He’s sitting in the driver’s seat, staring off into the distance when I approach.
I can’t help myself. The thoughts of Greyson meeting Henry Cavill—the dog, not the actor—keep rolling through my head, so once we’re back on the road I ask, “Do you have any pets?”
Chapter 9
Greyson
Baseball was my first passion.
~ Robert C. Merton
And Mia…
That’s what Tori said. I heard it loud and clear.
Ever since the Army, I notice everything—footsteps, breath shifts, the way someone hesitates before finishing a sentence. My mom used to call me “an observer.” I’ve found if you stay quiet long enough, you catch things most people miss because they’re too busy filling the silence.
Tori did say Mia’s name. And Hallie cut Tori off before she could finish her sentence. Why?
I stare straight ahead, eyes fixed on the street as we navigate our way back to the station from the elementary school. Hallie sits next to me in the officer’s seat. She glances over at me occasionally, but when I turn to meet her gaze, she pretends she wasn’t looking.
I’m not talking. That’s not unusual. But this time mysilence is by design. I have to figure out why Tori mentioned Mia and why Hallie cut her off.
Mia.
Mia is the new girl on my little league team. She just moved here. Hallie just moved here.
Coincidence? No. The pieces slide together with a quiet, irreversible click.
Mia’s grandma has brought her to practice, with the exception of that first day when Avery was with them. I remember thinking that Avery’s body language didn’t come across as motherly. The idea felt odd at the time. Now, my instinctual observations seem to be adding up.
Will manages the sign-ups, even though I help collect forms. He would know if Mia’s last name is Collins. I usually learn the last names over the first few weeks of practice.
Hallie Collins. Is she married? My gut says no, but I have no reason to think she isn’t. Then again, she might have a child—a seven-year-old daughter—and she’s harboring that secret for some reason.
I steal another look at her while she stares out the windshield. Not that I have to. She looks so similar to the young woman I met all those years ago in Germany.
It’s so obvious now. Mia is Hallie’s mini-me. Full, dark wavy hair. Brown eyes. Even the pert nose and the heart shape of her face. How did I miss it?
Mia is Hallie’s daughter—without a doubt.
Everything snaps into focus. Sunlight through the windshield feels sharper. The engine hums too loud. My grip on the steering wheel tightens.
Hallie has a daughter. And I’m her daughter’s coach.
I haven’t answered Hallie’s question: Do you have any pets?
I don’t jump to answer her either, which probably makes me seem aloof—even rude.
Being alone with Hallie today has overwhelmed me, and I’m not a man who is easily overwhelmed. Hallie’s different, though. The idea of her became so significant to me in Afghanistan. Other men in my company had women stateside—wives and girlfriends they left behind. I had the memories of the few unexpected, magical hours we shared together in Munich. The idea of her served as a beacon, a harbor, a reminder that life could someday resume. In my private moments, I’d remember her laughter, her soft smiles, her dreams of possibilities. My whole world seemed to consist of desert, soldiers and Black Hawk helicopters. Hallie’s invisible presence was the snorkel that let me breathe, even when I was submerged in an arid landscape of loss and uncertainty.
And here she is, riding along with me, less than three feet away, oblivious to her impact on my life—unaware of who I am.
I’ll have to tell her at some point. I just don’t know when, or how. Every time I imagine bringing it up, I ask myself what good it will do. None. She might not even remember that night. I tell myself that, but as soon as I think it, I know I’m wrong. Either way, I’m not ready to find out I’ve been the only one carrying that night with me all these years.
“No,” I finally answer her. It’s been so many minutes since she asked her question, her initial expression is one of confusion. “No pets,” I clarify.
“Oh.”
