He nods. “It really is. She’s helped me with every move.”
“She finds a new hairstylist every time you move?” I ask.
He laughs, shaking his head. “No. You’re the first. Most of the time, I just walk into those sports-type places for a quick cut. Since I am hopefully sticking around here for a bit, she wanted me to have—as she stated—‘a real place to go.’”
I grin from ear to ear. “Well, I’m glad she did,” I say as our food is served.
“Me too,” he responds with a sweet expression that I try not to get lost in because I so could.
When we get to Target, he grabs a cart, then motions to me. “Lead the way.”
I grab a pretend sword from my side and pull it out dramatically, pointing in the direction we want to go. “To the dishes!”
Without a second to spare, he responds, “To the dishes!” He leans down and runs with the cart, charging like he’s in a group of fifty and not by himself, racing through a department store.
I stop and place my hands on my knees, laughing harder than I should.
He stops, too, and turns to look at me. “Too much?” he asks with a shrug.
“Nope.” I shake my head. “Never. Nolan would be running right next to you.” I walk up to where he is, and we continue at a normal pace. “My entire life these past seven years has been Nolan. I forget sometimes what it’s like to hang out with adults. But you just jumped right in, going along with my playful moment.”
“You do realize I literally play for a living, right?” His lips tilt up on one side. “I hope I never have to grow up and stop playing—in every aspect of life.”
“Was baseball always your dream?”
“Yep. Ever since I picked up that plastic bat and tee when I was two. I have a picture of me with a pacifier in my mouth, swinging the bat left.”
“Why does swinging left matter?”
“I’m right-handed, but I bat left. Lefty hitters have a slight advantage with right fields being shorter. My dad went with it and never tried to correct me.”
“Is that normal to be right-handed and swing left?”
“It’s not abnormal; there are definitely other players who do the same thing, but most people bat on the same side they throw.”
“Nolan is left-handed.”
“Oh,” he says with a touch of excitement in his voice. “Does he pitch?”
“He’s seven. It’s coach pitch still.” I chuckle. “Slow your roll. You sound like those dads out at the field.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Because it matters.”
I nudge him playfully toward the aisle we should enter and reiterate, “He’s seven.”
We grab everything we need from dishes to silverware to kitchen towels and all things in between.
As we’re checking out, he watches the total stack up. “I have never spent this much money at Target.”
“You’ve also never had to fill a house,” I remind him while I’m still unloading things from the cart.
“Do we really need this?”
He holds up a cheese grater, and I laugh out loud.
“I personally have three because I use it so often and don’t want to wash it, but, hey, you do you, boo.”
He turns to face me. “Did you just call me boo?”
