Page 48 of The Curveball
The ideaof breathing fresh air again is too tempting to pass up, but as I go to type an acceptance, another text comes in.
This time, my face tightens from nerves.
Auntie C:WREN FOX WE HAVE WORDS TO SPEAK. TROPICAL CAFÉ IN AN HOUR. No excuses!
I swallowthe lump in my throat as a second text rolls in.
Auntie C:Also, I love you.
All caps.This isn’t good. I’m forced to text Skye a raincheck. Then with slow movements, I find the key to Griffin’s third car. I pen a quick note, telling him where I’ve gone, with a sincere thank you for his help the last few days because this is the day my life will end.
* * *
I knowthe second I walk into the tropical smoothie shop I should turn right back around. Cleo is sitting at a table, facing the door with a scowl, with her cell phone screen pointed at the entrance. I curse under my breath when I realize my mother’s face is on the screen.
Fingering the strap of my purse, I lift my chin and slowly make my way to the table. My brothers have Cleo’s olive complexion, where I have my mom’s auburn Scandinavian look. Cleo is tall where my mom is short. She has dark hair, and my mother has a beautiful, soft, strawberry tint to her hair. They’re opposites in stature, but similar in temperament.
Most critical to this moment is these two women are identical twins when it comes to the kids they raised, and how they react to, let’s say, some huge life-changing event, like getting into an accident and moving in with a professional baseball player.
Guilt. Third-degree questioning. And probably a whole heap of mothering the knot on my head.
“Hi, Auntie.” I paste a huge smile on my face and give Cleo’s narrow shoulders a tight squeeze. “How’s Mateo?”
“Working,” she says, lips tight. “Or he’d be here glaring at you right along with us.”
Cleo’s boyfriend is a nice man. Hard worker, grandfatherly to my nephews. He’s a good addition to the family, but he’s at least six-four, and imposing when he glares. I’m glad he’s working.
“Hi, Mom,” I say brightly, as if I’m not entering the snake pit. I give the screen a wave. “How is it going in Cali? Is the case going to be finished soon?”
“It’s going fine.”
Oh. She has her mom voice. Stiff. Terse.
“Wren,” my mom says. There is a long pause. Then, like their brains are connected, Cleo and my mother start in on me at the same time.
“What in the world happened?”
“Why are you not in your apartment?”
“. . . drunk driving!”
“. . . pictures on the internet!”
“. . . coming to live with me.”
“. . . brain damage, or any broken bones?”
“. . . had to hear from your father.Your father.”
“I think we should sue this ball player,” Cleo says in a huff.
I’ve hit my limit. “Both of you stop.” With a long breath through my nose, I rest a hand on Cleo’s, and bounce my gaze between the phone and my aunt. “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t call you. I’m especially sorry you had to hear it from . . . from Dad. He has weird connections and finds out everything.”
“True.” Cleo says, still frowning, but I love how she can’t help but interject agreements or disagreements.
“But last I checked I’m twenty-nine years old,” I go on. “I can handle a fender bender on my own.”
“Fender bender?” Cleo pouts. “I saw the words drunk driving in there.”