Chapter 2

chapter

two

OWEN

I cup my hand around Huck's soft head and bounce him with each slow step, comforting the little guy in the best way I've learned over the last few months.

He seems to appreciate an easy rhythm as his tears dry on his plump cheeks.

"That's right, little man. Slow and steady wins the race," I whisper as I pace the living room with him resting in the crook of my arm. "You'll hear a lot of wise, wise words that are not at all clichés from your favorite uncle." I chuckle as Huck makes a few incoherent sounds. I point to the TV, where an old baseball game flashes back at us. "Did you see that?" I ask him, as if the seven-month-old understands. "Did you see the way he slid into third?"

The TV is on mute so as to avoid riling up the little guy, who does not yet enjoy loud noises, but I imagine the commentators. The cheers. The crack of the bat against the ball.

But he'll learn to love it. All in good time, if I have anything to say about it.

Baby steps .

"Someday, I'm going to teach you how to play baseball," I continue as the boy's big brown eyes stare back at me. His cheeks are still red from his tormented fit earlier, and my heart cracks as I add, "We're going to play catch and Jenga, and I'll teach you how to swim too. Your mom's great at many things, but she's a terrible swimmer. I've tried to teach her, but she's rather stubborn. Prefers to lie out on a towel with the tip of her toes in the water, instead."

Huck blows a spit bubble, which slides down his chin, and I'd like to think his smile is because he genuinely understands me and how much he's loved.

Instantly, my mind fast-forwards to ten years from now, when I'll tell him stories of his mother that she won't otherwise share. Of our childhood with our twin sisters. Of his grandma and grandpa raising four unruly children.

I imagine Huck laughing at the silly games we played and the pranks we pulled. Well, I did most of the latter, which I will, of course, teach him too. He's not even a year old yet, but I can tell he's got jokester blood in him.

Most of all, I picture the little guy with family surrounding him, always. He might not know his own father, but he will have the support and love of a big-hearted family, that's for damn sure.

The only other thing we take almost as seriously as our loyalty to one another is Jenga. My family takes the game more seriously than heart health and trimmed lawns. We've been playing ever since I suggested it at eleven years old. At the time, I just wanted the twins, Laurel and Lottie, to stop fighting, and Jenga was the only distraction in the house that we could all play. Whit was too young to join us back then, but she's definitely made up for lost time ever since, kicking our asses more often than not.

On the TV, the player takes a swing, launching the ball into the outfield, and at about the same time, the door swings open. My youngest sister storms inside like a tornado, her large bag swinging from side to side as she unties the flannel shirt from her waist.

Once she slumps it all into a pile on the middle of the couch, she flips her wild hair to the side and practically leaps toward Huck like she hasn't seen him in months, when it's really just been a couple of hours.

It's what I love about her as a mother—her affection for her son is out of this world.

"How are my two favorite guys?" She beams as she peppers kisses along the back of Huck's head.

"What about Dad?" I joke.

"He's my favorite grandpa." She pats my shoulder as she sidesteps us and makes her way to the kitchen. "I got back here as quickly as possible. Was Huck okay? His belly seemed to be bothering him earlier."

"The gas coming out of this tiny body was killer," I say. "I'll just remember a mask next time."

Huck giggles like he appreciates my joke. He reaches his tiny hand up to grip my thumb, and my knees buckle. The heart certain people at work don't believe I have swells until it crowds my chest.

"Shhh," I coo as Whitney rifles through the kitchen cabinets. I rock Huck from side to side until his grip on my thumb loosens, and his eyelids flutter, teetering on the cusp of sleep.

According to Whit, he didn't nap as long as usual today, but he needs to eat before he tuckers out for the night.

"Easy," I say, projecting my voice toward my noisy sister the best I can without jarring him.

"I am trying…" She climbs onto the counter and pulls a sippy cup from a jungle of other tumblers on the shelf. She keeps producing them like a long string of ribbons a magician pulls out of his sleeve. As she arranges each one next to the other on the counter by her knee, she huffs. "To get these," she finishes as she lands back on her feet and plucks a cup from the row. "Dad probably put these back there. No one else in this house can reach so far back."

I continue rocking the swaddled bundle in my arms. It's true. The only men who frequent this house are Dad and me. And Huck. But even though he seems to be growing fast, we still have plenty of time before he's tall enough to reach those cabinets.

A few minutes later, Whitney tests the milk's temperature on her arm, and once she's satisfied, she brings a full bottle over. "Thank you for coming by so last minute. Mom and Dad had some housewarming party to go to, and I've had to stop bothering with the twins. I can always count on you, though."

I squeeze her shoulder, fortunate for the opportunity to live nearby, thanks to the recent changes I've made to my life.

"Lottie always insists I call her to help, but when I do, she practically chews my head off. She's focused on the studio, which is great, but she's becoming worse than Laurel in constantly reminding us how busy she is."

I chuckle at her playful eye roll. I know exactly what she's talking about when it comes to this facet of our twin sisters.

"I swear, all Laurel talks about is how busy she is , and I always think to myself, we could've accomplished so much in all the time it took for her to describe every excruciating detail of her jampacked schedule." She scoffs, and it's not as playful as the eye roll. "She's in med school—we fucking get it."

"Language," I whisper and cover one of Huck's innocent little ears.

"Relax. He doesn't even know the difference between fuck and fofo."

"What is fofo?"

"Exactly." She blows loose strands of hair from her forehead. "As I was saying—thank you for coming. I wasn't going to go to the thing earlier, but after I saw the grade on my essay, I needed all the help I could get."

I was on the phone with her while on my way over, during which she mentioned "the thing" was a happy hour poetry slam at an artsy bar here in Savannah. The essay was for the English class she needs to retake this semester since her first attempt ended with too many absences because of morning sickness, doctor's appointments, and what she refers to as her "cankle crisis."

Huck's eyes blink open again as if he can smell his dinner like I would a ribeye grilled to perfection.

"You're only a month into this semester; you should really start off on the right stanza." I snort as I slide the eager, wiggling baby into her open arms.

"You're hilarious," she deadpans as she positions the bottle into Huck's ready mouth.

"It's what I do best," I joke, but there's a layer of sad truth to it too.

I've been the funny guy ever since I can remember, and while it's an easy, natural gig for me, it can be a double-edged sword at times.

"What you do best is being a big brother." She lifts her tired yet sparkling eyes to meet mine, and my chest swells again. This time, it fills with pride. "Thanks again for coming over. I hope I didn't spoil your evening."

"You don't have to keep thanking me, sis. In fact, next time you do, I'm taking back one of your wins. I'll cross it right off the board."

She gasps. "You wouldn't."

We've only recently started playing Jenga at family dinners again, and what started as a short-term solution to the twins' bickering as kids has officially become the longest-standing Conrad tradition.

"How was the thing?" I ask her.

"It was actually more fun than I thought it would be." Her yawn stretches through time and space. Between school and Huck, plus family dinners and the soreness in her back, she doesn't get enough rest—not exactly the sleepless college experience she expected when she enrolled. "Got to hang out with some of my classmates, and I didn't realize how much I needed to be with other people my age."

I clutch my chest. "Ouch. And here I thought you just went because you had to."

"I did have to. For many reasons," she says with a lazy smile on her pale lips. "As much as I love you, most of our conversations and hangs lately have involved Huck's spit-up, explosive diapers, and busted eardrums from trying to talk over his screams."

"I fail to see the downside. I live for that stuff." Again, my attempt at a joke is undercut with a hint of truth.

I might've moved back to Sapphire Creek because my ACL injury ended my professional baseball career just over a year ago, but that wasn't the only reason. The biggest one is staring back at me with his wide, innocent eyes.

Whit shakes her head as Huck drains the last of the bottle. "We both need a life."

Humming, I raise my hand and bring it an inch from her nose. "You are breathing." I skim the backs of my knuckles against her cheeks. "And you are warm. Definite signs of living." I crack a grin, and she tsks.

"You're going to make some woman very happy and equally annoyed someday," she says on a laugh.

"She'd be lucky to be on the receiving end of my huge?—"

She holds the bottle up with her fingers spread out from behind it. "Don't be gross."

"Jokes. My huge jokes . What did you think I was going to say, you perv?"

"I'm serious, Owen." Her lips sink into a frown, and I brace myself. "You've been hiding away since your surgery, rehabbing your knee like a maniac in between working and trying to sell your house in Atlanta, and I've been cooped up in here with this little guy for what feels like an eternity. We should get out more and live ."

She's right. I have spent the last year transitioning from a career in professional baseball to teaching Physical Education to high school freshmen in Atlanta. When the same position opened up in Sapphire Creek, I jumped at the chance to move back home and be closer to my family.

When I learned it was my old baseball coach who was retiring, the deal was even sweeter, as I received the added bonus of taking over my hometown's team too. Principal Weathers chomped at the bit for me to coach and practically offered me the job before my interview had even begun.

I've focused on nothing other than the steps of my plan ever since. It's not as detailed a plan as something Addie Lockhart—aka control freak extraordinaire—would be proud of, but it's better than anything else I've come up with in my entire adult life.

It's fucking drained me too, not that I can let any of it show to Whit or the rest of the family.

With Huck ready to be burped, Whit slips him into position over the cloth on her shoulder and pats his back. Afterward, it doesn't take long for the little guy to pass out, his mouth slightly open.

We both stare at him in the crib, his tiny arms resting above his head as he peacefully sleeps, until my leg cramps, as if to announce, "It's time to go."

I haven't been stretching and exercising it as much as I should, not since school started last month, and unfortunately, the ramifications of it have tortured me more and more lately.

At the door, I pull Whit in for a quick hug and squeeze her shoulder. "I'll check in with you this weekend to see about that life you mentioned."

"You know I wouldn't change a thing, right? I was just… talking before."

"I know. We both just need better balance," I offer. "Also, you're doing great."

"Thank you," she whispers, and it's thick with emotion. Seems like she needed to hear that more than I thought.

"Talk soon, okay?" I level her with my sincerest expression, my lips firm in a tight line. "As always, call if you need anything. I mean it."

"You always do."

In my truck, I check my phone and sigh. A missed call and a text from Gemma. Three calls and twice as many texts from Addie.

LOCKHART

Are you still coming to float?

You were supposed to be here an hour ago.

I had to fill in, and I don't have the time. GET YOUR ASS OVER HERE.

The rest of the messages describe the evil she'll impose on me, and mixed in are a few colorful words that must never be repeated.

So, it's pretty much a typical day at the office.

I rub the exhaustion from my eyes. Then I back out of the narrow driveway and inch away from my sister's duplex, settling into my seat for the thirty-minute drive back to Sapphire Creek.

My phone glares at me from the passenger seat the entire drive, like Addie does during faculty meetings and school functions.

She's never going to let me forget that I'm over an hour late to my float shift, especially not after the basketball fundraiser debacle. It's bad enough I was so late to that, but this second strike might end me altogether.

Addie doesn't offer three strikes.

She barely ever hands out a single one to those she likes, and I am not on that list. On the contrary, I'm on her shit list, alongside litterers, puppy kickers, and jerks who take longer than two minutes to order in a drive-thru.

I made up the last one, but knowing the tightly wound hard ass, I'd bet it's true. Then again, there's no chance she's the type to enjoy greasy fast food.

I check the time again as I near the city limits. There's a chance I'm able make it to the last twenty minutes of float, so I drive directly to the barn, zipping past the widespread golf course on the edge of town. The streetlights cast a glow over the large mossy oaks at its entrance, which are merely a blur as I slow my truck to the legal speed limit.

My foot itches to press on the gas and floor it, as I'm losing precious time, but this is not the moment to get pulled over. Addie would have a field day with that.

I trace the square downtown, driving around each corner with my thumb tapping on the steering wheel faster and faster. Half the shops and restaurants have shut their lights off and locked their doors. A few people mosey along the sidewalks and cobblestone alleys, bags in hand from what's probably their dinner leftovers.

Reaching the barn on the opposite side of town feels like it takes twice the normal amount of time, and when I finally throw my truck into park next to Addie's car, a sigh of relief escapes me with a whoosh .

She's still here, which means there's hope for me yet.

I hop out as Addie emerges through the creaky sliding door, holding one arm across her chest. The woman is usually peculiar, but the way she folds her second arm high across her breasts like she's holding her shirt up is extra odd.

"I made it!" I announce with my most charming grin. During my baseball days, this grin was an important aspect of my brand. It could turn the droopiest frowns upside down, and many fans would even rave on their socials about how quickly I could transform their dreary days into sunshine.

I'm not above using it to my advantage with Addie, even though history has made it clear that it has no effect on her.

"I'm sorry I'm so late, but I had?—"

She storms past me, her arms still secured around her chest as she rushes to her car and yanks the door open.

I follow her hurried steps and call out, "Are you all right?"

She slams the door shut and whirls around with both hands on her hips. "No, I'm actually not all right, Owen," she clips, hissing my name with the sneers of a thousand cartoon villains. "You're not just late; you missed the shift altogether. I had so much to do tonight, but I had to drop everything and rush over here to cover for you."

"What did you have to do tonight—organize your damn yarn for your weekend knitting circle?" I toss, seamlessly falling into normal patterns. It's been like this with her for months—years, really.

"I nearly swiped a mailbox on my way, and I was here for a whole thirty minutes before I realized I'd forgotten to put a damn bra on."

On instinct, my gaze drops to her chest, but her sweater reveals nothing. If she hadn't told me her tits were going commando, I wouldn't have known.

"Don't look at my chest," she screeches and wraps her arms around herself again.

"Relax. There's nothing to see."

"Excuse me?" Grimacing, she lurches backward like she's dodging a punch. "Just because I don't have plastic balloon boobs like your baseball groupies, it doesn't mean there's nothing here. There's plenty."

"I just meant your sweater is thick enough. There's nothing scandalous for you to worry about."

She shakes her head, and her humorless laugh echoes in the night, the sharp edge in her tone striking me in piercing waves.

Well, that wasn't the right thing to say, either.

Fuck .

"You are unbelievable." She throws her hands up. "You make me do your job, and instead of thanking me, you come here to insult me. But you know what? I expect nothing else from you. In fact, thank you for your consistency. At least I can count on you for your unwavering sense of rude and careless behavior. Isn't that comforting?" she deadpans and jerks her door open again.

"Now, wait a minute. It's not what you?—"

The slam of her door cuts me off, and the roar of her gurgling engine signals the end of our non -conversation.

It wouldn't have made a difference to explain to her my complicated personal situation, anyway. No matter how badly I'd love to dispel all the unsavory things about me clogging her brain, what's the point?

She's hated me since we were teenagers. Back then, my biggest problems were getting my math grades up, winning the state championship with the baseball team, and deciding on the date of the next bonfire party at Josh Rivers's house.

I only saw Addie at one of those parties.

For her, I was the biggest problem. That's what it seemed like, anyway.

I was too much of a loose cannon. Too unreliable and goofy. I think she called me cheeky once, and while I thought it was a compliment at the time, it most certainly was not. She snatched my uneaten Little Debbie and threw it into the trash on her rampage out of the cafeteria that day. I don't even remember what I did to set her off.

Since then, I've done a million other things she considers heinous, so it's hard to nail down the exact reason for her distaste of me, not that I've ever asked. She's never given me the chance.

It's been ten years since high school. We've lived separate lives during that time, and now that I'm back, I've basically picked up where I left off.

I'm still the biggest problem for Addison Lockhart.