A chuckle leaves my lips. “I got the call, babe.” Yep. I call her babe now. And every time we hang up, she tells me she loves me. How’s that for making it work long-distance? Guess what else? I haven’t looked in another woman’s direction since the day I left Sydney. Or, I suppose, last month when I saw her in Vegas.
“Oh my God. They’re playing a home game this weekend, right?”
“Yeah. They’re on game two of the series.” I pause, my smile never fading. “The team gave me some seats. Can you and Tatum come?”
“We’d love to!” she says without missing a beat.
A sigh of relief washes through me. “Thank you.”
“If I get there and you have a mustache, imma be pissed.”
I snort, closing the door to the car and reaching for my bag. “You see my face every night on FaceTime.”
“I know, but still. Tatum is going to freak out when I tell her.”
I swallow over the lump forming in my throat. “Can I tell her?”
“Oh, yeah, totally. Let me get her.” There’s a pause before she gets on the phone, her soft voice so innocent and sweet.
“Boy!” Okay, so we’re back to “boy.” Great. I like that better.
“Loretta,” I sigh. “I’m missing you, kid.”
She sighs herself. “I miss you more. I see you soon?”
“That’s why I’m calling. I get to see you tomorrow night.”
“Really?”
“Yep. You wanna come to my game?”
“I’d love to!” she squeals. “But I don’t wanna see Olaf again.”
I laugh. That damn talking snowman in real life really fucked with her. “We won’t go to Disneyland again.”
“Good. I love you, Boy.” And then she drops the phone. Can’t expect much from a three-year-old on the phone.
You know what I dream of now? Tatum in the stands, wearing a jersey with my name on the back and cheering me on as the guy who showed her what a dad could be like. And I’m one step closer to that. Oh, and marrying her mom, but that’s going to take some time to achieve.
The second half or “last half” of an inning, during which the home team bats, derived from its position in the line score.
SYDNEY
What do I wear? Slutty? Conservative? Fuck, I don’t know.
I decide on the Angels sweatshirt Cason sent me along with a pair of skinny jeans and tennis shoes. Simple is always better, in my opinion.
Tatum wears her usual crazy attire. Dress, cowgirl hat, and boots. Over the dress, she throws on her Angels shirt. “How me look?”
I smile down at her as we get into the van to head to the airport. “You look adorable.”
“I miss our boy so much.” She grins, her cheeks pink with excitement. “I can’t wait to see hims.”
I lift her into the van. “Me too.” I haven’t seen him in person in thirty-nine days, and it’s been torture. Even with our late-night naughty FaceTime calls. If I ever had a doubt on how I felt about Cason, our time away has put all that to rest, and I’m basically obsessed with him. I watch every game, follow him on Instagram just waiting for updates and stalk his location on my phone. That’s right. He set up location tracking on my phone so I’d always know where he was. To be fair, I did the same and it’s a whole new level of trust I didn’t know I wanted until I had it.
I’d say Tatum is too, judging by the way she doesn’t stop talking about him on the way to the airport. “Do you think hims remember me?”
“I’m sure he will. He loves you.”
Her cheeks flush. “I love hims.”
Life looks a lot different for Tatum and me now. Not only do I have a shop in Scottsdale again, I’m—hold your breath on this one—sharing a space with Remi.
Did your eyes bug out? Oh, believe me, when the offer came about, I did too. Remember when I told her to do something great with the life-insurance money?
She did. She opened up her own child’s boutique inspired by my daughter’s gypsy personality. Let’s just say Tatum spends most of her time at work with me, modeling all the clothes—in the same space as my art.
My head may have had a plan for my life, but my heart wants something different. And that’s fine too. That’s what I’ve been telling myself these last few months.
And this is one time I should listen to it since guys like Cason Reins don’t come around