Page 1 of Catch
Prologue
MILES
SUNDAY DINNER
“Catch!”
“Don’t throw tha…dammit!”
Too late.
“You can’t call timeout when I’m in the middle of my windup,” I explained to West, who tried dodging the dinner roll like it was a baseball, and he was the batter. My older brother—dressed to the nines in a crisp designer suit—had strolled in through the kitchen door late for Sunday dinner, and didn’t look impressed as the buttery roll smacked him square in the lapels. “I had already mentally taken the mound for game seven of the World Series, thrown a few warm-up pitches, and was locked in on a fastball right down the middle.”
Easton, our middle brother, laughed, leaning back in his chair as if he were watching a sitcom. From across the table, he watched West pat the buttery grease off of his expensive silk-wool blend suit with the kind of quiet satisfaction that only a younger sibling could feel. “Why even wear that fancy stuff toSunday dinner? After all these years, you know Miles is gonna throw buttered rolls at you on fried chicken night.”
“I guess I keep hoping he’ll grow up,” West grumbled, his voice tight with frustration as he took his jacket off and sat down in the empty seat we had saved for him.
“Not my fault you can’t catch,” I shrugged nonchalantly, a smug grin pulling at the corners of my mouth.
“You’re one to talk,” Gramps snorted from the end of the table, shaking his head in mock dismay.
“If you’re still bringing up game three in the Little League All-Stars tournament, Old Man, you know damn well that the sun was especially bright that… night,” I shot back.
Regardless, Gramps had a way of throwing low blows. He knew as well as I did that the past sixteen years hadn’t been enough to erase the memory of my infamous centerfield blunder. That missed catch could have easily been made if I hadn’t let the lights and my nerves get to me. That moment had cost us the game and the whole damn tournament. If I had caught it, we would’ve been the champions. Instead, the runners scored, and the rest of my team had to face the silent shame of losing it all in the final inning.
So many nights, I still relived it, replaying thatdamnball, which showed up in my dreams as big as a bowling ball. It always floated toward me, slow and soft, as if I had all the time in the world to make the catch. But, of course, I never did. I’d miss it every time.
“How about you boys stop throwing your food?” Grams suggested as she gently placed the steaming plate of fried chicken in the center of the table, its golden, crispy skin gleaming under the light. It was the centerpiece of one of my favorite meals in the world. “Max is going to think it’s okay to throw food if you boys keep it up.”
I had almost forgotten how much things had changed in a matter of weeks. We now had little eyes watching us. Max—Easton’s girlfriend Jesse’s young son—wasn’t quite old enough to understand all the jokes yet, but he was already catching on to the chaotic energy of our Sunday dinners.
“Max knows better,” Easton assured, his chest puffing up proudly like a father speaking about his son. Even though he and Jesse weren’t engaged yet, Easton had stepped into the role of Max’s father figure with ease, as if he’d been doing it all his life.
“I not do that,” Max laughed, scrunching up his little face. “You silly.”
“He is silly,” Grams agreed, chuckling softly.
“He’s a pain in the ass,” West muttered.
The smile on my face was huge as I scanned the room, taking in the familiar, comforting chaos. Sunday dinners at Grams and Gramps' house were a small, constant slice of my childhood that hadn’t changed one bit. Same checkered tablecloth, the same creaky wooden chairs that groaned under our weight, the same enormous spread of food heaped onto the table, steaming and ready to be devoured.
We dove in, digging into Grams’ famous fried chicken and mashed potatoes with gravy as though we hadn't eaten in days. West, though he didn't appreciate the delivery of the roll, dipped it into the gravy and let out an exaggerated moan of appreciation with each bite. I couldn't help but grin. I wasn’t sure what he ate in his fancy penthouse in Atlanta, but it clearly wasn’t anything that came close to Grams’ cooking.
Jesse began discussing something new going on with her candle business, her hands animated as she spoke with passion. Easton looked at her with that soft, adoring gaze of someone who had found something special. Never would I have imagined my brother discussing candles with the same level of enthusiasm as when we talked about the Atlanta Kings’ chances at the WorldSeries. Yet, there he was, talking like Jesse knew the secret to getting Babe Ruth into the lineup.
Grams, sitting beside him, nodded along, listening intently, undoubtedly enjoying the fact that there was now another woman in the house. Especially one that talked about things that smelled good, like candles. Grams raised me and my brothers after our parents died, and the only time she’d ever complain was when something stunk.
Which, in my case, was often. Especially after I'd spent the day fishing on the lake, the air thick with the musky smell of fish guts and the pungent scent of Catfish Charlie bait. I remembered the days when Grams would make me strip down on the porch and rinse my clothes off with the hose before I could come inside. It was embarrassing back then, but now it’s just one of those small, cherished memories.
As I sat there, the memory of those long afternoons fishing with Gramps made me smile to myself.
"Earth to Miles," Gramps nudged me from my left, his rough hand clapping against my arm.
“Huh?” I blinked, snapping out of my thoughts, only to realize the whole table was looking at me, waiting for an answer. They all had that expectant look on their faces.
“You thinking about a girl?” Gramps teased, and I could practically hear the grin in his voice. It made the whole table laugh, including Easton, who already had his own theory in mind.
"I was thinking about fishing," I snorted.
