Lincoln lifts his hands.
“Oh, I like it. The Colts’ colors.” Leighton flashes him a smile.
“Yeah, because the Colts are gonna kick Texas’s butt.”
“Yeah, we are,” Easton says, knocking Lincoln’s elbow.
It’s weird to have this mix—my friends and her and kids I didn’t know until last month—but I like it. It makes me trust the boys a little more, and although I didn’t want them to come at first, I’m glad they did.
Now, how do I get them out of here before bedtime?
Chapter
Eighteen
Hayes
* * *
Baseball doesn’t come up in conversation at dinner, which is a nice change. Sometimes I feel as though all I ever talk about is baseball.
Instead, Leighton tells us about a patient she had in the labor and delivery unit today.
“The baby was crowning, and her mother and the doctor were gushing about this new restaurant on Dearborn and how mouth-watering the steaks were. They were going on and on as this poor woman was pushing. I saw her keep giving them dirty looks and knew she was going to lose her patience. Then she starts yelling at both of them every time she pushes. The baby arrives with no problems, and once she’s resting, she starts crying because she brought her baby into the world hearing his mother yelling.”
“She doesn’t sound nice,” Monroe says.
“She was frustrated. She hadn’t eaten for over eight hours. She was hungry, exhausted, and in pain. It’s understandable.” Leighton smooths Monroe’s hair, giving her a soft smile.
Monroe brings her knees up, resting her feet on the edge of the seat, her palms flat on her thighs, looking at her nails for the millionth time.
“I guess she’s done with that conversation.” Leighton wipes her mouth and puts the napkin on the plate.
Easton points at me. “That’s the restaurant you missed out on the other night. It was so good, right, Deck?” Easton looks from me to Decker.
“It was okay,” he mumbles and buries his head in his plate.
The alarm bells go off in my head. This conversation needs a detour and fast. If Leighton finds out that I missed that dinner, she’ll feel guilty.
“Okay? Rarely do you get a new restaurant that lives up to the hype. Don’t tell my uncle Rome, but they make a better ribeye than him. And the best part was we didn’t have to pay a dime.” Easton continues to tell the story even though no one but Leighton seems interested. “But don’t worry, we’ll beat them next month, and you can join us then. I’ll be more than happy to go back to that place… ouch.” He grabs his leg and glares at Decker.
Leighton turns to me. I’d rather eat a charred ribeye than tell her the truth.
Easton covers Lincoln’s ears. Lincoln doesn’t bother stopping him because Easton’s his new hero. “Deck… man.” He nods at Monroe.
“Monroe, cover your ears for a second?” Leighton asks her, and she does it. “They get the drill.”
Easton lets Lincoln’s ears go, and Lincoln replaces them with his own hands.
I say, “We have this competition with the DICS and?—”
“What are the dicks?” Leighton asks.
I stretch out my sore arm by putting it across the back of her chair. “Drew, Ian, and Camden. The three outfielders. They have this childish competition with us.”
Leighton leans back and crosses her arms and legs. “Tell me more.”
“I knew I liked you,” Easton says, but Leighton puts up her finger.
