DRAMA NOVEL ONLINE Reminders of Him: Chapter 10
I’m in the dugout pulling the equipment out of the bag when Grady slips his fingers through the chain-link fence, gripping it. “So? Who was she?”
I pretend not to know what he’s talking about. “Who was who?”
“The girl you had in your truck last night.”
Grady’s eyes are bloodshot. It looks like the night shift change is taking a toll on him. “A customer. I was just giving her a ride home.”
Grady’s wife, Whitney, is standing next to him now. At least the rest of the mom brigade isn’t with her, because I can tell immediately by the way she’s looking at me that everyone on the T-ball field is already talking. I can only be confronted by one couple at a time. “Grady said you had a girl in your truck last night.”
I shoot Grady a look, and he holds his hands up helplessly, like his wife yanked the information out of him.
“It was no one,” I repeat. “Just giving a customer a ride home.” I wonder how many times I’m going to have to repeat this today.
“Who was she?” Whitney asks.
“No one you know.”
“We know everyone around here,” Grady says.
“She’s not from here,” I say. I might be lying; I might be telling the truth. I wouldn’t know since I know very little about her. Other than what she tastes like.
“Destin has been working on his swing,” Grady says, changing the subject to his son. “Wait’ll you see what he can do.”
Grady wants to be the envy of all the other fathers. I don’t get it. T-ball is supposed to be fun, but people like him put so much competitiveness into it and ruin the sport.
Two weeks ago, Grady almost got into a fight with the umpire. He probably would have hit him if Roman hadn’t pushed him off the field.
Not sure getting that heated over a T-ball game is a good look for anyone. But he takes his son’s sports very seriously.
Me . . . not so much. Sometimes I wonder if it’s because Diem isn’t my daughter. If she were, would I get angry over a sport that doesn’t even keep score? I don’t know that I could love a biological child more than I love Diem, so I doubt I’d be any different when it comes to their sports. Some of the parents assume that since I played professional football I’d be more competitive. I’ve dealt with competitive coaches my whole life, though. I agreed to coach this team specifically to prevent some competitive asshole from coming in and setting a bad example for Diem.
The kids are supposed to be warming up, but Diem is standing behind home plate shoving T-balls into the pockets of her baseball pants. She’s got two in each pocket, and now she’s trying to shove a third in. Her pants are starting to sag from the weight.
I walk over to her and kneel. “D, you can’t take all the T-balls.”
“They’re dragon eggs,” she says. “I’m going to plant them in my yard and grow baby dragons.”
I toss the balls one at a time to Roman. “That’s not how dragons grow. The momma dragon has to sit on the eggs. You don’t bury them in the yard.”
Diem bends forward to pick up a pebble, and I notice she has two balls stuffed down the back of her shirt. I untuck her shirt, and the balls fall to her feet. I kick them to Roman.
“Did I grow in an egg?” she asks.
“No, D. You’re a human. Humans don’t grow in eggs—we grow in . . .” I stop talking because I was about to say, “We grow in our mother’s bellies,” but I’m always careful to avoid any talk of mothers or fathers around Diem. I don’t want her to start asking me questions I can’t answer.
“What do we grow in?” she asks. “Trees?”
Shit.
I put my hand on Diem’s shoulder and completely ignore her question because I have no idea what Grace or Patrick has told her about how babies are made. This isn’t my wheelhouse. I wasn’t prepared for this conversation.
I yell for all the kids to go to the dugout, and luckily Diem is distracted by one of her friends and walks away from me.
I blow out a breath, relieved the conversation ended where it did.
I dropped Roman off at the bar to spare him a trip to McDonald’s.
And yes, we’re at McDonald’s even though Diem didn’t wear her cleats at all during the game, because she gets her way with me more often than she doesn’t.
Choose your battles, they say. But what happens when you never choose any?
“I don’t want to play T-ball anymore,” Diem says out of the blue. She’s dipping her french fry into honey when she makes that decision. The honey dribbles down her hand.
I try to get her to eat her fries with ketchup because it’s a lot easier to clean, but she wouldn’t be Diem if she didn’t do everything the hardest way possible.
“You don’t like T-ball anymore?”
She shakes her head and licks her wrist.
“That’s fine. But we only have a few more games, and you made a commitment.”
“What’s a commitment?”
“It’s when you agree to do something. You agreed to be a part of the team. If you quit in the middle of the season, your friends will be sad. You think you can make it through the rest of the season?”
“If we can have McDonald’s after all the games.”
I narrow my eyes in her direction. “Why do I feel like I’m getting swindled?”
“What does swindled mean?” she asks.
“It means you’re trying to trick me into getting you McDonald’s.”
Diem grins and eats her last fry. I put all our trash on the tray. I grab her hand to lead her out of the store and remember the honey. Her hands are as sticky as a flytrap. I keep wet wipes in my truck for this very reason.
A couple of minutes later, she’s buckled up in her booster seat and I’m scrubbing her hands and arms with the wet wipe when she says, “When is my mom getting a bigger car?”
“She drives a minivan. How big of a car does she need?”
“Not Nana,” Diem says. “My mom. Skylar said my mom never comes to my T-ball games, and I told her she will when she gets a bigger car.”
I stop wiping her hands. She never brings up her mother. This is twice in one day we’ve brushed the conversation.
I guess she’s getting to that age, but I have no idea what Grace or Patrick has told her about Kenna, and I have absolutely no idea why she’s asking about her mother’s car.
“Who told you your mom needed a bigger car?”
“Nana. She said my mom’s car isn’t big enough and that’s why I live with her and NoNo.”
That’s confusing. I shake my head and throw the wipes in a sack. “I don’t know. Ask your nana.” I close her door and text Grace as I’m circling around to the driver’s side of my truck.
Why does Diem think her mother isn’t in her life because she needs a bigger car?
We’re a few miles away from McDonald’s when Grace calls. I make sure not to answer it on speaker. “Hey. Diem and I are on our way back.” It’s my way of letting Grace know I can’t say much on my end.
Grace sucks in a breath like she’s getting ready for a long explanation to my text. “Okay, so last week, Diem asked me why she doesn’t live with her mother. I didn’t know what to say, so I told her she lives with me because her mother’s car isn’t big enough to fit all of us. It was the first lie I could come up with. I panicked, Ledger.”
“I’d say so.”
“We plan on telling her, but how do you tell a child her mother went to prison? She doesn’t even know what prison is.”
“I’m not judging,” I say. “I just want to make sure we’re on the same page. We should probably come up with a more accurate version of the truth, though.”
“I know. She’s just so young.”
“She’s starting to get curious.”
“I know. Just . . . if she asks again, tell her I’ll explain it to her.”
“I did. Prepare for questions.”
“Great,” she says with a sigh. “How did the game go?”
“Good. She wore the red boots. And got McDonald’s.”
Grace laughs. “You’re a sucker.”
“Yeah. Tell me something new. See you soon.” I end the call and glance into the back seat. Diem’s face is full of concentration.
“What are you thinking, D?”
“I want to be in a movie,” Diem says.
“Oh yeah? You want to be an actress?”
“No, I want to be in a movie.”
“I know. That’s called being an actress.”
“Then, yeah, that’s what I want to be. An actress. I want to be in cartoons.”
I don’t tell her cartoons are just voices and drawings. “I think you’d be a great cartoon actress.”
“I will be. I’m gonna be a horse or a dragon or a mermaid.”
“Or a unicorn,” I suggest.
She grins and looks out her window.
I love her imagination, but she definitely didn’t get it from Scotty. His mind was more concrete than a sidewalk.