Graham snorts, amused by my statement but too politically correct to admit it. He’s uptight and serious most of the time, but hidden back in the depths of his cold, calculated, black heart is a funny, easygoing guy that is a lot like me, although he’d probably fight you before he’d agree.
“Just saying,” he repeats back to me, “that’s probably going to be your sister-in-law. You should practice choosing your words wisely.”
“That takes the fun out of it.”
A long pause extends between us before Graham breaks it with one of his dumbass questions. “Have you given any thought to what you might do if this doesn’t go your way?”
I look at the ceiling and bite my tongue. I know what he’s thinking: baseball is all I have. It’s true. I don’t have some inherent trait that makes me valuable to anyone or anything besides the game. I’m not Barrett, with his political bravado. I’m not Graham and his business skills or Ford and his hero military shit. I’m the youngest brother, trying to follow along. One with no skill but throwing a ball, if I still have that.
“Do you have a plan, Lincoln?”
“I just want to plan on not being out of a fucking job,” I mutter.
Graham chuckles. “Whatever. Even if the Arrows let you go, someone will pick you up.”
“You don’t know how this works.”
“I know business, Lincoln. And I know you bring in millions of dollars with your talent, your looks, and because little kids buy your jerseys in the Pro Shop. They aren’t letting you go as long as you’re making them bank. Business 101, little brother.”
Smirking, I say, “My looks do sell a lot of tickets, huh?”
“Shut up,” he laughs.
Even though he offered me no assurances and said nothing that I didn’t know ten minutes ago, my stomach settles just a bit and that fucking bubble scabs over for the meantime.
“I’ll tell you what I want to plan for,” I breathe.
“Oh, I can’t wait to hear this.”
“I met this girl today.”
“And that’s different from any other day how?” he jokes.
“Dude,” I say, hopping up on the counter and getting comfortable. “You should see her.”
“Let me guess: big tits. Great ass. At least one nipple pierced, probably the right one, if I’m guessing.”
“Fuck off.”
“So it was the left one?”
The kitchen is filled with my laughter. “No, asshole. I haven’t even seen them. Yet.”
He whistles through his teeth. “Okay. Color me intrigued. How did you manage to remember a girl that hasn’t bared her chest for you?”
“She’s . . .” I think back to her sexy smile, her confident retorts to what I said. Her coolness about whether she sees me again, not offering her name up first. “She’s different.”
“So maybe both are pierced?”
“You’re an asshole.”
He chuckles, the sound giving way to a yawn. “I do think this injury thing has started to affect your head. Better watch that, little brother.”
It’s a joke, but one that hits a little too close to home. “I’ll let you go. I’m sure you need to get back to whatever the fuck it is you do, and I need to get my beauty sleep,” I yawn, stretching my good arm overhead.
“Yeah. I’m going to go work so your inheritance grows while you sleep. You’re welcome.”
“Go make us some money.”
“Night.”
I end the call and drop my phone on the couch, heading down the hallway, past two rooms that sit completely empty, and into my bedroom.
“I’m gonna be fine,” I mutter, climbing back into bed and pulling the grey sheets over me. “It’s all gonna be fine.”
Danielle
THE BELLS RING AS I push open the door of the Smitten Kitten. Scents of freshly baked bread, cinnamon, and hints of mint greet me in a fashion equivalent to a puppy licking your face. It’s warm and welcoming, and some of the day’s stress melts away.
“Hey,” Pepper chirps from behind the counter. “Your usual?”
“Please.” I settle into my spot, a little booth tucked in the corner. The bench seat against the wall is lined with with pink and white pillows to nestle against. A light fixture dripping with fake crystals hangs just above the table.
Tossing my bag on the bench, I shrug off my yellow pea coat and collapse into the seat.
Massaging my temples, I try to release the work day and welcome in the evening with deep breathing. It’s a trick I learned when I was younger from the music teacher at my private school—not because I was some kind of vocalist. I can’t carry a tune. Mrs. Stevenson picked up on the anxiety I carried around like a weight around my neck, something no one else ever noticed or cared enough to help me with, and taught me the steadiness of controlling the air in my body.
Within a few breaths, a steaming mug of cappuccino is in front of me, a bowl of soup next to it, and Pepper across from me. She removes her blue and white checkered apron and tosses it on the booth beside her. “How was your day?”
“Good,” I say, sprinkling some salt in my soup.
“You didn’t even taste it.”
“I like salt.”
“It’s a knock on the cook to season your food without tasting it first.”
Shaker in hand, paused midair, I look at her through the steam.
“Go ahead and salt the shit out of it,” she sighs, flipping her long, dark locks behind her. “I just spent two hours concocting that dish to perfection. Go on and fuck it up.”
“Pepper!” I laugh, sitting the shaker down. “Geez, settle down. What has you all fired up today?”
Her dark eyes roll around in one of the most dramatic displays I’ve seen from her since I started coming to this little bakery near the hospital.
“My husband, if you must know,” she snorts. “He wants me to take on an extra pair of hands so I can spend more time with him at home. I mean, I love the man. I do. I’d love to see him more. But I can’t afford another person on payroll! We’d be in the red within two months.”
“Yikes,” I say, lifting a spoonful of the creamy soup to my lips. “Sounds like trouble.”
“It is.” She watches me like a hawk as I sample the latest Smitten Kitten creation. “So?”
“So what?”
“Is it good?” she laughs. “Damn it. I need feedback, you know that. Don’t hold out on me. You’re the first person to try it.”
“What are we calling it?” I ask, dabbing my mouth with a napkin.
“Kitten Cup.”
“Sounds like cat food,” I giggle.
“But is it good?’
“No,” I say, keeping my face as blank as possible. She holds her breath and it’s all I can do not to burst out laughing. “It’s probably, um,” I say, tilting my head back and forth, prolonging her anguish, “probably my favorite soup yet.”
“Score!” she says, standing and pumping a fist. “I knew it! I knew this would be the one! I’m going to enter it in the city cook-off next month. It’s a winner, right? I mean, if it’s not, tell me. I have time to tweak it.”
“It’s an absolute winner,” I grin, knowing she’ll create something else in a few days and will forget all about the Kitten Cup. This is a process that’s never ending, and it certainly won’t end with this dish.
She starts to reply, but stops. Narrowing her eyes, she wags a finger in my face. “What are you not telling me?”
“What are you talking about?”