Hadley & Grace(11)

Her face snaps up, and the milk sloshes out of the glass as her hands fly in front of her.

“What the hell is this?” He holds up a slice of his pizza. It sags from his hand like a limp rag. “I work my ass off so we can have a nice life, a nice home, a goddamn world-class pizza oven, and this is the thanks I get, oven-baked shit?”

Hadley’s heart scatter-fires in her chest as she continues to cower. “I’m sorry,” she stammers.

I should have remembered to buy wood.

I shouldn’t have made pizza.

I should have . . . I should have . . . I should have . . .

He drops the slice back to the pan, then hurls the entire pizza at her as well.

She coils her arms over her head as it smashes into the cabinets behind her.

Beside her, Prince Charles pushes to his feet, and Hadley lunges for him with her free hand, getting hold of his collar as he goes for the pizza, worried he will lap up glass. She tugs him back as her mind continues to spin with regret . . . and confusion. Frank never behaves this way in front of the kids. Only a moment ago, he was worried he’d crossed the line with Skipper.

She looks through her brow at him, then at Skipper, and with a jolt, realizes what’s happened. In the time it took for him to regret blowing up at Mattie because it might have upset Skipper to the time she set the pizza in front of him, he figured it out. Skipper is leaving, and the power he has over Frank is leaving with him. And already, it’s started, the self-control Frank has maintained for over four years gone and his newfound freedom intoxicating.

“I’ve got him,” Mattie says, taking hold of Prince Charles, her voice trembling.

Hadley looks up, and their eyes lock, and Hadley knows, as long as she lives, this moment will never be forgotten, the moment her daughter realized just what a coward she is.

“I’ll make something else,” Hadley manages, her heart hammering so hard the words echo in her ears.

She turns toward the cabinets, terrified of what else Frank might throw. Amazingly, it is Skipper’s voice, small and tight, that breaks in to save her. “Coach, do you know how many games Kershaw pitched this year?” Hadley glances back. Skipper’s face is sheet white and his pupils reduced to pinpoints, but he pushes the words out. “He pitches like all the time.”

Frank’s glare continues to skewer her, and Skipper tugs at his sleeve. “Coach, did you hear me?”

Frank turns. “Yeah, Champ, I heard you. Kershaw? All the time? How much is all the time?”

Hadley nearly whimpers with relief as she turns to fill a pot with water for spaghetti.

As she makes a second meal, Skipper continues to talk, rambling on about the Dodgers’ pitcher and talking in a way Skipper never talks, the words tumbling out. Not all of them make sense, but on and on he goes in a heroic effort to distract Frank, and her heart swells with his gallantry, tears of love mixing with those of her terror and shame.



“I’m going to watch the game,” Frank says, pushing away his empty plate.

The kids skulk off to their rooms, and Hadley sets to work cleaning the kitchen.

When she is done, she packs the car.

She closes the hatch on the final load, then leans against it and runs the plan through her head one more time. When she’s certain she hasn’t forgotten anything, she returns inside and stops outside the home theater. Behind the door, she hears the game playing, and for a long minute, she listens.

Finally, with a deep steeling breath, she steps inside.

Frank sits slumped in the middle recliner of the eight-seat theater. The TV flickers in front of him, the sound muted for a commercial. He looks up through drunk eyes, and she glances at the whiskey in his hand.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hey.” He reaches for her hand.

She takes it and sits beside him. He takes a sip of his drink, then looks at her, deep regret etched on his face. It’s the part of the sickness she has never understood, how genuinely sorry he feels after, like he didn’t mean it at all and has no idea why he acted the way he did. He says it’s because he loves her—as if his fury and devotion are interwoven like raveled poison vines.

He brings her hand to his face and holds it to his cheek, the whiskers thick and rough from the day, and for a long moment, that is how they remain, silent, his eyes closed as he holds her hand against his skin and as she gives him the acceptance and forgiveness he has come to expect.

“I’m going to miss you while you’re gone,” he says finally, opening his eyes and looking at her. He brushes a kiss across her knuckles before letting their hands drop to the armrest between them. “The house is going to be lonely without you.”

“You’ll still have the dog.”

“Great. Me and the prince.”

“You know,” she says, careful to keep her voice even, “I was thinking you might have been right about it being better for us to leave tonight instead of in the morning.”

His eyes squint, looking for a manipulation or some sort of deception, and she lowers her gaze, praying he believes her and doesn’t see the fear that is driving her. “But only if you think it’s a good idea.”

He looks back at the television and turns on the volume, and she sits beside him, silent.

The game comes back on, Astros versus the A’s, the A’s ahead by a dozen runs in the bottom of the eighth.