Page 60 of The Curveball

“That means a lot, Griff.” She lifts her head and gives me a soft smile. “So, that’s what you’re walking into at the birthday. A snake pit.”

“I can charm snakes too.”

She laughs, letting her head fall back to my shoulder. “Okay. What about you, Griffin? What’s your story?”

“You want to know about me? I knew you liked me, Birdie.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. I might hold you in aslightlypositive regard.

I laugh. Head back, deep in the belly, laugh. “Woman, I’ll take it.”

“Hmm, I’m not sure if I like the wordwomanbeing used so pejoratively.” She winks, like she’s daring me to keep up with her thesaurus mouth. I’d keep up with a lot of things related to that mouth if she’d let me.

“What?Womanhappens to be the most beautiful word in any written or spoken language.”

I figured she’d laugh, maybe roll her eyes again, but Wren freezes. Her gaze locks with mine, and it’s as if she’s never seen my face before.

“What?”

“I was . . .” She pauses. “I don’t know. You’re surprising sometimes. Do you really mean that?”

“About the word woman? Heck yes, Birdie. I was raised by women, just like you. My aunt and Nona were very involved in my life.”

“Then you get the overbearing side of family.”

“I get it.”

“Tell me about them. It’s only fair.”

“I’ve told you about my cousins. My uncle, he’s my mom’s brother, moved out here to Vegas first. When my mom was eighteen, she followed and opened the bakery with my aunt and uncle. Then, she met my dad. They got married about three years later and became the luckiest people alive when I showed up within two years.”

Wren snickers. “That’s the first time you’ve mentioned your dad. What’s he like?”

“He was great.” My chest cramps, and I don’t think it should after all these years, but I can’t help it. “He died when I was six.”

“Oh. Were you close?”

“Crazy close. I don’t remember much, but I still have the feelings, and I know he was my best friend. He left me with big shoes to fill.”

Wren’s face is twisted in a look of confusion. “So, you remember him being nice?”

“Nice? Yeah. I don’t ever remember him even getting mad at me. My mom said he never once raised his voice to her. She said when he was upset, he’d always kiss her forehead and say he needed to walk away for a bit. He was this calm, thoughtful guy with a massive laugh. I remember thinking he could rock the whole house with his laugh.”

Again, she’s almost lost. Like I’m talking gibberish. “Huh. May I ask how he died?”

My teeth grind together. I train my gaze to the table like I’m about to mentally burn a hole through the wood. “A drunk driver.”

Wren’s mouth parts. “Oh. That’s why—”

“I’d rather get lost in the desert than have anyone think I’d get behind the wheel if I didn’t have my head on straight.”

She hesitates, then reaches out and covers my hand on the table with hers. “I’m sorry he died. He’d be proud of you for how you take care of your mom.”

A shot to the heart. Words I’ll never forget, not when they came from her mouth. Words I’ve wondered a thousand times in quiet moments. The day my dad died, I became the man of the house. No less than fifty people told me that on the day of the funeral.

I’ve tried to live up to that every day since.

It’s a good thing Wren abandons the table in the next second, or I might’ve gone caveman on her again and pulled that pretty mouth to mine, making her know how fake I don’t think this is.

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