Third Base (The Boys of Summer, #1)(42)

My mom sighs dramatically and Shea snuggles into my side. “Well, I just don’t know what I’m going to do Ethan. I wanted to take Shea to the park today and thought we could stop and get some ice cream, but if she’s lost –”

“Here I is!” she yells as she throws the covers up and away from her. My mom jumps in surprise and covers her mouth, causing Shea to laugh. Her blonde hair is a mess, and she has to use two hands to push it out of her face.

“Oh my goodness, Grammie thought she lost you.” My mom pretends to pout, and that clearly upsets Shea. Without hesitation, she’s crawling into my mom’s arms, patting her face and saying, “no, no, no, Grammie.” I think Shea is one of the best things that has happened to us, which is saying a lot because we have a great family.

“What time do you have to be at the field?”

I don’t know why, but I look at the clock that has always sat on my nightstand. Even today, my room is the same with my dark blue walls, oak desk and shelves that hold all of my trophies. The last time I was home I offered to clean it out, box up my stuff and put it in the garage, but my parents said no. They said this would always be my room. Shana’s was the same too, until she had Shea, and then it quickly became a nursery.

“No later than three,” I say as I sit up, my comforter falling away and exposing my chest. Shea laughs and says to my mom loudly, “Unc nakie.”

“Yes he is. Maybe we should leave so Unc can get dressed.” My mom picks up Shea, much to Shea’s displeasure. She screams, piercing our eardrums and reaches for me. My mom’s a pro though and doesn’t let Shea’s little tantrum bother her.

“I’ll be out in a minute,” I tell them both. As soon as my mom closes my door, I’m reaching for my phone. I know I shouldn’t care if she’s texted, but I do. When I press the home screen, it’s only Sarah’s name that displays. She’ll be at the game tonight, sitting behind home plate with my parents, Shana and Shea. And after the game I’ll be going to her place for an adult style sleepover where neither of us has to get up and go home in the middle of the night or worry about a three-year old barging in once the sun is up.

I shower quickly before dressing and heading downstairs for breakfast. Shea is sitting at the table, in her booster seat, picking at her pancakes. Her hair, while still messy, is now sticking to the side of her face with syrup. I sit down next to her, but far enough away that her hands can’t touch me, and dish up a plate of food. Aside from the pancakes, there are eggs, bacon, and hash browns, which on the West Coast are shoe string potatoes cooked together. This is how I prefer my hash browns. Not like how they’re cooked in New England.

My mom doesn’t always cook like this either, and right now I’m very grateful. There’s nothing better than starting your day off right with a home cooked breakfast.

“How’s your friend?” my mom asks, as she sits down at the table with a cup of coffee. She sips it cautiously before setting her mug down on the table. I set my fork down and swallow what I have in my mouth.

“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “Things are difficult, I guess.”

“What do you mean, you guess?”

I pour myself some orange juice and down my glass before refilling it. “I got mad at her last week for reading one of the blogs that’s always posting gossip and rumors. Early on, when she and I started talking, she mentioned some of the rumors and I was defensive.”

“Rightly so,” my mom throws in for good measure.

“Stone has me taking a media class, which is more like a chapter in their textbook because I only have to do it for two weeks, but it’s on the same campus where she attends school. I thought I’d surprise her on the first day and when I got to her computer station, she was reading the blog. When I asked her about it later, she became defensive, saying journalists stick together and started going on about freedom of speech.”

“Is that what she’s studying?”

“Yeah.”

“So she chose to follow the path that many journalists have carved out. They’re all about protecting their sources, their voice, and their rights to freedom of speech.”

I lean back in the chair and fiddle with my fork. “I’m all for freedom of speech, but when it’s lies to sell your product, in this case a high traffic blog that reports crap, I can’t support that. I’ve told her as much too.”

My mom rests her hands together on the table, but doesn’t say anything. Even as I tell the story, I’m not sure it makes any sense. Everything that went down didn’t need to. I think about calling her, but I’m not sure I have anything to say right now. Once this road trip is over, I’ll see her and can honestly say I don’t know if I’ll talk to her. Those thoughts actually hurt. It also hurts that she hasn’t reached out to me to apologize. Hell, maybe I’m the one who needs to grovel.

“I think it was a fair request.”

“I thought so.”

“You like her though?”

I nod and pick my fork up. I hate to admit that I like Daisy, but the truth is I do. I could see myself with her in the future. None of that matters now though.

“Maybe she’ll come around,” mom says as she stands and starts clearing the table.

“Maybe I’ll hit for the cycle.”