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“Everything’s okay, but I wanted you to know that Dad was cleaning leaves off the roof and fell off the ladder. He broke his wrist and bruised a few ribs,” my mom says.

“What?” I practically screech. “I’m coming over.”

“Stop. He’s resting now, and he’s totally fine. I almost didn’t call to tell you because we didn’t want to interrupt your plans for the night.”

Right. My plans for the night because I’m a single woman in her mid-twenties who must be living it up.

And Vanessa gets to be there helping my dad while I’m not even invited over?

I’m irritated, but it’s not just that. I know they still think of me as a little kid. They don’t want to upset me with news like this, but I’m an adult. I can handle it.

“It’s not interrupting when someone’s hurt, Mom,” I say instead. “I’m not a little kid who faints at the sight of blood anymore. I can handle more than you think.”

“I know, sweetheart,” she says softly. “You’re very strong. But there’s nothing you can do right now anyway. I just thought you should know.”

“Okay. Let me know if you need anything. I can pick up prescriptions or help with dinners, whatever you need.” I don’t admit that I don’t actually have Friday night plans. My plan was to relax after a long week—pour a glass of Tito’s, get into my pajamas early, and read a spicy romance novel, but I could scrap that plan to visit my dad.

“We appreciate that but we’re just fine. Jake is picking up dinner and Vanessa is keeping the kiddos quiet so Dad can rest.”

I’ve never felt so left out of my own family, and I get the sinking feeling it’s only going to get worse as wedding plans get underway. “I’m around if I can help.”

“Thanks. We’ll talk soon, okay?”

We hang up, and I have the sudden urge to get my freaking ball back.

What if it was worse than a broken wrist and some bruised ribs? What if we lost him?

That baseball means a lot to me, and I’m not backing down.

I dial Owen’s number, and to my total surprise, he picks up.

“Can’t stay away, can you?” he answers.

“Oh, eat a dick, Owen. I’m coming over to get my ball.”

“Cute, but no you’re not. I’m not even home right now.”

“Why are you being such an asshole about the goddamn ball when you know what it means to me?”

“Vicky, you know why,” he says quietly.

“Because this is some misguided attempt to get me back? It’s not. Going. To. Happen.” I enunciate my words for effect.

“We’ll see. How about this? Come to the wedding as my date and you can have your ball. I’ll make it all up to you, baby.”

I can’t help a snide laugh at that. “Uh, no. I have a date.”

“That twatwaffle Woods? He couldn’t catch a cold last season let alone a football.”

“I’m not with him for his catching ability,” I say. “And he’s more man than you’ll ever be. Especially where it counts.” With those words, I cut the call.

I’m no closer to getting my ball back, and now I’m just feeling alone, frustrated, and angry.

Plus I feel like shit for avoiding Travis today when I shouldn’t have. I just didn’t want to face him in front of his daughter for the first time after we did what we did.

All the frustration seems to crash into me from every angle, and I start to cry.

I don’t even have Mandy to lean on since she’s off having another adventure with Jaxon. I have other friends, but none that know Travis—none that even know his daughter is one of my students, and none that will understand everything going on.

I can’t call my sister when she’s so busy keeping the kiddos quiet while my dad rests, and now I’m worried about him on top of everything else.

I head out to the tiny balcony of the apartment and sit on the single chair that fits out there, trying to breathe in the night air as I fight off the urge to cry.

And then someone starts smoking on the sidewalk below me. The smell of cigarettes wafts up to my nostrils, and that’s the final damn straw.

I can’t even sit on the balcony tonight, apparently. It’s just not my night.

I storm inside and collapse on the couch that isn’t mine in the apartment I’m freeloading at as the heat finally tips over into a raging inferno of ugly sobs.

I hate Owen. I hate that I wasted three years on him. I hate that I pushed my desire for children further down the road. I hate that I banged Travis last night and he left and I made him promise it was just a one-time thing since that’s what I assumed he wanted but it wasn’t at all what I wanted. I hate that I can’t go see my dad. I hate that Owen has my ball. I hate that Owen is going to be at the wedding. I hate that Owen threw all my clothes out the window and there’s still grass on some of them even though I ran everything through Mandy’s washing machine. I hate that I lied to my sister and told her I’m bringing Travis to the wedding. I hate that I haven’t heard back on my application to the district position. I hate that I feel alone and have nowhere to turn.

I allow myself to feel sorry for myself for a while as I ugly cry there on the couch, and I have no idea how long I’m sitting there but I do know my face feels puffy and my eyes are swollen and probably red and I could really use a tissue right about now.

And that’s when there’s a knock at the door.

I sit stock still, determined not to make a sound because nobody should see me like this, and that’s when I hear a voice.

“Hartley! Open up! I know you’re in there. I saw you on your balcony a few minutes ago!”

It’s Travis.

Fuck.

The pounding on my door gets louder, and I don’t even bother to grab a tissue or attempt to clean myself up. We do have neighbors, after all, and this isn’t my apartment to allow assholes like Travis to make all this loud racket.

I storm over to the door and throw it open. “What do you want?” I hiss.

He looks angry, but the moment his eyes focus on me, the anger seems to melt.

He reaches for me, grabbing me into his arms and holding me tightly against him. “Who did this to you?” he demands.

God, if that isn’t the question of the century.

I did this to myself, I suppose. But a single word comes out of my mouth instead. “Owen.”