Page 15 of Curveball (Tennessee Terrors #9)

“Hey, listen,” I say. “If you need a ride, just let me know. You must have Dylan’s number, but here, I’ll give you mine too.

” I hold out my hand and she hands me her phone.

I add myself to her contacts list. “If Coach can’t help you, I’ll get you to and from your game tomorrow.

Sometimes I like to come watch you girls play. ”

Adele immediately brightens. “That sounds splendid. Thank you. We’ll be sure to let you know.” She reaches forward and taps Natalie on the shoulder. “Hey, kid, you know what else you need to tell her?” Natalie’s brow lowers.

“What?”

I’ve been parked here in the drive with a closed gate in front of me, and I have an idea of what she’s getting at. I hold back my smile because it’s comical how confused Natalie looks.

“Why don’t you give her the code to the gate?”

Adele chuckles, and I’m reminded that I really like this woman.

The next morning, I decide one of Natalie’s friends must have come through with a ride, as I haven’t heard from her by the time I need to leave for school.

Since Natalie’s conference is now rescheduled, I only have three for this afternoon, and one of them is remote.

Dylan’s been working out in the gym since he doesn’t have team practice, and by the time I finish my final meeting, I realize there’s plenty of time to get us across town to the girls’ softball game.

I’ve been popping in to their local games whenever I have a chance, and it brings back fond memories of my own days on the diamond back in high school.

Natalie sees me and comes running over as soon as her game is over.

“Hey, Ms. Sloan, you made it! Hi, Dylan.”

I’d give her a hug but softball girls get funk, too. I refrain. Dylan replies with a chin nod.

“You girls played a good game,” I tell her. “Too bad you couldn’t pull off the win.”

“We weren’t even close. I wish the coach would pull Lisa and give me the spot. She’s hurt, for God’s sake.” She bounces on her toes, looking over her shoulder at the emptying dugout. “Hey, do you remember?—”

Brows raised, I wait for her to continue. After a moment, I prompt her with, “Remember what?”

She sighs. “Well, um, do you think I could catch a ride home? Coach is in a mad and?—”

I hold up my hand with a chuckle. “Say no more. I’m parked right over there.” I point to my car in the parking lot. “Take your time.”

The ride home is loud with music and the kids cutting up, and this is a lot more fun than my usual quiet trips with Dylan, pulling each word from him like an impacted molar, just to have a conversation.

When we pull into the drive to Natalie’s house and I use the code to open the gate, Dylan’s mouth finally stops running and he stares at me in something like wonder.

“You have their code? Wait! You have the secret code to Mighty Max Murphy’s estate ?”

From the back seat, Natalie laughs out loud. “Get over yourself, Lopez. Daddy even assigned her her own code. How are we going to get all the way to the house if nobody opens the gate?” I’m impressed that she doesn’t make a thing of her advantaged circumstance, or the obvious differences in ours.

Once the wrought iron panels are fully wide, I put the car in drive and cruise up to the front portico.

“That’s what I mean! This place is huge!” Dylan’s jaw drops as he takes in the full expanse of the property. I have to admit, I’m still in awe, and I’ve already been exposed.

Natalie hooks her hands on the back of Dylan’s seat and leans forward. “Ms. Sloan, do you think I could ask for a ride tomorrow, too? If it’s not too much trouble, that is.”

I mentally decode my calendar for the next day. I have a few things, but . . .

“I think we can make it work. What time do you need a ride?”

“I tutor reading to kids at the youth center from ten to noon on Saturdays.” She cringes. “Is that too much to ask?”

“Not at all. Dylan has a home game tomorrow afternoon. I’ll take you at ten, then drop him off at the ballfield before I pick you up and take you home. It’ll all Tetris nicely.”

She lets go and moves back in her seat. “I wouldn’t be mad about watching him play.”

I peer at her in the rear view mirror. “You want to come too?”

She dips her head. I think it’s a nod. “If it’s okay.”

“Sure, it’s okay. Just make sure Adele knows so she doesn’t worry.”

She’s maybe fifty yards and five minutes from seeing Adele in person, yet she pulls her phone from her back pocket. “I’ll text her right now.”

Teenagers .

The itinerary for the next day all comes together as planned.

I get everyone where they’re supposed to be, nobody is late, and I feel like Mom of the Year.

Except, I’m not. I successfully carpooled two teenagers for one morning.

Millions of moms around the world manage that on a daily basis without patting themselves on the back.

Still, I pat myself on the back, just a little.

Natalie and I sit side-by-side in the stands behind home plate as Dylan pitches the bottom of the seventh to retain their lead.

The game’s been a real nail-biter, with the score ping-ponging back and forth and neither team ever more than one run ahead of the other.

I don’t know if my mama’s heart can take much more of this anxiety.

When the final batter steps up to the plate, I cross my fingers.

No slider, no slider, no slider. Has anyone besides me noticed that so far today, he’s given up four hits off that pitch?

Natalie looks up from the page of her spiral notebook that she turned into a makeshift score sheet and mutters, “For God’s sake, Dylan. No fucking sliders.”

I whip my head to look at her.

She crouches her head into her shoulders and grimaces. “Sorry?”

I just laugh. “Whatever happened to the new pitching coach the school was supposed to hire, right?”

She laughs with me and goes back to monitoring the play. Which, blessedly, ends with the next pitch—a fastball—and a pop fly for the final out. I heave a huge sigh of relief. Our team’s next and final game isn’t for a week. Plenty of time for my heart rate to stabilize—I hope.

Natalie and I hover behind the dugout and wait for Dylan to emerge.

He’s sweaty, and grimy, and his uniform is going to need more than one wash.

In other words, typical. He sees us and gives us a thumbs up sign.

Whether it’s for the win, acknowledging our presence, or some other reason, is anyone’s guess.

I only want to know how long it’ll be until he’s ready for a ride.

Before I have a chance to ask, Natalie beats me to the punch.

“Dude, you ready or do you need to do your nails?”

He flips her off. Then, he looks at me and yells to give him ten minutes.

I want to scold him for the rude gesture, but Natalie’s roaring with laughter. I let it go . . . this time . . . and give him a thumbs up. “Just meet us at the car,” I shout as we take off in that direction.

Our trip across the parking lot is tricky, dodging students and parents who didn’t wait around after the game, and making sure neither of us end up as someone’s hood ornament. When we’re close, I pull out my key fob and beep it to unlock the car.

I wait near the trunk before getting in, taking in all the fresh air I can before my boy comes and stinks us out. Natalie waits with me, but she’s digging her toe into the dirt and swiping glances my way.

“Something you need to talk about?”

She heaves a breath, much like the ones I needed in the last couple of hours to lower my anxiety.

“I know it’s not part of the plan, but could we stop at the, um, drugstore before you take me home?”

I look into her face, her expression hesitant and her skin a little pale, despite the past couple of hours sitting in full sun. “Honey, are you feeling all right?” I put the back of my hand to her forehead, but she’s not feverish.

“I’m not sick. Exactly. I just . . . I need .

. .” She looks like she wants to evaporate where she stands.

I hold back a smile, because teenage girls should be able to talk openly about the products they need, but too many don’t.

And ones who only have a father or a grandmother to help them?

I imagine the statistics take a nosedive.

I move closer and rub her back. “It’s right on the way. Not a problem.”

She looks up at me with gratitude shining from her eyes. “And Dylan?—”

“Doesn’t need to know why we’re stopping.”

“Thank you, Ms. Sloan.”

“Oh, honey. I think we just reached that stage of our relationship that, unless we’re at school, you should probably call me Palmer.”

Twenty minutes later, I park at the pharmacy nearest Natalie’s neighborhood. She and I get out, but when Dylan unlatches his door to step out, I stop him with a, “Nope, not this time. Wait in the car and we’ll be quick.”

“But there’s something I need.”

“Oh, yeah? What is it? I can pick it up while we’re in there.”

He grins. “Condoms. There’s a party at the levee and?—”

He’s baiting me. I know he is. Right? Lord help me.

“Back in the car.”

And laughing, he slams himself into the back seat. Where he can stew in his stink until we finish and come back out.

But I’ll be checking all his drawers when we get home.

And I would have, except Alejandro calls as we walk in the door. I hurry Dylan into the shower because I’d like to avoid what’s sure to be a confrontation in front of my son. If I were a little more desperate, I’d change my number. I’m not quite there yet.

Or I could simply not answer the phone. But apparently, I’m not that hard-hearted. I’m getting closer by the day.

Thankfully, this conversation is short and sweet. Alejandro tries cajoling me into sending Dylan to him for a month during his summer break, and then shortens it to a week when he sees I’m not budging. I end the call by hanging up and then turning off my ringer.

I’m getting closer still.

When Alejandro calls early Sunday morning, I’m still groggy from sleep, standing at the kitchen counter and waiting for my first cup of coffee to finish dripping into the mug. I yank my phone off the charger and stomp into the living room where there’s room to pace.

“Alejandro, I swear, if this is one more call to threaten me about taking my son, I will call the cops and sue you for harassment.”

“Now, mija?—”

“I am not your fucking mija! Your son is not my husband, and you will never, not ever, get your hands on Dylan. I hope this is clear. I want you to stop calling me.”

“Girl, stop with your yelling and cussing. Alejandro, my son, is his father. You have not married another man, and I think this is because you are waiting for him to come back to you. He will be here soon, closer, and he wants to see his son. He wants to be a family again, and he has every?—”

“He has nothing ! Anything he had, at any time of his life—he gave that up. Threw it away for the seven pieces of silver he bilked from his investors. From his friends , Alejandro!

“Have you forgotten how ashamed we were to be seen in public? How the feds treated us? How hard it’s been to rebuild our lives? Now he thinks— you think—he has rights, and it’s all so far beyond the realm of reality, it’s laughable.”

I do laugh. It’s mirthless and deranged, and barely hides my alarm. Because what if my words are only rooted in bravado?

But the man who wants me to consider him a father isn’t done threatening me yet.

“You will see,” he grinds out. “I have the money. I have the power. And you have nothing . . . mija.”

“Oh, Alejandro, that’s where you’re wrong. I have Dylan.” My voice is cold hard steel. Because those words are true. And my son isn’t going anywhere. Without waiting for a rebuttal, further threats, or empty pleas, I press the button to disconnect our call. It’s time to contact an attorney.

A quiet snuffling sound comes from the hallway.

When I turn, my heart—battle-ready only a moment ago—shatters. Furious, aching tears come for the first time and sting my eyes.

Dylan is standing there, barefoot in Christmas pajama pants tied at the waist, his hair sleep-tousled, eyes fierce, and tears of absolute rage streaming down his cheeks. I stretch out my arms and he steps closer to engulf me in a hug.

“Are you okay?” he asks, and it’s as though he grew up in the past twelve hours and now considers himself the man of the house and my protector.

I nod into his shoulder. “I am. How long have you been standing there?”

But it’s obvious by the furious emotion on his face. My anger builds again. It’s one thing for Alejandro to play the fucking godfather and order me around. I’m a big girl and have been dealing with him for years.

I won’t let his bullshit affect my son.

Dylan steps back, his posture stiff, rigid, and his hands curl into fists at his sides.

“Why won’t he leave us alone? I don’t have to go there, do I? I won’t.”

My man-child is trying so hard to be fearless and brave, but there’s still a little boy in him who must be scared.

I control my emotion, keeping my voice neutral but firm. “What did I tell him?”

He takes a deep breath and lets it out. “You said no.”

Well, that’s the short of it, but yeah. I nod and swipe at my face with both hands. I am so tired of this fight.

“Yeah. I said no.” Dylan audibly sighs, and slumps against the wall.

The phone rings again, and fuck him! The anger I tamped down for the sake of my son erupts into fiery hot temper. I take a step away from Dylan and turn my back to him. This is done. I’m over it. I’m not playing Alejandro’s game any longer.

I let loose my fury, pick up the phone, and yell in a thick voice, “Get it through your dense head, you fucking asshole. You can’t have my son!”

A voice shouts back from the phone, just as I throw it into the couch.

“The fuck’s going on, Palmer Girl?”

No, no, no! I dive into the cushions and slam the device back to my ear.

“Murph?” I yell in rising panic. But he doesn’t hear.

The call is gone.