What a fantastic joke.
I paste a smile on my face and slip out of the storage room. For now, though, my best friend just got his big moment, and he deserves to be celebrated. I refuse to take away from Easton’s good news. I can wallow later. With a big bowl of Mom’s mac salad.
TEN
SHANE
“Your favorite son is here,”I call out as I step into the entryway of my mom’s townhouse.
My voice echoes through the open space. My senses are instantly overloaded with the most delicious smells. Fried chicken and something else savory—maybe roasted vegetables. Oh, I hope she made the carrots with brown sugar and butter. Muffled sounds come from the kitchen, and I can just make out my mom’s form bustling around the stove. The townhouse entryway is slightly angled, so it’s not the easiest to see into the kitchen from here.
I toe off my shoes and walk past the stairs to the kitchen, dropping my bag next to them on the way. I decided last minute I’d just spend the night and head to training in the morning from here. It means an earlier wake-up, but after a day pretending I was okay, I didn’t have the energy to keep up pretenses with Paulie.
Once past the stairs, the space is completely open front-to-back. You walk straight into the dining and kitchen area, where a small peninsula separates the space from the livingroom. There is a set of French doors that lead to a private deck overlooking a small pond. I bought this little Mediterranean-style townhouse with my signing bonus.
My mom tried to refuse, but I had none of it. This was always the first thing I was going to do once I had enough money—get my mom out of our small mobile home. We’d lived in that home since I was born, and there was a reason, even with two jobs, why we’d never upgraded. Any extra money we had went to my baseball—gear, travel leagues, trainers, summer programs. Even with the aid we got, it all adds up fast.
No shade on our mobile home—it gave us a roof, a place to laugh, to dream. People hear “trailer” and picture something run-down, but ours was anything but. Mom kept it spotless, and every upgrade we made, we did together. If my mother taught me anything, it was how to work hard and never stop fighting. We laid down vinyl floors one summer, painted the cabinets a fresh white, swapped out the dated hardware for something a little more flashy, and I even built us a new bathroom vanity. It wasn’t fancy, but it was ours.
Unfortunately, the kids at school didn’t view it the same way. No one ever wanted to hang out one-on-one with “trailer-trash Shane Michaels.” Their words, not mine. I heard it more than once, sometimes from people I thought had my back. There’s a huge bias toward people living in poverty. We’re treated like we’re less-than, like we’re something to be wary of. Like there’s something to catch.
I’m not ashamed of where I come from, but I also can’t put into words the joy and pride it gave me to be able to give this to my mom. As much as she said it was too much, there’s nothing I will ever be able to do that will adequately express how much all her sacrifices mean to me.
I walk toward said woman, but she stills me with a raised palm. “Hot, hot, hot!” she warns as she flips the sizzling chicken thighs she’s cooking.
Her blond waves are piled atop her head, her cheeks rosy from the heat of the kitchen, and she’s got on theBaseball Momapron I gave her when I was younger over her navy sweatsuit. I’d saved up my allowance for months to get that. I still can’t believe my mom even gave me an allowance. We didn’t have money for that, but she insisted all kids should have an allowance. She didn’t want me to feel like I was different from other kids.
Once the thighs are flipped, she grabs a dishtowel to wipe her hands and heads for me. I wrap her in a hug and instantly my day gets a little brighter. Her comforting orange and vanilla bean scent wraps around me like a double hug.
She pulls back, a wide smile stretching across her face and blue eyes sparkling. “I think you’ve gotten even more handsome since the last time I saw you.”
I roll my eyes. “You say that every time I see you. At some point I need to hit peak handsomeness, don’t I?”
Her eyes narrow, and she sweeps her gaze over me—the mother assessment. “How are you doing, Shaney? You’ve lost weight.” She hurries over to the fridge and pulls out a giant plastic Tupperware and shoves it into my arms. Then a spoon magically appears and is thrust in my face.
“Sit and eat.”
I choke on a laugh. “You going to try to make me gain all the weight back in mac salad?”
“You bet I am.” The oven beeps, and she’s back in action.
“What can I do to help?” I put the mac salad on the table.
She spins, one hand still on the handle of the oven, and jabs toward the table. “Sit. Eat.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She cracks the oven, and the smell of broiled sugar hits my nose. She pulls out a tray of carrots, and I cheer. “Yessss! I was hoping for your carrots.”
She wings a blond brow. “It’s like you think I don’t know you at all.”
No one knows me better. Which is why a little while later I have a tower of fried chicken thighs on my plate, my third helping of mac salad, and I lost count of how many carrots. Oh, and I didn’t miss the pile of Revel Bars sitting covered on the counter for dessert. All my favorite things.
I break off a piece of the crispy chicken skin and pop it into my mouth. My eyes slide shut as I groan. “I miss your cooking,” I whine.
Even living as close as I do, it’s hard to find the time to make it home with how grueling Spring Training is. Then I’m off to Portland for six months. It’s not like I don’t know how to cook. I’ve had to cook meals for myself for a long time, but my mom’s got a gift, I swear.
“I made double of everything so you can take some home. I’ll write up instructions on how to reheat it.”
