nothing about. It’s enough to make my blood boil, but instead of yelling like I want to, I throw my phone into my bag, slip on my hoodie, and stalk out of the room, pushing hard past Ben as I go.

He calls something out after me, but the ringing in my ears is too loud to hear it.

CHAPTER 22

FREYA

Itake a breath and press my finger to the doorbell. Before the chime has even faded, Jackson’s there opening the door for me. “Hey,” he says, wrapping his arms around me as he pulls me into the house.

“You’re in an unusually good mood,” I say.

“Am I not allowed to be happy to see you?” he says, his smile dropping into a more standard frown.

“Did I say that?” I snap, then feeling mean, try to soften. “I’m pleased to see you too.”

He guides me to the kitchen, kisses me on the lips, and sits me down. “Pierre has an awesome surprise for us tonight. He’s made his world-famous Bolognese.”

“Is it really world-famous or are you just saying that?”

He seems to contemplate this for a second, then breaks back into a smile, which makes me smile too. I love to see him happy like this. It makes all it even harder, knowing what I want to say next. “All right, maybe it’s just famous to me. Doesn’t stop it being good, though.”

“Of course,” I say. “How was your day today?”

“Actually, it was great. You know, our numbers are looking really good this season. I think we might actually make the World Series after all. I nearly threw a nine-straight-outs game the other day.”

“Nice,” I say, hoping I sound supportive. He dives straight into heavy statistics and tactics, dropping so many terms I’m not even remotely familiar with, so I barely manage to follow what he’s saying at all. And bad as it feels to admit, I honestly don’t really care about it that much.

I’m trying my best to be a good listener and be there for him, but he doesn’t stop monologuing about baseball even as he reheats dinner and sits down next to me. It’s only when he takes my hand and I squeeze it that I remember again how good it feels to have him here.

“I had a kid come in today at the hospital,” I say, cutting him off. He looks slightly offended, but I keep going. It’s the only way he’s going to listen to me. “It was an injury pretty similar to yours, actually. An elbow strain from doing too much sport at school, and an attitude like it was the end of the world.”

“That’s a shame to get an injury so young,” says Jackson. “You know, when I was at college playing baseball…” And on and on he continues, going straight back into talking about himself and baseball and baseball and baseball.

I tune out almost completely, feeling kind of bad about it — but my brain is saturated with so many baseball facts. An uncomfortable weight is settling in my stomach that’s trying to tell me something I don’t want to hear, but know I need to listen.

The fact is, I do love Jackson. I love seeing him happy. I love it when he we’re here together and he holds my hand and we watch TV. I love it when we go out and do fun things. I love making him smile — and, better, I love making him laugh.

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