Page 32 of Dropping the Ball

“Kaitlyn? You’re home. It’s time to wake up.”

More forehead wrinkles, then a sleepy eye opens. “Mphmfh?”

“You’re home,” I repeat.

She nestles against the door again, eyes closed. “Mphmmmmfh.”

I stifle a laugh and try my next plan, climbing from the truck to walk around to her side. I brace myself to open her door and catch her if she falls out.

She doesn’t, only moves away from the door with an annoyed grunt.

“Kaitlyn,” I say, giving her forearm a soft squeeze. “If you come out of the truck, you get to go sleep in your own bed.”

Nothing.

I squeeze her shoulder. “Kaitlyn? Don’t you want to sleep in your own bed? I bet you have a big, fluffy blanket and soft pillows.”

She lolls her head to face me, her eyelids reaching half-mast. “Pillow?”

“Yes. Your own pillows in your own house. So nice, right?”

She closes her eyes, but her thinking wrinkles are back. “Home?”

“Home. Bed. Pillows. Blanket.”

She moves her feet toward the door, and I step back to give her room, but instead of her getting out, I suddenly have an armful of Kaitlyn as she leans her head against my chest, her butt still in her seat but the rest of her trying to fall asleep on me.

“Whoa, Kaitlyn. You’re almost there. I’m going to lean in and unbuckle your seat belt, then I’ll help you to your door, okay?”

She turns her head to nod. “Loud heart. Mmmkay.”

I suppress another laugh. If this is sleepy Kaitlyn, drunk Kaitlyn must be an entire event. I reach in to remove her seat belt, and she snuggles into me harder. Somewhere inside me, seventeen-year-old Micah celebrates.

“You’re free,” I tell her when I guide the seat belt to retract without giving her neck burn. “Can you walk?”

She slides her arms up my chest to clasp them behind my neck. “Nope.”

My heart gives a single extra hard thump. That felt way too good.

“I’m going to carry you to your door, okay? Do you have your keys?” She mumbles our birth year, and I realize she probablyhas a keypad lock with a less-than-genius passcode. “Hold on tight, okay? I’m going to pick you up.” I slide my arm beneath her knees, and she keeps her grip around my neck.

I carry her toward the front path. She says nothing, only rubs her cheek against my chest, and I don’t rush. She feels right in my arms. Warm. Pliant in a way that’s too tempting to dwell on. Maybe it’s better that we’ve reached the door . . .

Our birth year does, in fact, work on the keypad. I turn the handle and nudge it open with my foot.

“You made it,” I tell her. “Time to put you down. You’re home.”

She lifts her head, stares at her open door, and burrows into me again. “Too tired. Carry me.”

I obey, stepping inside, not able to resist satisfying my curiosity. She gives a vague wave and mumbles “living room.” I follow the almost-point of her finger. The house is dim, only a light shining down from the stairs and another from the kitchen, but it’s indirect. I can’t see much detail, but Kaitlyn has gotten us to the living room.

“Sofa.”

I carry her to it and set her down. She promptly curls into a ball, her hands tucked beneath her cheek.

“You sure you don’t want to go up to your bed?” I ask.

“Sleepy,” she says. “And if you ask me about this, I’ll deny it happened. Night-night.”

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