Page 15 of Mom Ball

Brooke

It’s been two days since I’ve run into Nate, so I’m probably due for a sighting.

Ah, speak of the devil.

I turn my head toward his place in time to spot him walking across the property like a well-groomed yeti.

I snap my head so fast my neck pops. “Ouch.” I palm the back of it and continue down the gravel road, hoping he didn’t see me see him.

At least today is Friday.

Mama had to pick up Timothy from school because they needed me to stay late. A few guys in their twenties decided to get drunk and play demolition derby with Jeeps in a mud pit.

They were rushed in as I was clocking out for the day. Easton and I found a broken arm and a fractured ankle among lots of bumps and bruises. Thank God they fared better than the Jeeps. Idiots are lucky to be alive.

Poor Timothy. I know I’m overprotective, but I see a lot at work. Plus, he’s really my responsibility. In reality, I’ve always had my parents to help with him. But that doesn’t make me want to protect him any less.

I pull up to their house. Timothy and I share the carriage house on the other side of the backyard. We lived in the big house until he was three, and he still has a bedroom and lots of toys there.

The front windows reflect the last bit of sunlight peeking through the trees. I blink at them as I climb the front porch. We’re all counting down the days until the time changes.

I open the storm door with a slight creak, then the heavy wooden door. As soon as I enter my parents’ house, I instantly relax. Something about growing up here and their unconditional love always calms me.

Even if I were to marry someday, I wouldn’t dream of moving us too far from the orchard.

I follow Timothy’s and Mama’s voices to the kitchen. She’s standing over the stove, stirring a pot big enough to feed an army.

On closer inspection, I see sugar and apples. Cinnamon apples, an even better comfort after a long day.

I kiss Timothy on top of his head and scrunch my nose.

“Hey, Mama.” He grins.

“Why is your hair so sticky?”

“He helped me make applesauce.” Mama winks.

I laugh. “At least he smells decent.”

Timothy jumps down from the counter and grabs his backpack from the corner of the room. He rushes toward me, pulling out a paper.

“Whoa.” He slams into me and bounces back. “Careful, buddy.” I cup his shoulder and steady him.

He flaps the paper in front of me. Mama laughs from the stove. “He’s been waiting two hours to show you that.”

“Okay.” I take the paper and hold it away from my nose so I can actually see the words: Apple Cart Armadillos Little League Sign-Ups. That’s an awful long way to spell purgatory.

“Can I do it? Tomorrow is the only day to sign up.”

I drop the paper on the kitchen island and stare blankly at my son. He’s handsome and smart and quick witted, but he’s never been accused of being athletic.

His dad is an MLB pitcher. Shut up, brain!

I shake my head. “Where did you get this?”

“The teacher had some for anyone interested to take home.”

“And you got one?”

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