3. Harper

With Sam on my hip, I attempted to wrangle Piper into the elevator. We’d already let two go without us. But Sam needed to get home. It was well after ten, and he was practically asleep, with his head on my shoulder. Piper, in true form tonight, wouldn’t budge.

“Too full.” She stomped her foot. “As stated on the wall on our way up, the weight limit is twenty-one hundred pounds.” Her words were robotic. “Assuming an average weight, that is twelve people. Limits protect the occupants. Too full.”

My daughter sounded anything but seven. In some ways, her brain was light-years ahead of mine, and in others, it wasn’t as mature as her younger brother’s.

I sighed. “You and Sam each count as half an average person, and by your standards, even I don’t weigh enough to be considered a full person.”

“Too full,” she repeated.

With a defeated sigh, I gave up.

Seven opportunities to step onto that elevator and a million dirty looks later, we made it down to the car and headed back to our apartment.

By the time I pulled into the lot by our building and parked in my numbered space, I was exhausted. But I lifted Sam out of his seat. Piper, of course, was still awake. On a night like tonight, sleep wouldn’t come easily for her. Getting her to settle took routine, and we’d messed that up by going to the game. The Revs’ loss only made it worse.

Catching a foul ball should have been exciting. Most kids begged for balls from the players. But in her mind, when I caught that foul ball, I committed treason. I didn’t get it. She had a ball from the team she adored. Win or lose, I wished she’d just be happy.

Now, somehow, it was my fault that the Revs hadn’t won. The team wasn’t to blame, nor was the guy who’d almost let a foul ball hit my three-year-old. Couldn’t blame the batter who went down swinging to end the game either. Nope, just me.

She hit me with a glare as she stepped out of the car, those brown eyes hard, then turned away from me.

Sam settled onto my shoulder again, hardly waking even after all the effort it took to get him out of his car seat. He was such a good sleeper. Hell, he was just about the easiest kid on the planet.

“My legs are tired,” Piper complained.

“Mine too,” I agreed. It had been a long day. And I wasn’t even a baseball fan.

The couple who stepped into the elevator with us kept their distance, giving us the side-eye.

Judgment. It was late, and my young kids were up. I got it. I’d been twenty-five once. Back then, I thought I was an expert on so many things, including parenting. My kids would be in bed early. They wouldn’t use iPads. They would eat vegetables and behave. I’d raise angels.

Then I had Piper and was almost immediately humbled. It didn’t take long to understand that people who didn’t have kids had no right to be the judge and jury. This shit was hard. And as much as I wanted to be that perfect mom, the one whose kids went to bed easily and slept well, ate three perfect meals that didn’t include sugar, and never went on social media, I lived in the real world.

I did my best.

And today, my half brother had blessed me with extra work.

Not fair , my brain chided.

He’d meant well, but buying tickets to a game he wasn’t taking the kids to see himself, on a school day, on a workday, without asking me, meant the activity was more challenge than entertainment. And since I tried my best to be the type of mom who rolled with everything, who was fun and admired for her easygoing nature, I’d agreed to take the kids, even going so far as to tell my brother and my daughter that the plan sounded great. Inside though, misery quickly consumed me.

Which made me feel even shittier. When had I become this person? And why? There had been a time when I actually was fun. But that part of me had long ago been buried under a mountain of pressure and responsibility. Now, I was stuck with doing what I needed to do to get through this phase of life.

“The Revs won’t have another chance to make the World Series for another 372 days.” My daughter was clearly a numbers person.

I shifted Sam, wincing as I used my injured hand to prop him a little higher on my hip. I hadn’t truly understood how fast a baseball could travel until I’d put my hand up to save him from being hit with it. It was already swollen.

Once the elevator had stopped on our floor, we headed down the hall to our apartment. I paused outside it, and my heart sank as I took in the slimy substance running down the door. Had someone seriously thrown an egg? Boy, wasn’t this a super fun way to end a long day.

“What is that?” Piper asked.

Long ago, I’d learned not to lie to her. She was smarter than me, after all. “Egg.”

She cocked her head, her red pigtails wobbling. “Who put egg on the door?”

Likely a random person in the building. I’d lived through more than one big loss for a Boston team. Tonight would be a rough night. All over the city, people would riot. Passion was a big emotion. And the fanatical Revs fans had it in spades. The Revs sticker logo on our door, courtesy of my daughter, had probably made us a target.

“Don’t worry,” I said as I ushered her in. “I’ll clean it up.”

Quickly, I changed Sam and got him into bed. The poor kid didn’t even open his eyes. Once he was tucked in, I got started getting Piper settled. It took longer than usual, and when I came out and found my phone in the kitchen, I had three missed calls, all from unknown numbers.

For the love of God, please don’t let some random website have sold my information to the world .

Two years ago, I’d received endless texts and phone calls for months. Jace had been sure I was hiding something because of all the unknown numbers. At least he was no longer around to make a bad situation worse again.

I sighed. I needed to get over my anger at my ex-husband. He had been trying lately. Jace struggled with Piper, but that didn’t mean he didn’t love her and Sam. We had to co-parent for the rest of our lives, so letting the past, the lies, the betrayal, the hurt go, was in my best interest. If only it weren’t so difficult to put into action.

I set the phone on the counter and opened the fridge. I needed a hard cider after such a long day. As I grasped the bottle, pain shot up my arm.

Yanking my hand back, making the bottle wobble on the shelf of the fridge, I opened and closed my fist. My palm and fingers were already turning purple. My whole hand ached, but I hadn’t had time to really focus on it. I probably needed to ice it, but I’d have to clean the door first.

With my left hand, I pulled out the cider and cracked it open. As I sipped, I closed my eyes and relished the cold, crisp flavor. Egg sucked. That slimy shit never came off easily. And I had plenty of experience. Piper had broken plenty in her seven years.

As much as I wished I could collapse in bed and put it off until tomorrow, if I didn’t deal with it now, it would eat away the paint, and the last thing I needed was the super yelling at me. We got complaints enough because of Piper’s tantrums. Time for some Bounty and good, old-fashioned elbow grease.

I propped the door open and swiped the surface of the door with a dry paper towel first, hoping to remove any excess slime. It did very little, so I stepped back inside and wet a few towels.

Back out in the hall, I got to work, only to be startled by a deep voice behind me.

“If it isn’t Boston’s newest villain.”

Heart thumping, I turned around. Instantly, though, I relaxed. The owner of the voice was my neighbor Trevor. He was propped up against his doorjamb, arms crossed and smirking.

“Villain?” I asked, turning back to the door.

“Did you not go the game tonight in a very tight white button-down and catch the ball that should have been the third out?”

I rolled my eyes. “Ugh, not you too.”

Piper had been awful when I’d caught the ball, and half the fans around us had muttered about it. But what was I supposed to do, trust that the frozen baseball player would snap back to reality in time to stop the ball from knocking my son’s teeth out? Kyle Bosco was an overpaid, over-sexed, whiny, pretty-boy attention whore. There was no way I’d allow my son’s fate to rest in that man’s hands.

Trevor came up behind me, crowding my space, and took the wet towel out of my hand. I let him have it and snagged the second one I’d brought out. While he worked on the top half of the door, I kneeled and scrubbed at the bottom half.

Without stopping, I glanced up at the good-looking man looming above me. Trevor was nice enough. A single dad with two preteen girls. I’d probably like him more if women weren’t always fawning over him because he took care of his girls every other weekend.

Maybe I was jaded, or just a bitch. But being a parent every other week for forty-eight hours didn’t seem worthy of all the praise he received. Yes, it was nice that he loved his girls. But he got a lot of time to himself too.

Me? I got none.

I shut my eyes and took a breath through my nose. I inhaled until my lungs burned, then let it out again. Trevor had been fighting for more parenting time. That was more than admirable. And my situation didn’t give me the right to hate on him.

He cleared his throat. “I guess you didn’t watch the postgame.”

“No, why?” I asked.

He paused his movements and tipped his head, frowning at me. “Streaks put a bull’s-eye on your back, babe.”

I peered up, making my bun wobble. Quickly, I dropped the paper towel and adjusted my hair. “What?”

“Kyle Bosco”—cringing, he turned his attention back to the door—“otherwise known as Streaks, told all of Boston that you were single-handedly responsible for the Revs’ loss.”

That wasn’t shocking. From what I’d seen over the last couple of years, the guy never took responsibility for a bad play. Why would he suddenly change his ways now?

Trevor shook his head. “The guy’s an ass.”

I didn’t necessarily disagree, despite how much my daughter loved the baseball star who danced around the field and scored runs.

I lifted a shoulder. “He wasn’t catching it. Everyone there could see that.” Unconcerned about a grown man’s temper tantrum, I rubbed at one last smear of egg and then pushed to my feet.

“I hope you’re right.” Trevor stepped back, frowning, and handed me his towel. “If you need anything, call me.”

“Thanks.” With a smile, I stepped inside.

Trevor leaned on the doorjamb again, assessing me. “You doing anything this weekend? Maybe we could grab a drink.”

Trevor and I had this conversation every other weekend. Though Jace had our kids every other Friday night, our free nights never lined up. Honestly, even if they did, I didn’t have the energy. I barely kept up as it was.

“Trevor. There have got to be eighty gazillion women from those apps of yours lining up to have a drink with you.”

He chuckled. “I’d still like to buy one for you.”

I rolled my eyes. There was absolutely no chemistry there, but I tried to be flattered by his persistence. “I have the kids this weekend.”

“Too bad.” He tapped the doorframe with his knuckles and pushed back. “Call me if you need anything,” he said again.

With a nod, I closed the door quietly and exhaled. I needed a solid ten minutes to relax before I crawled into bed. I tossed the gross egg-covered paper towel into the trash, then snagged my cider and phone from the counter. At least the kids hadn’t had time to destroy the apartment today. Since I didn’t have that mess to clean up, I sank onto the small sofa in the living room and took another sip of my drink.

My phone vibrated on the cushion beside me. Another unknown number. For fuck’s sake. I slid my thumb over the screen to answer, intending to tell them to take me off their list.

“I’m not interested in whatever you’re selling.”

A female chuckled, her laugh sharp. “I’m not interested in it either, but this is what I’m paid to do. Is this Harper Wallace?”

I took another sip of my cider and swallowed back my nerves with it. “Maybe.”

“This is Hannah Erickson. I’m the head of public relations for the Boston Revs. I can understand if you’re upset with us. I know I am. Bosco and Quinn are going to drive me to search for a new job,” she huffed. “Anyway, I’d love if you could give me two minutes of your time.”

My heart leapt into my throat. Why were the Revs calling me? “How did you get my number?”

Hannah sighed, making the phone line crackle. “When Beckett Langfield wants something, he gets it. I’ve learned not to ask questions.”

Okay .

“I know it’s late, but I want to apologize for Mr. Bosco’s statement. Please know he wasn’t speaking for the Revs organization.”

I pressed my lips together and hummed. What the hell did this guy say that warranted a call from the head of PR for a professional team? “Right.”

“I have a plan to make this better for everyone, so hear me out. This is what I’m thinking…”

I listened as she explained, and although I was tempted to tell her I had no interest in helping the Revs out, I couldn’t say no. This would make Piper’s year. So, ridiculously, I agreed to swing by Lang Field the next day.