Page 37 of The Curveball
I grab the first trash bag and haul it through the garage door into the house. It opens into a room beside the laundry room and home gym. I kick off my shoes, drop the bag, then bring in the rest one by one.
With the back of my hand, I wipe a few beads of sweat off my brow and head for the kitchen. Hydrate, shower, Wren. In that order.
I use my shoulder to push through the kitchen door and jump back. Okay, we’re changing the order of things. Wren, hydrate, shower.
Leaning her back to my counter, Wren lifts her gaze to mine when I step into the kitchen. Her thumbnail is under duress between her teeth, and she’s hugging her middle with her other arm like she might vomit any second.
“Wren,” I say, anxiety tightening my throat. “What’s wrong?” In two seconds my hands are on her shoulders. I’m scanning her face, gently brushing my fingertips over the lump on her head. “Where’s Alice?”
“She, um, she had to go pick up her son. He was sick.”
“You’ve been here alone?”
Her eyes narrow at once. “Yes, and I survived. Don’t get after Alice for needing to be a mother.”
A muscle pulses in my jaw. She’s right, obviously. It’s not like I can rant and rave that one of Alice’s boys was sick, but I want to. An undeniable protectiveness over Wren took hold and hasn’t let go.
Convinced she’s not going to break, I take a step back and shove my hands in my pockets. “How are you feeling? You look awesome.” Always compliment when someone knows they probably aren’t looking their best. One of my first lessons from my mom once I started dating. The truth? The bump on her head is turning a sickly black and blue color. “I think the swelling is starting to go down. You woozy? Hungry? Bored? I can order some food if you want.”
“Griffin,” Wren says my name like she’s trying to muffle a laugh. My new favorite way she says my name. “I’m fine.”
“Okay.” I rock on my heels a few times. “I don’t mean this to sound bad, because it’s great that you’re here. I loved coming home and seeing you in my kitchen, so don’t get me wrong, but it was unexpected. Wanted to make sure everything was good.”
Most days I can keep the rambling to a minimum. I can be chill and collected around fans and the team. The unfortunate thing about this entire situation is I’m unable to say the same when I get around Wren. A nervous talker, too much energy to keep contained, a busy brain—I’ve heard it all since I was in kindergarten. All of it spills out the second this woman steps in my path.
I sound like an idiot who isn’t in his thirties, and is, in fact, a hormonal teenager who doesn’t understand what this woman is doing to his body.
I grind my teeth to keep my mouth occupied and try to decipher Wren’s expression. She still looks like she might throw up, but on those full lips is the whisper of a smile. Almost like she might find my busy mouth amusing.
“I don’t mean to invade your space, but—”
“I highly encourage you to invade my space,” I say.
There it is. The real smile. Gentle curves at the corners of her mouth. It’s perfect.
“There’s, well, there’s something I need to talk with you about.”
“Okay.” I hop onto the edge of the countertop, dangling my legs over the side, and face her. “What’s up?”
Wren wrings her fingers together and keeps her eyes trained on the tile. “So, I heard you weren’t having the best day, and I guess . . . well, you’ve been so nice about all this, I wanted to do something to cheer you up. I ordered some cookies for you because I noticed you always bring those for the team. I figured you liked them.”
I follow her finger to the table. A pink box from our family’s bakery is in the center, and I can’t contain my own smile.
“Birdie, you didn’t need to do that.” I slide off the counter and walk over to the table, lifting the lid. Awesome. She got the curveball package. It’s the perfect amount and—I look again at the four massive baseball cookies. In another breath, I toss my head back and laugh. “This is the best!”
Each cookie says a word. Most people would saySorry for the loss, or something dreary. Not my Birdie. As if she knows laughter can chase away the worst storms, she had Marti and Diego write,No crying in baseball.
Perfect.
“Thank you. It’s exactly what I needed,” I say, picking up the ‘no’ cookie. “And I do like this place. I love it. Did you know my family owns this bakery? My mom and myzia, that’s my aunt, started it before I was born. I practically grew up there.”
Wren swallows. “Yeah, I had the, um, pleasure of meeting your cousin.”
Mid-bite, I freeze. In a slow, awkward turn, I face Wren. Cookie still in my mouth, one brow arched, I muffle out, “Birdie?”
I snap off a bite, hurry to swallow, and realize Wren is now incredibly interested in the door of one cabinet.
“Birdie, which cousin did you meet? Diego? Marti? Or was it Alex? That’s Marti’s sixteen-year-old.”