by Silla Webb
Her smile is blinding as she gives me two thumbs up and nods. I order our cupcakes and pull three milk cartons from the cooler—almond milk for me because the calories in this cupcake are more than I need, but worth every bite, then I follow Ken-man over to our favorite booth. Belle slides in next to me, and she rubs her hands before clapping them and bouncing on her little rump. She grits her teeth and smiles the most blinding smile I’ve ever seen, all over a damn cupcake. But I don’t shame her because I feel the same way every time I treat myself to one of Mabel’s famous cupcakes.
By the time Ken-man has half of his cupcake devoured, a mixture of strawberry crumbs, frosting, and milk coating his lips and cheeks, Belle has only—very graciously, I might add—pulled the liner from her cupcake. She examines it, the weight obviously heavy in her small hand because Mabel’s cupcakes are behemoth in comparison to your average grocery store bakery cupcakes. She sniffs the frosting then the cake, and I swear her eyes nearly roll back in her head from the intoxicating scent. I’m with ya, girlfriend.
I eagerly remove the liner from my cupcake and dig in, and the moan that escapes my mouth is probably too vulgar for a public setting. I have a very strict and dedicated diet and workout routine, but I allow myself one treat each week. I always have a calorie allowance, and I’ve learned the hard way that if your diet is too strict, you’ll only make yourself miserable before you finally relapse and gain ten pounds. Been there, done that, and I ain’t goin’ back. Yes, I’m a self-reformed chubster, which is why I relate to Madden so easily.
I look down at his daughter, who might I add is his mini-me in female form with dark brown curls, bright green eyes, and freckles sprinkled all over her alabaster cheeks, which are now smeared with chocolate ganache.
Unlike Ken-man whose cupcake and milk have been deposited into his small tummy, Belle slowly savors every bite she takes until the final crumb. She takes a healthy drink of milk and messily swipes at her mouth with a napkin before leaning back against the booth and patting her belly.
“My daddy is gonna be so mad that I had a cupcake when he can’t have any, Healthy Lady. And what’s worse is he swears Publix has the best cupcakes, but we’s never had cupcakes from here before. Do you think my daddy can have a Mabel’s cupcake soon?”
How do you not laugh at her cuteness, and she’s not shy in the least! I wink at Belle and motion for the kids as I climb out of the booth. I clean up their mess and drop the milk cartons, napkins, and liners in the trash and wave goodbye to Mabel on my way out the door.
In the Jeep, I’ve got the kids safely buckled in and am plugging in the address to Madden’s mom’s before I pull away from the square. Traffic is hectic this time of year as tourist season is still underway. I crank up the stereo to fill the air and hit Highway 80 back to the island. I hear snickering under the bass of the music and look back in the rearview mirror to find Kenny and Belle huddled together laughing as they shove something red into their mouths.
First of all, Kenny knows my rule about eating in the Jeep. Yes, I’m a neat freak. Secondly, what are they eating, and where the hell did it come from?
“Hey, Ken-man, what’cha eatin’?”
Kenny swallows the food down quickly and does something he’s never done before. He lies to me. “I-I wasn’t eating anything, Auntie.” Well, that is shocking. But he’s just a kid, and they go through these phases, so I dismiss his omission of guilt.
“Really? I could have sworn I saw you and Belle both stick something red in your mouth, and you looked like you were swallowing when I asked what you were eating. You’re not telling Auntie a fib, are you?”
“I gave him a Fruit Roll-Up, Healthy Lady.”
“Oh, Belle!” Kenny groans and smacks his palm over his face.
“What? It’s just ca— Oooooooh. Was we not supposed to eat in your Jeep, Healthy Lady? ’Cause I didn’t know that.”
Ugh, Kenny is cute all on his own, and when you add the rotten sass that is Belle to the equation, well, it makes me gullible to their deceit. Sure, Belle didn’t know she wasn’t allowed to eat in my Jeep, but she just ate a ginormous cupcake. Where does she put all this sugar, and how is she not climbing the walls? Shit, I might wanna punch the gas and get her sassy rump home before the sugar overdose kicks in.
“It’s okay, Belle. But I’d rather you guys not eat in the Jeep because you may drop something in the floorboard or get something as sticky as Fruit Roll-Ups stuck to the seats.”
“I’m sorry, Healthy Lady.”
“Yeah, Auntie. We’re sorry.”
“It’s okay, guys. I don’t even know how either of you could handle another bite of sugar after eating those cupcakes. They were bigger than your heads!”
“Well, Fruit Roll-Ups are my favorite, after cupcakes of course. And since Daddy isn’t letting me have lots of snacks these days, but Grammy gave me a stash to hide in my backpack.” Belle shrugs, like this is no big deal at all. And it’s really not, nor is it any of my business. “Besides … it’s kinda your fault that Daddy won’t let me have snacks. So really, this is all your fault, right?”
Wait … am I being schooled by a preschooler?
“Well, no—” I begin, but Belle cuts me off.
“So let’s make a deal. I won’t tell my daddy you fed me a cupcake instead of good food, if you don’t tell my daddy about my secret stash. Got it?” Not only am I being schooled by a preschooler, I’m also being blackmailed. By a five-year-old. And I have no argument for her whatsoever. So I do what anyone in my position would do … being manipulated by preschoolers, and all.
“Oh, sass. I’ll do you one better than that.” I wink at her in the rearview mirror. “I had so much fun with you and Ken-man today, I’m gonna tell your daddy that I want to pick you up from Miss Laney’s at least once a week to take you for a treat. And of course, that treat will stay between you and me.”
Her chubby little thumbs jar upward and she winks back at me, a triumphant smirk on her freckle face. “Deal,” she says solemnly, and I laugh to myself knowing I’ve not only made a new friend in this precious little girl, but I’m also screwed because in no time she’ll have me wrapped around her little finger just like Ken-man has.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
MADDEN
“These seats are awesome! I’ve never been this close to the field before!” Jasmine turns to me and grips my hand, her excitement palpable.
“It’s pretty cool, right. You like coming to baseball games much?” I ask her. Jasmine and I have chatted all week long. She’s even sent cute little good morning and good night texts complete with smiling emojis and hearts—which was a little forward, but I was still nervous to meet her in person. When I picked her up this evening, she acted as if she’s known me forever, and I think that has helped with some of my nervous tension.
After the date with hot-mess express Ellie, I wasn’t sure if I should be dating. I thought long and hard about deleting my profile from the Bumble app—what could a woman offer me at this point in my life right now? I’m already busy as hell with Davenport Construction, being a single dad—which is hard as hell, and this lifestyle change hasn’t been the easiest. But I’m not getting any younger, and being a third wheel with Carter and Laney has lost its luster. So here we are, on my second date in nearly six years, and the night seems to be going okay.
“I love it! My dad used to take me to games when I was a kid. We’d have hot dogs and hot chocolate and we’d scream so loud we’d go home barely able to talk.” She laughs, but she lost me at hot chocolate. At a baseball game? In the hottest months of the year? I shake the thought and listen to the never-ending conversation that is flowing between us. Well, more so from Jasmine, because she’s rattled on and on, which isn’t a bad thing. It’s hard to keep up with the topics, and replying is near impossible. Hard not to find it impressive the way she went from talking about hot chocolate to the importance of the soothing serum, whatever the hell that is, she uses when she attends outside events.
As I open my mouth to ask if she’d like for me to get her something from concession, she spurts out, “Oh! I remember this one time, we were at an indoor game and we had front row seats, and you could see everything so clearly! I screamed so loud when one of the players smashed another player against the glass, and they started fighting! Blood was everywhere.” Okay. I know what you’re thinking, and I know I’m missing more and more of her descriptive story-telling, but someone please tell me. Did I hear her right? She did say glass, right? What baseball field has glass barriers around the stadium? Does she mean hockey? Maybe arena football? Jasmine continues talking while I’m working out parts of her story in my mind.
“It was a scary experience, but one of the players brought me a signed black disc thingy after the game, you know that little thing they scoot back and forth on the ice? My dad says it’s probably worth a lot of money nowadays. I don’t really wanna sell it, though, you know. Every time I look at it I’m reminded of that game with my daddy. I’m a huge daddy’s girl, and as lucky as I am to have him in my life, what with him being older than dirt and all, I know one day all I’ll have is memories, so I try to hold on to those keepsakes, ya know. Plus, it makes for a perfect mixing surface when I need to combine foundations for the perfect full coverage shade.”
I’ve dissected her story and determined she does, in fact, mean hockey. That she more than likely is using a rare expensive piece of sports memorabilia to play with makeup. But how the hell she confused hockey with baseball is beyond my recognition, so I’m not about to broach that discussion with her. Instead, I see the opportunity to change the topic, so I do. But don’t worry—the pieces of her story are still flittering around in my mind, along with the other twenty chapters of her life she’s shared with me so far.
“I get it. My daughter loves coming to games with me. We came to spring training this summer, and we got to meet the team, but the mascot is her favorite.”
Jasmine tilts her head to the side and her brows furrow, and she appears to be breaking down each word I’ve said.
“You okay?” Her face is scrunched up in confusion, but she rights herself and leans back into the seat. Alrighty then. “Uh, would you like something from the concession stand? Maybe a beer or some popcorn?”
“Did you not hear anything I just said to you, Madden?” Her tone is clipped, almost like she’s angry.
“Yeah…” I drag out.
“Hot chocolate and hot dog please?”
I nod, still fuckin’ confused. “I’ll be right back. The team is warming up, so if you watch, you might catch a fly ball.” I pull my glove from under the seat and reach it to her as I stand and exit the aisle.
“Hey, what am I supposed to do with this?” Jasmine shrieks in panic, and I turn back to find her holding up the glove and glaring at it.
“Catch the ball?”
She throws the glove on the ground and goes into a complete fit, hands shaking wildly as she shouts, “The what? They play with a ball? Where’s the black disc, Madden!” People all around are staring at her like she’s some crazed lunatic, and judging by the story she told me and her reaction to the baseball glove, I’m right there with them.
I hurry into the aisle and take her by the hand, pulling her up beside me. “Why don’t you come to the concession stand with me? I might need help carrying everything.”
Jasmine’s teeth are pearly white and perfectly straight and on jovial display as she slides her hand in mine. She swallows back a sputtering breath, as if she was on the verge of tears, and says, “Okay! I’d like that!” Even her words are fuckin’ bubbly like a toddler.
And there she goes again sputtering off conversation, ninety miles a minute, but the raucous of the stadium is so loud that I can hardly make out anything she’s saying. Thank fuck for that. We get to the concession stand and I order a Bud Light and a box of popcorn before asking her what she’d like.
“A hot dog and hot chocolate. Just like my daddy always got me when we’d go to games, remember?”
Y’all, it’s summer in Savannah. The South. It’s not cold, unless the mild ninety-six degrees gives you a chill when the wind blows on the beach. I don’t even think the damn stadium serves hot chocolate.
I open my mouth to reply but decide it’s best if I just let the worker relay the bad news to her. “And we’ll have a hot dog—”
“Ketchup only!” she interjects.
“—and a hot chocolate.” She’s seriously grating on my fucking nerves.
“I’m sorry. We only have Coke and Budweiser products.” Of course they do. It’s a baseball stadium.
“What? No hot chocolate?” Jasmine stomps—yes, like a damn preschooler—crossing her arms over her very ample chest. And the more time I spend with this woman, the more I realize her hot body is the only attribute I’m attracted to, and even that isn’t all that appealing when I consider her actions.
“Honey, it’s blistering out here. You can order a nice refreshing Coke, or take your cute little order for hot chocolate to Starbucks on the corner.”
“How dare you!” Jasmine seethes. Her arm extends forward and swipes the contents off the counter before she storms off in the direction of our seats.
I pinch my eyes closed and count to ten, the same technique I use when Belle is having a bad day and pitching a fit. But when I pop my eyes open and see Jordan helping the cashier picking up the strewn napkins and ketchup packets that Jasmine tossed from the counter, I silently pray for the ground to open up and swallow me whole. Now I know how Jordan must have felt all those times I just happened to show up to witness her embarrassment. Well played Karma, you sneaky bitch.
“Ma’am, I’m so sorry she reacted that way.” I drop to my knees to help clean up the mess, but wouldn’t you know my fuckin’ luck, my head collides with Jordan’s.
“Ouch!” she complains, rubbing her head and laughing. I scrape everything on the ground into my hands and stand to my full height, towering over Jo.
“What are you doing here?” My tone is hard and so is my chest.
“I’ll take that, sir, and I’m sorry she’s so upset, but in all the years I’ve worked here, we’ve never served hot chocolate.” The cashier takes the contents from my now trembling hands. “But I’ll get your order. That will be $10.”
“Mad, you okay? Mad?”
I scrub my hand over my face that feels hot and wet and tacky. It’s been a couple months since that panic attack, and I didn’t remember how I felt in the moments before I passed out until right now. In this very moment my hands feel cold but sweaty and are shaking like I’ve deadlifted three-hundred pounds three reps, and my chest feels like a fuckin’ truck is sitting on it.
“Madden!” I feel Jordan’s hand caress my face, the other gripping my hand as she leads me away from the line. My legs feel like jelly with each step that I take, which isn’t far because Jordan swiftly plants me on a bench along the wall. “Sit. I’ll be right back.” She sounds distant, but maybe that’s because she’s walking away. I rest my head in my hands and try to steady my breathing, which feels erratic. Fuck. I pinch my eyes closed and bear down, counting silently to myself; it’s a method my doctor suggested to calm an attack, but I’m so anxious I can’t keep the numbers in order. I feel like I’m going to—
“Madden!” Jordan shouts as I feel my body thrust backward, and she gently rests my head against the wall. My neck suddenly feels cold with the ice pack she’s placed there, and her hands, soft and cool and comforting, are all over my face. “Just breathe. I’m right here with you. Just. Breathe.” She taps my face gently then cups my cheek. “Look at me, Mad, please. I need you to focus.” I force my eyes open, and Jo’s there, inches from my face, her eyes scared but strong and determined. “There you are.” She laughs to herself as she wraps her arms around my shoulders and hugs me to her. It feels like lead weights are pulling my arms down, but I manage to put one around Jo’s back. I inhale a ragged breath and damn … there’s just something about Jordan’s sweet sce
nt that comforts me.
“Miss, do I need to alert the paramedics on site?” I hear someone interject. Jordan keeps one arm around me as she turns toward the security guard.
“No, I think he’ll be okay. He has a history of generalized anxiety, and I think he might have just got a little overwhelmed in the heat.”
He moves closer and looks at me. “That true, sir? You don’t need any medical assistance?”
I shake my head. My throat still feels thick, so words are lodged in there somewhere.
The security guard nods then goes about his business. Jordan’s small hands grip my face as she looks me over, worry and sadness etched in her eyes. “You’re okay?” Her voice is small and scared, and I realize I’ve never seen Jordan look so vulnerable before.
I swallow the knot in my throat and nod. “I-I’m fine, Jo.”
She collapses into my chest and hugs me tight, and there’s something about the way she feels against me, her nose against my pulse point, her breathing my air, that brings me out of the fog. She’s just a friend, Madden. My brain catches up with the moment, and I grunt, clearing my throat.
“I’m sorry.” Jordan pushes herself off me and fidgets with her hands as I stand, evading her space.
“Why are you apologizing? I’m glad you were here.” Fuck. I shake my head to clear the fog that’s smothering me.
“Are you sure?” She looks down at her feet, shuffling in place, seeming defeated.
“Jo, I—”
“You seemed angry when you saw me there in line with you.”
“Just surprised is all, Jo. To be honest, I was actually quite mortified. This is the second date I’ve been on where the woman has had a meltdown and rushed off.” I take my ball hat off and run my fingers through my hair. My breathing is finally slowing, and aside from utter humiliation, I just feel annoyed and tired.
“Thanks for coming to my rescue, Jo. Seriously. I think I’m gonna call it a night. I’ll see you at the gym.” And here’s where I don’t know whether to hug her, give her a high five, or just turn and walk away. I’m not an asshole by any means, so I put my hat on my head and stuff my hands in my pocket, smiling awkwardly. Embarrassed. I’m a grown ass man who can’t even handle a damn date with a beautiful woman without something interfering, and tonight it just had to be my date’s crazy and my anxiety. How fitting, we’re at a baseball game and this date has definitely been a double hitter—to my ego. I give up.
