Page 32 of The Curveball
But what? I can’t drive. My car is totaled and lost in some tow yard somewhere. I can’t scroll the internet. I can’t stay on my feet for more than five minutes before I get tired and my head burns.
What do I know about Griffin?
He’s talkative, the charmer of the field, friends with everyone. No. Deeper. What do I know about the man?
Griffin loves a good wit. He loves to laugh, and to make others laugh. He has a sweet tooth. How many times have I seen the man slurping on frappuccinos with sprinkles, or chocolate, or a bakery box filled with . . .
Cookies!
Specifically, fromLa Crema Biscotti, a gourmet Italian bakery that actually has baseball themed cookies Griffin always brings for the team before away games.
Yes. I stand and walk the short distance to the chair where Alice left my phone from my reach. The beauty of technology is I don’t really need to look at my phone at all. Using the voice command, I manage to get the number dialing.
“La Crema Biscotti, how can we sweeten your tooth?” A cheery woman answers.
“Hi, yes. This is a little short notice, but I’m wondering if I can get one of your boxes with baseball cookies—”
“The homerun, the dugout, the curveball, or the changeup?”
“Uh, what’s the difference?” She describes the different amounts in each one, and I settle on the curveball box. A set of four baseball sugar cookies.
“Okay, now can I customize them a bit with a word on each one?”
“Sure.”
I give her the words, she snickers a little, and agrees to have them ready in thirty minutes. I don’t know how long it’ll take Griffin to get back, but I have the immediate problem of being unable to pick them up.
“You, uh, you don’t deliver, do you?”
“We sure do, but add another fifteen minutes or so depending on where you are in the metro area.”
I fumble around, looking for the sheet of paper Griffin left for me this morning. Once an irritation that he felt the need to leave emergency numbers and information, but now I’m grateful. The man left the address and his P.O. box in case Alice wanted to help me set up my new temporary mail route, or if I needed to order anything.
He’s a total boy scout with his preparedness, but I’m grateful in the moment.
I spout off the address, and the line goes quiet.
“Wait, up on the hill?” she asks.
“Yeah. Is that okay? It’s at the end of the road, a duplex, but it doesn’t really look like a duplex.”
Another slight pause. Enough of a one to be odd. “Yeah. I know it. Uh, I’ll be the one delivering it, so can I get a name?”
“Wren,” I say.
“Okay, Wren. See you in about forty-five minutes.”
I end the call, and slump into a chair at Griffin’s table. I’m not sure why I’m hanging out on his side of the house, but I have no desire to leave.
Thirty minutes later, I’m lying on the floor of his front room, studying the numerous black and white pictures of his life in the Kings. It’s a collage of his closest teammates, action shots that make him look edible, and the sheer joy in his eyes for his sport.
I’m smiling. At peace. It’s comfortable here, and for once I’m not overanalyzing all the reasons I shouldn’t get comfortable in this place.
My phone buzzes on the carpet next to me. I follow orders and don’t look at the screen, I simply answer.
“Wren.”
Instant regret for answering slams into my face like a sucker punch. I sit up too fast, but ignore the woozy spin in my head. “Gran—Dad.”