Chapter 4

Chapter Four

RYLAND

“He what?” I shout at my principal, Herbert Jenkins.

Mustache twitching over his upper lip, bald head shining under the fluorescent lights of his office, he calmly says, “David hired your assistant coach.” He tosses me a paper with a single name on it: Gabriel Brinkman.

I stare down at it and then back up at Herbert. “Who the fuck is Gabriel Brinkman?”

“Also our new math hire.”

“How the hell was this even allowed? I don’t know this fuck,” I say, my anger getting the best of me. Thankfully, Herbert has known me long enough to understand that my unprofessionalism isn’t because of him, but because of my irritation with the situation. “For all we know, this guy could be a real shit on the field. What are his qualifications even? Has he ever played baseball?”

“From what I learned, SHE earned her teaching degree in trigonometry so you won’t have to take on as many classes as you have been. As for baseball, she helped her brother learn how to play.”

I blink a few times, because not only am I surprised about the she part, but . . . helped her brother?

Helped?

That is such a broad term that I don’t even know where to begin.

“She helped,” I say. “And also . . . she’s a she?”

“Is that going to be a problem, Rowley?” Herbert raises a singular brow.

“I mean . . . no. I’m all for women in sports, but I was just . . . I wasn’t expecting it. Not to mention, you’re talking about a bunch of horned-up teenagers here who think more with their dicks than their brains. Do we think that it’s smart having a woman on staff?”

“Did that sentence really just come out of your mouth?” he asks.

I groan and drag my hand over my face. “I’m not saying it in a sexist way. I’m just . . . it’s concerning. She’s a woman.”

“Yes, she is, and I think one of the main reasons David hired her is because he wants to break the boundaries for those you might be overlooking.”

I sigh and lean back in my chair. “I get that, and being that I’m raising a girl on my own at the moment, I’m more than happy for a woman to get her chance. But did she get the job because she’s a woman or because she’s actually good at coaching? I don’t have time to teach someone how to do their job, Herb. I need someone ready to help me and who can handle the boys on their own. I have enough going on with finding a house to buy, taking care of Mac, and navigating her feelings. I don’t have time to babysit.”

“From what David told me, you won’t have to babysit. She seems to be very competent.”

“Doubt it,” I say on an irritated huff.

Herbert’s chair squeaks as he leans forward and places his forearms on his desk. “It would behoove you to take this new hire seriously, Rowley. Unfortunately, David’s calling the shots. He’s the biggest donor to our school district. His money is why your baseball program is thriving.”

“Fuck that, it’s my coaching,” I say. “We’d still be winning games if we showed up in ratty uniforms and biked our way to the baseball fields rather than taking fancy fucking buses.”

“Yes, but you wouldn’t have the best kids transferring to our school, either.”

Eh, he’s right about that.

“You need to suck it up and realize that even though you don’t like this decision, you’re going to have to live with it.”

I slouch in my chair and massage my temples a few times, trying to see a way where this isn’t my new reality.

“What could be so bad about it?” he asks.

I look up at him. “Uh, a lot. How about that she doesn’t know what she’s doing? That she’s no help whatsoever? That she could be the worst hire that Almond Bay has ever seen, and I’m the one who will have to suffer through it because the man with the wallet feels so fucking self-righteous that he thinks he can make all the decisions without consulting one goddamn person?”

“Or . . . she could be really good and help improve your program.”

I stand from my chair. “Herbert, you’ve known me for a long goddamn time. You’ve seen the lack of luck in my life. So where the fuck do you come off thinking that this hire is not going to come back to bite me in the ass?”

He rubs his hand over his scruffy jaw and chuckles. “When you put it like that . . .”

“Jesus, fuck,” I say before stomping toward his door.

“For what it’s worth,” he calls out, “at least you won’t have to teach trigonometry anymore. I know how much you hated it.”

“Great, the one good thing happening in my life.”

“Uncle Ry Ry!” Mac shouts when she spots me from her daycare playground. She sprints toward me, her pigtails that I struggled with this morning askew and swaying as she leaps into my arms and hugs me tightly.

I squeeze her back, taking a second to enjoy this moment with my niece because if I don’t take these moments, I become fucking overwhelmed.

So fucking overwhelmed.

I never thought this was what my life would be like. I had big dreams—dreams that were carving a path I was confident I’d head down. I was going to play professional baseball. I’d live in a big city, away from Almond Bay and the frayed and tattered roots I’ve planted here. But those dreams washed away when I quit baseball, got my teaching degree, and started teaching and coaching in Almond Bay. And then that’s when it all happened.

My eldest sister, Cassidy, lost her husband, leaving her as a young single mom. Given the lack of parents in our lives, I knew it was my time to step up again, so I did. I was there every second I could offer to Cassidy to help with the farm, with the store, with her dreams . . . and with Mac. We grew a sense of routine until that one dark day when Cassidy found out she had stage four breast cancer.

Life as we knew it shut down.

Nothing felt right.

Nothing felt fair.

And as I watched my sister slowly die, I knew that nothing would ever be the same.

“Please, Ryland, please take care of her for me. Give her a beautiful and special life. Teach her everything I would teach her. Love her the way I would love her. And please keep my memory deep in her heart.”

It was the most painful and heartbreaking conversation I’ve ever had. I still remember the way she looked at me from her bed as she held my hand, asking me if I’d take care of her precious baby girl.

Her world.

Who then became mine.

I can still feel the lump in my throat as the heaviest weight was placed on my shoulders. But I made her that promise, and I will live every day preserving that promise.

Mac pulls away from our hug, and she looks at me with a scrunch to her face. “Why is your face all crinkly?”

Got to love kids.

“It’s called getting old. We get crinkles.”

She rolls her eyes cutely and presses the spot between my eyes. “No, right here. You look mad.”

“Oh.” I set her down and pick up her backpack from the ground, only for her to take my hand in hers, a feeling I’m not sure I will ever get used to. “Uh, I’m not mad.”

“Seems like you’re mad.”

“I’m not.” I try to force a smile. “I’m happy, see?”

She glances up at me, studies me for a moment, then says, “You have a nice smile.”

Well, warm my cold, dead heart.

“Not as nice as yours,” I say and squeeze her hand as we head to my truck. “You know, it’s kind of a hot day, don’t you think?”

“Very hot,” she says as she makes a show of panting.

God, she reminds me so much of Cassidy that it hurts at times. From her cute, round face to her mannerisms to her sense of humor . . . it’s insane. It’s like her mother reincarnated, offering me comfort and a polarizing sadness at the same time.

“I’m glad you agree because I was thinking about getting some milkshakes. Want to join me?”

Her eyes light up as she looks at me. “Really?”

“Yeah, really.”

“Yeah!” she cheers. “Can I get a strawberry milkshake?”

“You can get whatever flavor you want,” I say.

“Yay.” She jumps.

“I also brought Chewy Charles so he doesn’t feel left out.”

“And can the spiders come too?”

“Yes,” I nearly sigh. “The spiders can come too.”

Chewy Charles is her sacred horse stuffie who is her best friend. Recently, she got another horse stuffie from Uncle Wyatt, my sister’s husband. Naturally, she named the other horse Chewy Chondra. Currently, Chewy Charles and Chewy Chondra are fighting, which is why I didn’t bring her. We don’t need bad blood while getting milkshakes.

And the spiders . . . well, those would be her fingers. She likes to pretend her fingers are spiders, dancing them over every diseased surface she can find. I don’t tend to allow the spiders to join us because they become disease-sucking sticks, and I’m not into the whole sick-kid thing. But given the conversation I need to have with her, I’m allowing spiders.

On the way to Provisions, Mac tells me about her day, how Gregory took her marker that she was using, and she was not happy about it, then he didn’t even apologize. I make a mental note to check out Gregory and give him the don’t fuck with my niece look. She also expressed her displeasure for not being picked for one of the specials and how she’ll never, ever be picked. The specials in her classroom are chosen at random on Fridays, and they range from being able to take the class stuffie home for the weekend, to taking home the estimation jar, or the mystery bag. They’re all interactive activities and apparently very coveted. She’s been chosen for the estimation jar before, which just meant we had to put a multiple of something in the jar, and the classroom tried to guess how many were in the jar just by looking at it.

Initially, Mac wanted to put sand in the jar and count the grains of sand, but I told her that maybe it was not the best idea. It would be hard to count the grains, so she went with her polished rocks instead.

When we arrive at Provisions, I help her out of her car seat as she stuffs Chewy Charles in her shirt, letting just his head poke out from the neckline. She saw a mom carrying a baby in one of those pouch things, and ever since then, Mac believes she needs to carry Chewy Charles the same way—minus the baby apparatus.

When I shut the car door and she’s ready to walk, she reaches up and takes my hand. I glance down at her, and she looks up at me with a gleeful smile on her face, the kind of smile that rips your goddamn heart out, because how?

How could this child be so goddamn happy?

She lost both of her parents, her mom, who she was incredibly close with, and now has to live with her uncle, who barely knows what the hell he’s doing. Yet she’s smiling.

She loves holding my hand.

She loves skipping while I walk.

And she loves just . . . being with me.

I don’t get it. I’m not sure I ever will. But fuck, am I thankful.

When we reach the hostess station, I ignore the fact that the hostess is one of my students and motion for a table of two with my fingers. She walks us to a table in the back corner and then places menus in front of us.

“Your server will be with you soon.”

“Can we get fries?” Mac asks as she dances her spider fingers across the menu. “I like dipping the fries in my shake.”

“Yeah, we can get fries,” I say, already thinking about how dinner is most likely going to be a no go when we get home. It’s fine. It’s okay to spoil Mac every once in a while, and she’d probably benefit from not having to eat whatever I decide to put on the table tonight.

Let’s just say taking care of a child and figuring out healthy meals wildly accepted by said child has been a challenge.

“I love fries. Can we get waffle fries?”

“Sure, if that’s what you want.”

“Yay! I want the waffle fries. I like sticking my tongue in them.”

“As we all do,” I say as I lean back in my chair and watch my niece dance her fingers across the table with a horse sticking out the top of her shirt.

She’s a weird kid.

I’d be the first to admit it.

She doesn’t like the same things her friends like, and she sure as hell doesn’t act the same. There are times I wonder . . . is she going to be okay? Do I need to get her help? Is it normal for her to convince me that wearing a T-shirt as pants is acceptable? Aubree told me shirts as pants do not work for many reasons, but . . . I don’t know, she’s a very convincing child.

“Hey, Mr. Rowley,” someone says as they approach our table. It’s one of my least favorite things about living in a small town. I glance to the right and see Kenna, another one of my students.

“Hey, Kenna.”

She holds a pen and notepad in her hand. “What can I get you two?”

“Mac, would you like to order?”

Mac pats Chewy Charles on the head, then says, “Strawberry milkshake, please, and a lot of fries. Like all of the fries.”

Kenna smirks as she writes down the order. “Do you want waffle fries?”

“Yes!” Mac shouts. “Waffle fries.”

“Please.” I remind her of her manners.

“Waffle fries, please,” Mac says before her fingers dance over the salt and pepper shakers.

I look up at Kenna and say, “Chocolate shake, please.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Rowley.” She takes the menus from us and heads to the kitchen.

Now is the time to talk to her, when she’s not distracted by her milkshake and fries and she can actually listen to what I need to say.

So I shift on my chair and clear my throat. “Mac, could I talk to you about something?”

“Sure,” she says. “The spiders like the salt.” Her fingers “lick” at some spilled salt on the table.

“Um, could the spiders sleep for a second while I talk to you?”

She lifts one brow at me. “They’re not tired.”

Patience.

That is what Mac has taught me over the past few months.

Patience.

I press my lips together. “Well, I need them to take a rest because I need to talk to you. It’s important.”

“Important?” she asks as she rests her hands in her lap, and those big, innocent eyes stare me down. “Am I in trouble?”

“No,” I say quickly. “No, not at all. I just . . . I need to talk to you about something that I’ve been thinking about, and I want to know how you feel about it.”

“Okay,” she says simply despite the raging nerves I have inside me.

“Well.” I place my hands on the table, palms down even though they’re clammy. “I’ve been doing some thinking?—”

“My elbow itches. Can I itch it?”

I press my lips together and nod.

Talking to a fucking four-year-old feels like talking to a goddamn ant.

“Yes, you can scratch your elbow.”

She lifts her elbow and shows it to me. “Does it look green?”

“Green?” I ask.

“Yeah, Gregory was saying if your elbow is green and itches, it means you’re a zombie. So am I a zombie? I don’t want to be a zombie. Gregory said zombies only eat brains, and I don’t want brains. I want fries and milkshakes.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. She needs to stop talking to fucking Gregory.

“Your elbow isn’t green. No signs of being a zombie.”

“Okay.” She stares at the table. “If I were a zombie, I would have to eat your brain, Uncle Ry Ry.”

“Well, it’s a good thing you’re not a zombie, then, right?”

“Yeah, good thing.” She smiles back at me, those eyes of hers sparkling. “Because I bet your brain tastes yucky.”

“I think any brain would taste yucky.”

She quirks her head to the side. “Then why do zombies eat them?”

I drum my fingers on the table, losing a little bit of patience because, fuck, I just want to talk to her about this and get it over with.

“You know, I’m not sure, but we can look it up later because I really want to talk to you about something. Can you give me a few seconds, then we can do all the research on zombies?”

“Promise?” She points her finger at me.

“Promise.” She nods at me like a fucking CEO in the boardroom, offering me the chance to continue. “I wanted to talk to you about our living situation.”

Her brow quirks up. “What does that mean?”

“Well, uh.” Jesus, why am I nervous? “I was thinking with Aunt Aubree and Uncle Wyatt being married now they might want more room. And since they work on the farm, I thought it might be nice for them to have the house.”

“What house?”

“Our house.”

You know that fucking cat, the one that’s supposed to be Zorro? What the hell is its name? Puss in Boots? Some shit like that. Well, you know how he takes his hat off and then offers those big glassy eyes?

That’s Mac right now.

She’s been watching that movie too much because she looks just like the damn feline, and I won’t be able to survive this conversation if she keeps it up.

“Our house?” Her lip nearly shakes as she says it.

“Yeah.” I clear my throat. “I found another house in town, closer to school, and right across the street from the park that you love. The park with the twirly slide. It has big windows and get this . . . it’s purple.”

Her eyes widen. “The house is purple?”

I nod. “Yup, purple.”

“I like purple.”

“I know. And it has a corner bedroom with a window seat where the sun comes into the window, a perfect spot for Chewy Charles to sleep while you’re at school.”

She tilts Chewy Charles’s head and says, “Errrr?”

Knowing what has to be done, I direct my attention to the stuffie with the crooked nose peeking out of my niece’s shirt and say, “That’s right, Chewy Charles, a whole window seat just for you.”

“I like that,” Mac says in a Chewy Charles voice that is screechy and made for nightmares.

“I’m glad because your opinion matters too, Chewy Charles. I want to make sure we are all happy about moving to a new house.”

Mac’s little nose scrunches. “What about Aunt Aubree and Uncle Wyatt? Would they move too?”

I shake my head. “No, they’d stay in the farmhouse.”

Her lips turn down. “What about my bed? And Chewy Chondra?”

“We’ll take your bed with us and Chewy Chondra.”

“What about my clothes?”

I see where this is going . . .

“MacKenzie, we’ll take all your things with us. Anything you want, you can bring.”

She thinks about that for a second. “Can I see the house?”

“Of course,” I say just as our milkshakes and fries arrive. “We can go see it whenever you want.”

She perks up. “I would like to see it today.”

Well, thank God for that.