Page 30 of Bad Ball Hitter

“I don’t feel too well.” I glance around the room, straining to hear any stirring. “Is Miranda home?”

“No.”

My eyes narrow. “You sure?”

“Uh-huh. I checked.”

Great. She must’ve stayed out all night.

“Hurry, Mom. It’s late.”

I grab my phone and cringe. It’s after ten already, and she’s not home? I hate that my mind goes directly to her being with Drake. And I hate how that makes me feel. They’re together. I need to get used to it.

No matter how hard it is, seeing them hang on each other.

Ugh. I hate this so much.

Pushing thoughts of Drake aside, I plant my feet on the ground and push to stand. “Okay, let’s get you something to eat.”

“I already ate.”

“You did?”

“Yeah. Don’t worry. I made you something, too.”

When I notice the pile of runny eggs on the plate with burnt bacon, the sulfur smell hits me. My stomach roils.

Grabbing my mouth, I dart to the bathroom momentarily before spilling everything from last night. My body shakes.

As I wipe my mouth and try to catch my breath, I can’t shake the nagging thoughts that I’m missing something.

“Mom, are you okay?” Jake’s voice trembles from the doorway, and I force a smile onto my pale face.

“I’m okay, sweetheart,” I respond weakly, standing up and washing my hands. “I think it was just something I ate.”

“But you didn’t eat anything...” He trails off, eyes wide with worry. A lump forms in my throat.

“I meant last night,” I correct him, hiding the shaking in my hands as I dry them off. “Let’s call Miranda and see if she can take you on your big field trip instead.”

“But she’s not here,” he insists again, but I ignore his words. Instead, I pulled out my phone and dialed her number.

No answer.

I dial again, and this time, her voicemail picks up.

“Hey, I’m not sure you’re with a client, but can you call me back? I need your help.”

Dialing his friend’s dad next, I wait for him to pick up, but I’m greeted with his voicemail instead. God, does anyone have their phones near them today?

Defeated, I slump against the bathroom wall and try to figure out what to do. I can’t disappoint Jake; he’s too excited about going. I look at what I’m wearing—a ratty cotton T-shirt and sleeper shorts. Good enough to drive him to the drop-off spot.

“Okay, big guy. Let’s get you going.”

I stumble out to the living room in search of the keys. I can do this. I grab my purse and practically dump everything out, looking for them.

Nothing.

Where the heck are they?

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