Page 7 of Curveball: The Baby and the Grump

When we hit the exit, I look left and right to check no one’s about, and then start marching off towards my car.

“Ugh, how far away did you park?” Jackson groans. “Don’t you get staff parking?”

“I wish. No, I’m all the way at the back — but hey, at least your legs still work, right?”

He doesn’t have a witty comeback for that. I bite my tongue to stop myself bringing up the two extra blocks we’d have had to walk if I’d left my car in that other lot. Somehow, I don’t think that news would cheer him up.

I press the unlock button on my fob, and my little car beeps a welcome at me. Jackson looks down at it, but to my surprise doesn’t comment on the size or age or general wear. It’s not the flashiest vehicle by a long way, but it’s reliable and gets me where I need to go. I can’t ask for more than that.

We drive in silence, only broken by the radio and his occasional directions. At least it isn’t a long way. Before I know it, I’m pulling up to a mansion with a pristine lawn and a long driveway, something that’s a far cry from anywhere I’ve ever lived.

It’s not that I thought he was lying to me about his vast fortune exactly — because he sure acts like he comes from money — but hearing somebody say “I’m really rich” is one thing, and pulling up outside their absolutely massive house is quite another. I can barely afford the two-bed apartment Matt and I live in. It’s unfathomable to me to imagine living somewhere like this. This guy is luckier than he realizes.

Suddenly, I’m starting to panic that maybe he does have the sort of power he was mouthing off about and that I shouldn’t have been so quick to dismiss him as a snobbish ass who’s dramatic as all hell for the sake of it. Ruining me wouldn’t be a drop in the ocean to him.

I pull up in front of one of the four garages attached to the house, shut off the engine and jump out to run round and open his door for him. “Let me help you inside.”

“I’m fine!” Jackson snaps, but I help him anyway and make him hand over his key so I can unlock the door. I don’t know why it should take me by so much surprise that his front door is as simple as lock and key. What was I expecting — laser beams?

He shoves his way inside and beckons for me to follow. As I do, I have to struggle to not gasp at the sight of the high ceilings and the real oak side tables. “Wow,” I say lamely. “Nice place you’ve got.”

All I get in reply is a huff. Then, as he flings his shoes away to the side of the door with a grunt, he remembers his manners. “It’s late. Do you want something to eat?”

My eyebrows knit together in surprise, but then I grin widely. “That would be great, actually. I’ve been on my feet all day.”

“Come on, then,” he says, gesturing again for me to follow him through to the kitchen.

Honestly, I’m still getting over the different rooms all having different doors. Imagine having that kind of space!

The furniture throughout the house is beautiful, too — bookcases with polished glass, pristine cream rugs, and matching table and chairs. Everything is very expensive and very clean. He clearly gets someone in to clean for him. Just another luxury I wish I had.

But still, as I walk through the house, I can’t help but feel like I’m walking through a show home, like this is some real estate agent’s idea of what a house should look like — coordinated and minimal. It’s lovely and aesthetically pleasing, but there’s no sense that anyone lives here. There’s no personality. There aren’t any pictures or mementos, no bits of clutter lying around from trips or visitors. It almost looks like he doesn’t know anyone, or that he hasn’t been anywhere at all.

All this stuff he has, all the life he’s lived, and yet he barely seems to have anything to show for it. It almost makes me sad.

Almost, because one thing is clear about him: he’s a baseball fan. There isn’t much in the way of decoration here, but what little he does have is all related to baseball. It’s all merchandising — old jerseys and bats tastefully pinned to the wall, and framed clippings filling in wall space in a way only an interior designer could think to do.

And, it’s all from the Prairie Dogs.

“You must like the Dogs, huh?” I ask as we cross into the kitchen, pointing at the single tea towel by the stove in the Philadelphia colors.

He turns to me, tilting his head in confusion. For the first time since I met him, a ghost of a smile passes over his face. “You really have no idea who I am, do you?”

I shake my head. “Should I?”

“Do you like baseball?”

“Clearly you do,” I say, but he doesn’t reply. He just keeps giving me this look, like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. “The Dogs are my brother’s team,” I explain. “I take him to games sometimes. He’s fifteen. I guess I pretty much know the rules, but I’m not much of a real fan. Matt really loves them though — that’s my brother, Matt. He’s on the school team. It’s his favorite part of the day, playing ball. It makes him happy.”

I smile thinly, running my hand through my hair and coming to rest it on my neck, willing myself not to say anything else embarrassing out loud to this stranger. I already feel like I’ve given slightly too much personal information away.

“He loves them a lot, does he? Clearly you don’t pay that much attention.” He sounds weirdly angry about it, like he’s trying to get me to understand whatever cryptic point he’s making. He sighs, and continues like it’s physically straining him. “Otherwise you would have recognized the star player right away.”

As soon as he says it, it clicks in my brain, and as he gestures to himself, I gasp in realization. “Oh! Jackson Kerr! That’s why your name was so familiar to me.”

“Sure,” he mutters.

“Yeah, you’re the pitcher, aren’t you? Number eighty-three! See, I do pay attention!”

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