It’s probably smart to think of us that way. A team. It’s platonic, and friendly. Works within the rules I’ve mentally set for myself.
I’m good at teams. I don’t want to sleep with my teammates. So, maybe that will help me curb this nagging fantasy about sleeping with Lindsey.
“It’s ready,” she says, and I glance over my shoulder to catch her pulling her sweatshirt over her head. She’s wearing a black tank top underneath, and her skin is so smooth. The curve of her shoulders guides my gaze to her collarbones, then lower to the crests of her full breasts. I stop at the hard peaks poking through the tight black fabric.
Shit.
“Thank you,” I say, clearing my throat and turning my focus back to my child. I fold up the dirty diaper and snap Holly’s onesie back together. I’m going to need to get one of those diaper genie things. I think the grocery store manager is going to ban me from taking entire stacks of plastic bags every time I purchase something, which is how I’ve been getting by so far. It’s the best I’ve got for now, though, so I stuff the soiled diaper in one of the bags, then twist it and toss it in the trash.
“We managed to get everything inside before the sun set. Are you sure you don’t need to go to the stadium tonight?” Lindsey takes over holding Holly and feeding her while I wash my hands. I fish my phone from my sweatpants pocket to check the game status, and when I see the cancelled alert, I exhale and flip the screen to show Lindsey.
“The only time I’m happy about a rainout,” I say through a laugh.
I wasn’t starting tonight, so showing up was optional. It’s why we had to rush this move, though. My next few weekendsare taken up by games and travel, and I don’t want Lindsey to do all the heavy lifting on her own. I was still carrying this nagging feeling that I should show up for the game regardless, to put in face time. I get more starts than any other infielder, yet I’m still not getting enough to produce the right kind of numbers. If I want to start next season in Texas rather than in minor-league ball, I need to get as many plate appearances as I can.
But if nobody is there, then I’m not missing out. And that means I can give my mind over to the present completely, and right back to the various sins I keep thinking about committing.
“Pizza?” I swirl a flyer around on the kitchen island, some coupon sheet I picked up along with the mailbox key at the post office.
“Pizza!” The boys race between Lindsey, Holly, and me on their way to the stairs. My eyes go to the floor and the shoe-shaped mud prints that dot their path. I snicker.
“I’ll buy,” Lindsey says, her gaze on the same messy floor. She sets Holly in her carrier, then sighs as she moves toward the sink. Before she can run one of the dish cloths under the water, I graze her wrist with my fingers.
“I’ll clean when they sleep. If you do that now, they’re just going to run through and do it again.” I know that’s what I would have done when I was their age. Of course, there was no one around to clean up after me most of the time. I had to tidy up myself unless I wanted to live with dirty floors. Dirty everything, honestly.
Lindsey nods.
“Now see, living with you is going to be good for me. Maybe I’ll stop spinning my wheels and making the same dumb decisions over and over again.” Her laugh falls out sporadically, then suddenly halts when our eyes meet. “I mean, doing things like cleaning before the boys make another mess. Not making mistakes like you and me?—”
I hold up my hand before she says another word, which would only the weird vibe stronger.
“I got it.”
Believe me. I got it.
There’s one pizza place in Sweetwater, and thankfully, it’s decent. By the time the pies arrive, Lindsey has convinced her boys to take their baths and put on pajamas. They fall asleep about twenty minutes after stuffing down two slices apiece, and I’m pretty exhausted myself, having polished off half a pizza on my own.
I groan as I shovel Deacon onto one arm, then grunt when I lift his brother with the other.
“Are you trying to show off?” Lindsey says through a tired, half-hearted smile.
“By throwing my back out lifting two gremlins? No. But I’d like to make sure these two stay asleep, and I was thinking about watching a movie, so I’m willing to chance it.”
“Movie?” Deacon says, cracking open a sleepy eye while rubbing the other with his fist.
“No movies for you. You two have a big day tomorrow.” Deacon’s mouth contorts into a goofy smile just before his head falls back to my shoulder. His brother missed the whole conversation—thank God!
Tomorrow is the boys’ birthday. They turn four officially. Lindsey uses that word—officially—to spite her ex, who threw the boys a big party at a fancy resort. “That party doesn’t get to be the official one,” she keeps saying. I tend to agree. Mostly because I don’t think her ex deserves any credit. I’ve had oneconversation with him, but it was enough to paint a pretty vivid picture. How a confident, beautiful woman like Lindsey ended up with a narcissistic prick like that blows my mind. I guess his losing her is the universe’s way of self-correcting.
I tuck the boys in, and they immediately snuggle beneath their blankets, pulling them over their heads. I smile at the baseball print on the fabric.Maybe I’ll get to coach them a little this summer.
I shut their door softly and tiptoe into my room, where Holly is asleep in a crib in the corner. There’s a small den that branches off my room. I tried to give Lindsey the primary bedroom, but she insisted I take it to share with Holly. She also hinted that it felt awkward to work for me but live in the big room. She has no idea the places I’ve lived. I could get comfortable in the shed.
But this room, and this house, even though it’s old, is nice. It feels right. And it makes my heart happy for Holly to be in a place like this. If I can clear out the old bookshelves and broken roll-top desk that the previous owner left in the den, it will make a nice transition space as she gets older. She’s already aged so much. I’ve only had her for a little more than a month, and she’s grown and changed in so many spectacular ways. I feel as though I need to document every single day with her. Every smile. I touch her nose, and she crinkles it without waking.
“There’s something about a girl dad.” Lindsey’s whisper startles me, but I somehow don’t jump in place. My pulse picks up, though.
“Girl dad,” I repeat, checking the volume on the baby monitor, then turning to face Lindsey. She’s leaning inside the doorway, the same black tank top she’s worn all day still glued to her body but rolled up just enough at the hem to expose her belly button. She’s wearing a giant pair of sweatpants that she’s rolled at the top, and her tiny feet peek out in bright white socks.
