back, and I think I’m your granddaughter. We don’t know anything about his family apart from the fact that he was born in Arizona. I don’t know what else to say at this point except that I hope you write back.
-Dana
There. Done. Easy. I was the first person in our family to talk to one of Dad’s relatives. That was monumental. And when he wrote me back and confirmed what I hoped to be true—that he was a normal guy who maybe made some mistakes in his younger life—it would be the best gift ever. Selena wouldn’t even care that I’d had to lie to her.
I made it through the rest of my classes, obsessively checking my phone between periods. I was anxious, but I’d already waited six weeks; I could survive another day. Except good news was so hard to keep. At home, I kept breaking into a grin for no reason. I did it often enough that after dinner, Mom finally commented.
“Okay, what is going on in that head of yours?”
Without prompting, I’d gathered up the plates and was heading to the kitchen. And I couldn’t stop smiling as I did it. “I’m just happy, is all.” Mom came to join me at the sink. I rinsed and she loaded the dishwasher, waiting for a full explanation. I glanced behind us, making sure Dad was out of earshot. He was, but I whispered anyway. “I got Dad the gift to end all gifts for his birthday. Selena could end up on a Wheaties box and I’d still win.”
Mom closed the dishwasher with a hip bump and added her hands to the sink to rinse them. “Tell me, tell me!”
“No way, joy thief. You’ll tell Dad so fast.” Mom was horrible with secrets, especially good ones, and if Dad was concerned, forget it. Selena and I used to clock her, and her fastest spill time was under a minute. She couldn’t hold in good news no matter how hard she tried.
“I promise I won’t say anything.”
Sure she wouldn’t. “Hey, Dad,” I called. “What’s Mom getting you for your birthday?”
“Diamondback tickets,” was his immediate answer.
Mom put a hand on her hip, opened her mouth, then shut it with a smile. “Fine, don’t tell me. But, in my defense, he’s really handsome.”
“What...” I said, laughing, “...does that have to do with anything?”
Dad joined us then, and Mom turned a blissful smile in his direction. “I like your face,” she told him.
“Yeah?” His arms went around her waist and he gave her a quick kiss and whispered something I was really glad I couldn’t hear into her ear.
“Mmm-hmm.” She snaked her arms around his neck. “Thanks for making dinner.”
“Thanks for cleaning up.”
“Kiss me again.”
He did. Then she did. Then I hightailed it out of there before things got even more uncomfortable. I was halfway up the stairs when Dad called me back.
“Hey, hey, hey!”
I turned in time to catch the ball he threw.
“Grab your glove. We’ve got work to do.”
* * *
The ball hit my glove with a thud. The leather was soft from the lanolin Dad had been rubbing into it each night since I got it, but it didn’t feel like part of my hand yet. I threw the ball back.
“Good,” Dad said. “How’s it feeling?”
“Getting there.” I caught the ball, threw it back.
“Tell me about the guy.”
My throw went a little wide, but Dad caught it. “He’s not the guy. He’s Nick and we’re still just friends.”
“He hasn’t missed a game.” No, he hadn’t. Home or away, Nick had been to all twelve so far. He’d kind of become my good-luck charm. We hadn’t lost since the first game. I was surprised Dad had noticed. “You like him?” He still held the ball, waiting for my answer before he threw it again.
“I guess.” Sure, I liked Nick. He was nice, sweet. Thoughtful. All good things, easy things. The ball soared back to me.
“Your mom wants him to come for dinner.”
“I know.” Mom hadn’t stopped bugging me about it. Dad caught the ball, returned it.
“And?”
“And I’m not sure.” If I officially invited Nick to dinner with my parents, that would be a pretty big step, a boyfriend-type step. There wasn’t anyone else I was interested in, and I already knew Nick would be a good boyfriend—he wouldn’t hurt me or break my heart. But I had this idea somewhere in the back of my head that he should be able to, that I should feel enough for him that a broken heart was a possibility. I didn’t think my heart would ever be at risk with Nick, and I kind of wanted it to be.
“You met Mom when you were both nineteen, right?” Dad nodded, turning the ball before throwing it again. I caught it. “And she was your first real girlfriend.” Another nod, another throw. “Didn’t you ever like anyone before that?”
“Sure,” he said, “but no one caught me like she did.”
The ball hit my glove, I threw it back. “What do you mean?”
“Some people you meet and it’s nice, it’s good, but you can walk away. You’re okay without them.” He gazed toward the house. “I’ve always been that way, good on my own—it never bothered me until your mom. I knew from our first date that I would never be okay without her.”
I was slow to throw the ball back. Dad rarely talked about his life before Mom. I knew pieces, random things he or she let slip over the years. He’d never been adopted, and at least one of the foster families he’d lived with wasn’t allowed to have any more kids after Dad was removed. As for the others, he wasn’t in contact with any of them, which was telling enough. Mom was his first real family, his only family, until Selena and I came around. I wanted him to have so much more. I started to check my phone to see if Brandon had replied, but Dad barked a warning at me.
“No. No phones. Come on, Dana, do you want this or not?”
I couldn’t tell him what I was checking my phone for, so I had to take the reproof. “I do,” I said. I liked softball; most of the time I even loved it. I knew I’d never give it up like Selena had, but what I really wanted was Dad nodding at me again, smiling. I wanted him to be proud of me.
“Then start acting like it.”
My hand came up reflexively as he released the ball. It sank right into the pocket of my glove. “There,” he said. “You ready?”
Our easy game of catch was over. In hindsight, I was surprised it had lasted this long. I sucked in a breath and nodded, knowing he was going to start relentlessly hitting screamers and grounders at me. Dad grabbed the bucket of balls and a bat while I set up the net we used to mark first base, then moved back to the far end of our dirt yard—not the most aesthetic on our block, but that was by design. We didn’t host barbecues or have a swing set in one corner; we ran drills. Endless drills.
The bucket of balls Dad set beside him was close to overflowing. “We’re going through it three times.”
I avoided looking at my legs. Their fate had just been sealed, and sure enough, my shin ate the first grounder Dad hit my way. He’d drilled me enough over the years that I didn’t even think to olé out of the way. As third baseman, I was used to taking hits to the chest and shins, and more than one to the face. But I wouldn’t trade the hot corner for any other position. I scooped up the ball and fired it at the net designating first base.
It was nine by the time Dad started refilling the bucket, and I still