Page 9 of Karma's Kiss

There was no remorse in his words, no hint of shame.

I feel disgusted thinking back on that night. When did I become so meek? Such a pushover?! Sure, there’s having dignityand poise, but I missed a perfectly good opportunity to chuck a shoe at Matthew’s head, to call him a slew of colorful names. I could have…I could have…oh my god, I could have taken a page out of little Nathan’s book and plunged his beloved Rolex into the toilet. Surely that would have taught him a lesson.

It’s actually wild to think I was going to marry this man! I was going to have kids with him! I was desperate to do it, in fact. Have kids, I mean. That’s the source of most of my pain, knowing I’m that much farther away from starting a family. Thanks to Matthew.

It wasn’t that I was completely delusional during our relationship. I thought I was happy. Sure, there were cracks (in retrospect, more like huge gaping chasms), but I thought it was easier to push forward and proceed as planned than to pull the plug on the entire thing.

I was obsessed with the notion of being perfect andlooking perfect. The way Matthew and I seemed from the outside, no one could deny we were a great couple. He was on his way up in politics and I was the smart, capable,aesthetically pleasingwoman by his side, ready to plan his campaign parties and host influential donor dinners.

My mom—god love Queenie—was the first person to call bullshit on all of it. When I called her the night of our breakup, she wasn’t surprised in the least. “That man wasn’t your soulmate.”

“Thanks for telling me thatnow. Were you just going to let me marry him?”

“Honey, now why would I insert myself into your relationship when all I had to do was bide my time and let that fool show his true colors? I swear, one day you will come to appreciate him ending things like this,beforeyou walked down the aisle.”

I snorted in disbelief, but she continued, “Think about it, Madison. If he’s the kind of asshole to cheat on you forlord knows how long, he’s doing you a real favor ending things. You were going to have children with him!” She shuddered at the thought. “This way, at least, you can get a nice clean break.”

It doesn’t feel nice and clean. It feels messy and ugly and scary.

For the first time in a long time, I don’t know what my life is going to look like in five years. I probably won’t have the cute little family I was so excited about, but I do know one thing: I will never be Mrs. Matthew Mason.

Thank god for that.

After breakfast at Cactus Cafe, I’m browsing the produce section at our local grocery store, trying to decide what I want to make Queenie and me for dinner when I get a call from my brother. He might have disappeared for a little while last night, leaving me alone with Sawyer for far too long, but when I hit the dance floor with Queenie, he was right there with us, spinning us around, dipping Mom so low her head skimmed the floor. God it was fun.

“Hey, sis. Get your butt down to the ballfields,” he says first thing when the call connects. “We need you.”

“Ballfields? What are you talking about?”

“We have a game against Cedar Valley in thirty minutes and we need another girl on our team or we forfeit.”

“So ask Lindsey.”

His wife played softball in high school; she’s really good.

“Lindsey’s already playing. Cassie’s the one who’s out, having her fifth baby. Now what’s she need a fifth—”

Like mother, like son.

“I’m not coming. Find someone else.”

“I know damn well you have nothing else going on. You’re probably standing around wallowing, so get your ass out here right now.”

I drop the tomato I was inspecting—while wallowing—and scowl.

“I haven’t played in years.”

“Who cares? We just need a warm body. See you in fifteen.”

CHAPTER 3

I spenta good chunk of my childhood at the ballfields watching my brother and Sawyer work their way up from Little League to elite travel teams. I can still recite the concession stand menu from memory, and just pulling into the parking lot makes my mouth water for a Frito pie and juicy dill pickle.

I was not a baseball player myself. I preferred soccer, and then later, track and field. David must be forgetting how much I lack basic hand-eye coordination. I’m truly the last person who should be voluntarily stepping onto a baseball field, but at least I look the part. David texted me that the Heatwave team colors are red and white, so I booked it home from the grocery store and tossed on a white tennis skirt and a red workout tank before dragging my butt over here.

On the fields, there are two teams warming up, and upon seeing them, I immediately realize David undersold this commitment. This is not going to be a casual pickup game. The other team has an overly loud stereo blasting “Eye of the Tiger” while a troop of guys does calisthenics in left field. Another group of them are sprawled out on the ground stretching each other’s quads and hammies. And don’t even get me started ontheir uniforms. They look straight out of the MLB—professional, crisp, absolutely obnoxious. Once I see their mouths frothing with sunflower seeds, I know I should leave and pretend I was never here, but Lindsey’s already seen me.

She beams. “Boy am I glad to see you. Our savior!”

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