That hadn’t been the plan, of course, but life as I’d imagined it was no longer an option. So I returned the ring, withdrew my offer on the house, drank myself into oblivion and generally behaved real fucking badly for several months before my dad and my three best friends told me to get my shit together, because life goes on.

Having a project helped, and my buddy Enzo Moretti was a builder, so he’d worked with me on the apartment after hours. There was something cathartic about spending my spare time putting up walls.

It was a cavernous space with high ceilings, exposed brick, and wide-plank wood floors. My bedroom and bathroom were at the back, and the front was basically one big rectangular room, with a kitchen in one corner and a seating area by the three front windows overlooking Main Street.

Thanks to Moretti’s connections, I’d scored nice materials on a limited budget—leftover tile and granite from someone’s new vacation home, reclaimed wood floors from a lumber dealer, doors and fixtures salvaged from old barns and farmhouses, even some of the original details from the firehouse itself. It might have been a little mismatched to an expert decorator’s eye, but it didn’t bother me.

The only thing I wished I had was some land. If I could ever afford it, I wanted a piece to call my own. All his life, my dad had talked about saving up enough to buy some decent acreage when he retired. He’d planned to move out to the country and spend his days tinkering with old cars in a barn, going fishing whenever he felt like it, and teaching his grandchildren how to play pinochle.

Unfortunately, a heart attack had claimed both him and his dreams too soon.

“He worked himself into an early grave,” my mother said the day of his funeral. “Don’t do it, Griff. He wouldn’t want it for you. Find some other way to honor him.”

But my dad had worked his fingers to the bone to keep his father’s business alive, and I’d be damned if it was going to die on my watch. If it meant working longer hours to keep our customers loyal, so be it.

But tonight, there was baseball.

Hungry, I went to the fridge, hoping for a miracle, like maybe I’d forgotten there was a fresh-baked lasagna in there. Or a steak and potatoes. At the very least, a chicken pot pie.

No such luck. Clearly, I’d forgotten to grocery shop again.

But I had some lunch meat and half a loaf of bread, so I slapped a ham sandwich together and scarfed it down while changing out of my work clothes into some sweats.

I was hurrying around to the back of the building where my truck was parked when my cell phone buzzed.

“Hello?”

“How’s my favorite big brother ever?”

“You mean your only big brother ever?” I jumped into the truck, tossing my glove onto the passenger seat.

“Seriously, Griffin, how are you? Have I told you how handsome you look today?”

“We’re on the phone, Cheyenne.” I started the engine. “You can’t even see me.”

“Then I think you should come over to the shelter so I can say it and mean it.”

“And what else?” I asked, because I know my little sister.

“And nothing else,” she said.

“There’s always an else with you, Cheyenne.” I shifted into reverse and backed out of my parking spot behind the building. “And you never say nice things to me. You must need something.”

“So suspicious,” she scolded. “Frankly, I’m offended.”

“Uh huh.”

“I was only hoping to see you.”

“Right.”

“And show you something.”

“Something like an animal you want me to rescue?”

“No, Mr. Know It All, it’s not an animal I want you to rescue.” She paused. “It’s just a kitten.”

I groaned.

“A tiny little orphan kitten.”

“Stop it. I’m not fostering any more animals. They poop on everything. They chew shit.”

“Please, Griff? You’re the one who brought in the stray pregnant cat.”

“Because I didn’t want a pet and she kept hanging around my door.” Of course, that was because I’d been feeding her, but I’d felt sorry for the thing.

“Well, the babies are ready to be adopted, and it’s breaking my heart to see them there every day. I’d take one but you know how allergic Mom is. And of course, I gave up my lease so I could move in with her after her surgeries.”

“I am well aware of your sacrifice, Cheyenne.” My sister loved to bring this up in order to guilt me into doing things. And it always worked—there was no way I could have survived moving back home. I loved my mother, but she drove me nuts. “How long would I have to keep it?”

“Not long, I promise. Just until I can find it a permanent home, which I’m sure I’ll be able to do as soon as school starts up in a month.” Cheyenne was a kindergarten teacher at our old elementary school.

“Fine,” I said grudgingly, heading toward the ball field. “But I can’t pick it up right now. I’m on my way to practice.”

“I would not dream of interfering with old man baseball,” she said, laughing. “Just come to the shelter tomorrow. I’ll get the paperwork ready.”

“You know, you shouldn’t make fun of me after I just agreed to do you a favor. I could still change my mind.”

She laughed again. “No, you couldn’t. I know you, Griffin Dempsey. Granite on the outside, gooey on the inside. You’re like a soft-serve ice cream cone covered with Magic Shell chocolate. You’re like a Cadbury egg. You’re like a—”

I hung up on her. Little shit.

 

 

After practice, most of the team met up at The Bulldog Pub for a few beers, some pizza, and a lot of trash talk about the Mavericks. I sat at an outdoor table on the sidewalk with Cole Mitchell, our star pitcher, and Moretti, our second baseman and fastest runner.

“We’re gonna crush those assholes,” said Cole. “They’re not gonna know what hit ’em.” Then he winced as he adjusted the bag of ice on his shoulder.

Cole was a cop, widowed way too young, now a single dad with a little girl he adored. We’d grown up next door to each other and had been best friends from the day we met. His family had moved in when we were six, and he was the closest thing I had to a brother. He was also the best human being I’d ever known, straightforward and honest, even if he was slightly in denial about our team’s ability to crush the Mavs.

Not that he was the only one.

“Fuck yeah,” agreed Moretti, lifting his beer bottle. He worked for Moretti & Sons, his family’s construction business, and we’d been buddies since his family had moved to Bellamy Creek when we were in middle school. “We’re gonna decimate ’em. And I’m gonna steal home just like I did the last time.” He shifted uncomfortably on his chair. “Hope my groin injury is better by then.”

I laughed and took a long pull on my beer. “Don’t fall apart on me now, assholes. We looked decent tonight. Solid hitting. Good pitching. The Mavs are tough, but I like our chances—if you don’t turn into a bunch of old ladies in the next two weeks.”

“Where’s Beckett tonight, anyway?” said Cole, reaching for another slice of pizza. “He think he’s too good for practice or what?”