The Golden Couple(47)

Marissa turns to Carrie. “Is that true? Did Bennett sit out last week?”

Dawn stays twisted around, clearly more interested in the scene behind her than the one playing out on the field.

“Uh, I think so,” Carrie says softly, ducking her head.

Marissa’s stomach clenches as she recalls the conversation with Bennett after his last game: I got on base twice, he’d said, and Matthew had congratulated him and tousled his hair.

Why would Bennett lie? Is he being bullied again, or is Coach Santo punishing Bennett because he did something wrong?

With Dawn’s gaze fixed upon her, Marissa tries to hide her distress.

“I’m sure it’s no big deal,” Carrie says, patting Marissa gently on the knee. “He probably just isn’t feeling well. I think a little bug is going around.”

“Yeah, that’s probably it,” Marissa says, grateful for the excuse Carrie has lobbed her.

For the rest of the game, Marissa tries to catch Bennett’s eye, but he’s so focused on the field that he never turns around. Or at least he’s pretending to be. She’s so tense that when her cell phone gently buzzes with a text, Marissa flinches, as if the sound were a gunshot.

She hopes it’s from Matthew. But she doesn’t want to pull out her phone here, with the other parents so close-by, in case the message is from the wrong man.

She cheers along with the crowd when Lance hits a triple, and she groans softly when another boy overthrows the ball to the catcher, letting in a run, but her reactions are a beat off, and her mind is consumed by what she should do when the game ends. She’ll talk to Bennett first, then call Coach Santo tonight or tomorrow, she decides.

Bennett isn’t a natural athlete, something all the private coaching and encouragement in the world can’t make up for. But he possesses something more rare and, in Marissa’s eyes, far more valuable. Once, during a baseball game, a player on Bennett’s team hit a grand slam during the final inning, winning the game. While all the other boys on his team ran toward each other, whooping, Bennett walked up to the pitcher of the opposing team, who was crying, and tried to comfort him.

Bennett’s tender heart is perhaps his greatest gift. Now, as Marissa stares at her son’s thin shoulders and slightly bowed head, hers aches for him.

She helps Bennett collect his things after the game, then, as they walk to the car, Bennett crouches down and peers into the grass.

“What is it?”

Bennett points. “A honeybee.”

“Oh, I see it now.” Marissa carefully steps over it.

Bennett remains in a squat, watching the insect.

“Come on, sweetie.” The temperature has dipped in concert with the sun, and she’s eager to talk to Bennett.

“It shouldn’t be out here alone.”

“What do you mean?”

“Honeybees cluster around the queen in their hives in the cold weather. That way they stay warm.”

“Why do you think this one is out?”

Bennett shakes his head. “He must be confused. He left the hive too early.”

“Maybe if we leave him here, he’ll find his way back.”

Bennett looks around, at the wide-open grounds, clearly taking in that no beehive is nearby.

“Do you want to bring him home with us?” Marissa doesn’t like insects, but she could use her portable coffee mug to contain it, if that’s what it takes.

Bennett merely stands up. “No. I think we should leave him. He doesn’t belong inside.”

Bennett sighs heavily, and Marissa wraps an arm around him as they continue walking. At the car, Marissa pops the trunk so he can put his baseball bag and backpack away. He buckles himself into the back seat—he still uses a booster, since he’s small for his age—and Marissa turns off the radio, giving Bennett a chance to start the conversation.

As she winds through the streets toward home, she keeps glancing in the rearview mirror at Bennett, who is picking around the raisins from his bag of trail mix to get at the pretzels and M&M’s. He has taken off his baseball cap, and his hair is sticking up in the back.

A parenting book Marissa once read suggested a car ride as an ideal time to have difficult talks with boys, claiming that they feel less vulnerable opening up when they can avoid direct eye contact.

She asks as casually as she can, “So … you want to tell me why you didn’t play today, sweetie?”

“My stomach hurt.” Bennett pops another M&M’s in his mouth.

“Seems like it’s better now,” she replies gently as she turns onto Wisconsin Avenue.

“Um, yeah…”

“And last week?”

Bennett doesn’t answer.

“Jacob’s mom says you didn’t play then either.”

“I hope the honeybee is okay.”

“I hope so, too.” Marissa lets the baseball games drop for now.

When they get home, Bennett runs up to his room to feed Sam, his gecko. He desperately wants a dog, but Matthew is allergic, so the little green creature is the only pet in the house. Marissa takes tortillas, a bell pepper, cheddar cheese, and cooked chicken out of the refrigerator to assemble quesadillas, then pulls out her phone. She has three texts: The first is from her mom—who has recently discovered emojis—and its four lines are filled with hearts, kisses, flowers, and a random broccoli floret. The next is from Polly, asking if they can talk. And the third comes from Matthew, telling her that he’ll be out late with his client.