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“Okay,” I say, mind reeling to process all this information. “I hate to even ask this, but on a practical note, I need to know what I’m looking at financially to get him the help he needs. So I can make a plan.”

Jessica gives a gentle grimace. “I can tell you it won’t be cheap. While Jason is still in foster care, some sessions will be covered by his insurance. But once the adoption is finalized, your medical insurance doesn’t provide coverage for the talk therapy or this particular type of occupational therapy. It will be out of pocket, but we can work with you on payment plans and possibly staggering weeks with me and OT. I’ll email you some concrete numbers after I talk with our OT.”

My heart sinks. Of course, I want to roll out the red carpet for anything that would help Jason to work through the trauma he carries with him. But, as a single mom on a teacher’s salary, still paying off student loans and living in an area where rent isnotcheap . . . I’m afraid to find out what dollar amounts I’m looking at.

Jessica must see my inner turmoil. She reaches a hand over to pat mine. “I know this is a lot to take in. Not just financially, but emotionally and mentally. The fact that you’re here exploring these options is proof of how much you love Jason. And remember that even though your love for him isn’t enough to fix what’s happened in his brain wiring, it’s not nothing. Your day-in and day-out expressions of love for him are going to be a huge piece of the healing puzzle. Even if we don’t see the immediate results we wish could be possible, youcanhelp to rewire those neurological connections for him. Over time, you can help his brain learn that he is safe, that he is wanted. Your love is a powerful thing.”

“Thank you,” I murmur, vision still blurry from tears.

“Make sure you have a good network of people you can lean on for support through this,” Jessica says. “You’re going to need others holding you up as we work through this with Jason. We have a long road ahead of us.”

When I leave Jessica’s office, I sit silently in my car, processing. Although, processing is probably too productive of a word to describe what’s happening in my brain. The thought factory, as Griffin loves tocall it, is not churning out functional thoughts. It’s a muddled mess—an overloaded machine on the verge of breakdown.

I press my palms over my eyes, trying to suppress the tears. I’m overcome by the longing to feel Griffin’s arms around me, to press my ear to his chest and listen to his heartbeat. When did his embrace becomemypreferred form of regulation?

Focus, Danae. You can’t help Jason if your thoughts are constantly pining after Griffin.

Sighing, I close my eyes and lean back against the headrest. A few moments later, my lap is covered with tiny flecks of clear nail polish.

I call Griffin.

Chapter twenty-eight

Griffin

“Yes! That’s the way to do it!” I yell as Adrian hollers next to me. One of our new outfielders from the farm team managed to hit a home run, bringing in a runner on first for a two-run hit. He’ll be a great backup player on the bench, assuming the coaching staff chooses to keep him for the season. After his performance today, I don’t know why they wouldn’t.

As the guys run into the dugout, Adrian and I are there giving celebratory back slaps and jumping shoulder bumps. We always make a big show of celebrating the runs and good plays during spring training games. It’s partially to boost the morale of the players who are here working hard for their shot at the big leagues. And also partially to distract us from the boredom of not getting to be the ones out there playing.

Adrian’s always pushing the boundaries of rambunctious behavior, hamming it up for the cameras he knows are watching. As his best friend, I play right along with him. He makes it easy to get swept up in the fun, and Joe never complains about the extra PR attention that comes from all of the YouTube views.

“You’re gonna need to work on your dance moves for some new celebrations this season,” Adrian tells me.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about—I have plenty of moves. You'd better focus on your baseball moves so you have something to celebrate over,” I rib him back.

Our team goes on a run in the seventh inning, stretching our lead to 9–2, which we hold through the end of the game. Spirits are high in the locker room as we recount the highlights.

“How’s the shoulder?” Adrian asks after we’ve showered and changed. It was bothering me this morning during practice after I pushed it a little too hard in the training room yesterday.

“It’s fine now,” I answer. He raises an eyebrow. “I’m serious—it really feels fine now. The trainers worked their magic, and it’s good as new.”

He gives me a hearty slap on the back, near my shoulder, as if watching to see if I’d flinch. I fake sucker punch him in the gut in response. “Watch it, Ortiz. I’ll report you to the trainers for screwing up my shoulder if it hurts again tomorrow.”

Pulling my bag out of my locker, I check my phone. My heart plummets to my stomach when I see I have four missed calls from Danae, spread out across the past two hours. Today was an afternoon game, which means she was calling while school was in session. There are no texts from her explaining her reason for calling.

I break out in a cold sweat.

“Hey, I've gotta go call Danae,” I tell Adrian.

“Uh-oh, what’s wrong?” he asks.

“I don’t know yet. But she called me four times during school hours. Something must be wrong,” I reply, already walking toward the doors. “I’ll catch you at the condo.”

Once outside, I try to give a semi-sincere smile to the fans who have lingered hoping to catch sight of players as we leave. Normally, I’d pause to sign a few autographs and take photos with kids. Right now, talking to Danae is all I can think about. She’s an hour ahead, so school is officially over for the day.

Quickly making it to the privacy of my rental car, I dial Danae’s number, hoping she’ll answer. My heart sinks even further when she doesn’t. We’d exchanged our usual morning texts today, but I was a little shorter with the conversation since I had to have the training stafflook at my shoulder before practice. Still, she’d given no indication that anything was wrong.

I dial her again, wondering if she didn’t hear it ring the first time. No answer.