Page 51 of The Curveball
“And have some douche get my ma’s cookies when I can do the same thing? I think not.”
“That word.” She shakes her head. “Well, who says it’d be a D-word anyway?”
I snort. D-word. Anything rougher than ‘darn’ is practically the equivalent of the F-bomb to my mom.
“It could be a nice young lady who doesn’t let social constraints dictate what jobs she does,” she tells me, jabbing her finger against my shoulder. “There are a lot of lady plumbers.”
“Very true.” I wash my hands in the newly working sink, scanning the faucet for leaks. “Looks good, Mom.”
She squeezes my arm. “Thanks, baby.”
My mom wastes no time before handing me a large Ziploc bag filled with her double chocolate chip cookies. The woman can bake. I’m not biased. She literally was raised by a baker, then of course she co-foundedLa Crema Biscottiwith her sister-in-law.
With a family of bakers, I’ve become a bit of a diva when it comes to cookies. Giana Marks makes the best. I know she misses spending the days at the bakery, but Marti is doing a great job managing, and after my mom’s cancer spread to her joints, she needed too many surgeries.
Standing for so long was too much, but the surgeries helped with the remission, so positives.
To be honest, I’m not that positive in this realm. I hide it well, true, but I’m scared out of my mind when it comes to my mom.
Since her surgeries, I’ve felt like I’m walking too close to a sharp edge. One blow will tip me over. I’ve always taken care of my mom. I’ve looked over her since I became the man of the house at a whopping six-years-old. I sat with her during treatments, gritting my teeth through my aversion to hospitals. If I was at an away series, I’d make sure someone was with her, but I’d always FaceTime.
With cancer, I can’t fix it if it rears its ugly head again.
I don’t come to repair the sinks for the cookies. Tasty as they are, I come because I don’t want to waste a moment.
“Griff.”
“Yeah?” I snap a smile on my face, forcing the dreary thoughts out of my head.
“You okay? You look peaked. Sleeping enough? I’ve told you, even if you’re not in the season, you need your rest, baby.”
I laugh and wrap her petite five-foot-even body in my big, ape arms. “I’m good, Ma.”
She scratches my back a few times, then pulls away as I gather my dad’s old toolkit.
“So, are you going to tell me about Marci Grey?” My mom flicks my ear for no good reason. “You best be showing her the gentleman I raised, kid. Do we really get to meet her at the gathering?”
My mom always calls our dinners gatherings since the house is packed. It is a little like sheep being corralled.
“Have more faith in your raisin’, Ma.” I lock the box and stuff it in a dusty canvas sack I used to carry everything inside. “I’m entirely respectable, and yes, you get to meet her.”
“Really!” My mom’s eyes go wide. I might as well have told her I singlehandedly won the World Series.
“Yep.”
“You’ll get the details on what’s happening in book two for me, right?”
“I will not.”
“Griffin Sean Marks!”
“Giana Sofia Marks!” My mom glares at me. I laugh. Shouting full names is what we used to do when I was growing up since we have the same initials. We thought we were hilarious. I squeeze her against my side again. “I’m not going to give up Wren’s hard work, but meet her, you shall. I bet it’d make her feel all toasty inside to meet a fan.”
“She likes lasagna?”
I’m pleased to know this answer. “She does. We both have an overly active pasta craving.”
“Good. I love her ten times more already.” My mom beams up at me. “Be sure to invite her people too.”