Page 3 of About Time

“And why would you be following a woman you barely knew?” Griffin pushes.

I take a deep breath. “Well, you know I was friends with Wren’s dad, Martin. I even got pretty close to her mom, Elisa.”

“I know you were on a community softball team with him, and had a hero worship thing for him back in high school. He was two years ahead of us,” Griffin replies.

“Martin and I got very close after graduation. They didn’t have a lot of family after Elisa’s mom passed away. Their dad took off when Elisa was a teenager, so there was no one to take in her younger sister. Hattie took Martin’s last name, and they raised her with Wren,” I explain to Scott.

“Hattie is only nine years older than Wren. Please tell me you didn’t babysit her for Martin and Elisa,” Griffin demands.

“I didn’t babysit Hattie or Wren. I don’t have a daddy kink like you,” I tease him. In a more serious tone, I continue, “Nothing happened between us until she was nineteen. She hada crush on me, but I didn’t even really register her presence until she was in college.”

Griffin groans. “She was nineteen? Charlie?—”

“I was twenty when Low and I started dating, remember?” Scott intrudes, once again playing peacemaker.

“You were almost twenty-one,” Griffin replies to him.

“Before you judge me, why don’t you listen to the whole story,” I say. I’m trying to remind myself that Griffin and I have been friends since elementary school. And since we’ve been friends for that long I know that Griffin can be a possessive asshole. He doesn’t share well, and that includes me having friends he doesn’t hang out with.

It’s long past time I pull the veil off my past. I’m not ashamed of my relationship, so I should stop hiding how it began, even if the truth doesn’t always paint me in the best light.

Chapter Two

Charlie Past- Age 26

The Harriston Community Athletic Pavilionhouses all of the outdoor sporting events in town, at least the ones that aren't offered through the public schools. It's where I have been able to recapture some of the glory I felt when I was a star of the high school baseball team. Not that softball is the same thing, but at least it gives me a chance to be on a team again and not become one of the overweight old men sitting at the bar drinking their days away.

In this town, you either find a way to kill time, or you slowly die from boredom. All of my favorite ways to spend a few hours leave me sweaty. Being balls deep inside of a woman is my first choice, but there are only so many single women in town, and I do not do repeat performances. There are also only so many hours in the day, so playing sports is a solid second choice. Safer too, especially since I don’t always know if they’re actually single.

Harriston has very limited sources of amusement, which if you ask me are pretty much limited to fighting and fucking. The law of averages pretty much guarantees that I’m eventuallygoing to screw some dude’s girl, which is what often leads to fighting. Not my fault if some guy’s girl decides to stray. If he was doing a good job laying pipe she wouldn’t come looking for me. That’s another thing I don’t do, chase women. Why would I when they follow me around?

I guess there’s also church, but I’m pretty sure if I step inside of one the pastor would take it as a sign the apocalypse is coming. We have a bit of a history. If you are thinking I screwed the pastor’s daughter, you’d be wrong. The pastor is like thirty and doesn’t have kids. Now if your guess is that I did a little bedroom tango with his wife, you’d be correct. In my defense, I did not know she was married at the time, especially to the pastor. Like I said, I don’t go to church, and small town or not I don’t know everyone. Harriston is small enough that I absolutely could, but I’d have to give a shit to try. I don’t give a fuck about a lot of things. I care about my best friend, Griffin, his eight-year-old son, Liam, and Griffin’s garage where I work. Like I said, the list is short.

Another plus side to playing on a community team is that I get to play with my high school mentor, Martin Parker. I followed the guy around like a puppy dog when we were in school. He was a senior and I was a sophomore, and still, he tolerated my clingy ass. My talent put me on the varsity team but maturity-wise I was still very much an immature fifteen-year-old while he was practically an adult. Now we’re on even footing and have become pretty good friends.

Another game is in the bag and I’m hurrying to pack up my bag. Normally I’d loiter a bit, see which softball groupie wants to take me home. Like I said, Harriston is boring as fuck, so boring in fact, there are softball groupies. I shit you not.

I digress. This time I’m throwing my shit in my bag as fast as I can. We played the church team, and the pastor played like shit. Probably because I was pitching this time. I’m not proud ofthe fact I’ve managed to turn a man of God into a sailor, but if his new vocabulary sticks at least he could become a chaplain.

The vein in his forehead is doing that pulsing thing that usually happens when some guy tries to beat my ass. The operative word there is try. I can count on one hand the number of men who’ve accomplished that task, and have four fingers left over. My father is the only one, but to be fair he started before I hit puberty. It ended after I turned sixteen. Another reason I refuse to be one of the bums eating up space at the bar.

Even though Pastor Greg doesn’t scare me in the slightest, I don’t think my reputation would be well served by beating up a man of God. I actually have a pretty good rep around Harriston. I might be a bit of a slut, but people here love me. Compared to Griffin I’m a ray of freaking sunshine. Since I’m almost always with him, I always come across as the easygoing one. I should send him a fruit basket for the good PR.

I look around me for my glove. Not the best time to lose my equipment when it looks like Greg the Good is talking himself out of turning the other cheek.

“Fuck!” I’m spinning in circles looking for it, but it’s just gone.

The chain link fence in front of me rattles and I look up to see a young girl with braces and wearing overalls standing in front of me. I give her the smile I reserve for old ladies and babies because she’s definitely close to the latter.

Her cheeks blush a bright crimson. I exhale and try and dial back the sexy, not that it ever works. I’m pretty sure Dolores Howell, who’s got to be pushing seventy, pinched my ass last week. I might need to work on being less…me around some ladies.

“Hey, Charlie,” she says in a sing-song tone.

I clear my throat and manage to refrain from calling her sweetheart or any other term of endearment, barely. Some habits come out even when you don’t try. “Hey…you.”

Her smile dims slightly. “My name is Harriet, but everyone calls me Hattie. You’re friends with my brother-in-law, Martin.” She shoves my glove toward me. “You left this in the dugout.”

I see a knockout in a pair of tiny cutoff shorts and a crop top wiggle her fingers at me over Hattie’s shoulder. Time for me to wrap up talking to the kid and go have some grown-up fun. Hopefully, this one is actually single. I make a mental note to actually check her finger for tan lines this time. Women aren’t the only ones who need to do that. I’ve met my fair share of bored housewives to have learned that.

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