“Did you say Lucca?” I ask, hopeful that my hearing has suddenly decided to go at the ripe ol’ age of twenty-eight.
“Uh-huh,” he says. “He is my very favorite Red Tail and my Little League mentor. I want Lucca. And you got him to come to our soccer practice. You can do this, too.”
I’ve never been a lucky sort of person. Skilled, hardworking, willing to experiment with trial and error—yep. Butlucky? No way.
So, of course he wants Saint Lucca at his party.
I slideWyatt’s backpack onto his shoulders and pat him onthe back, right on the dancing banana with a face on that pack. “All set,” I tell him. We’ve got four minutes until his bus arrives.
“When Lucca comes to my party, I’m going to make him his very own banana cream pie, ’cuz that guy is gonna love banana cream pie, I bet.”
I clear my throat, and Wyatt turns on his heels to face me. “That would be nice,” I say. “You know, bud, Lucca Cruz is a really busy guy. He’s got practice and games and?—”
With his lips in a flat line, Wyatt gives me a head shake. “Red Tails can’t practice all day long. They’d bust their ankles. And they’re really hungry after practice, so he’ll be all ready for pie.”
I bite my inner cheek and crouch down, looking into Wyatt’s face. “I guess that’s true. But buddy, I don’t even have his number.” I shrug. “I don’t know how to contact him.”
He sets a comforting hand on my shoulder. “You’ll figure it out.” Wyatt sighs, like this is a mere speed bump on his road to partying with Lucca. “You got him to the soccer fields. You can get him to my party. I know it. You’re Aunt Maggie.”
Oh boy. I really wish he’d stop saying that. “Do you know Callum Whitaker, number ten? He’s areallynice guy. I have his number. He’s thecaptainof the Red Tails. He scored in that game you?—”
“See?” Wyatt beams. “You have his friend’s number. He’ll give you Lucca’s.”
“But Wyatt, sometimes professional players don’t like their phone numbers given out.”
He trots over to the front door. “Lucca and I are friends. He won’t mind.”
Our three-minute wait is long gone. Wyatt opens the door, and the kindergarten bus is already waiting outside our house.
I follow him out. “Have a good day, sweetie,” I say, pulling him in for a hug.
His little arms wind around my neck, and he plants a semi-sticky kiss on my cheek. His toast with honey is the gift that keeps on giving. With both hands on my shoulders, he pulls back to look at me. He’s missing one tooth on the bottom row, and somehow that little gap makes him look older. My throat aches and tightens with the thought.
“You’ve got this, Aunt Maggie. I know you do.” He nods like he is my own personal cheerleader, then takes off for the bus before his driver can honk.
I stand on the porch of my parents’ home and wave goodbye to Wyatt, who happily waves back.
I turn for the open door to see Dad watching us.
“Did Wyatt get off?” Dad’s flannel shirt is untucked, its tails lying flat over his gray sweatpants. He’s got a cup of coffee in one hand, and his gray hair is standing straight up on one side.
“Yep, he’s off.” I nod toward his mug. “Didn’t your doctor tell you to switch to herbal tea?”
“He did. But I already had a bar of soap this morning. So, I figured I’m all set.”
I smirk and hold my hand out for the mug. Dad takes one more swig before relinquishing it to me.
“Our boy’s growing up,” he says.
My heart jolts again. “He is. How can a person be so small and so big all at once?”
“When you raise somebody, they always seem bigger and older than they should.” Dad wraps one arm around me. He’s still the strong, brave father that kept me safe as a little girl—and yet he’s not. Maybe when you’re raised by somebody, they seem to become smaller than they should be.
“We’ve all cared for Wyatt.” I swallow. “I know I’m not his mom.”
Dad doesn’t answer right away. He just presses a kiss to my temple. “Your sister and your nephew are lucky to have you.”
I lean into his hold. “And you.”
