“Well, no. Not really. And Ethan is so picky. It’s macaroni and cheese and chicken nuggets and pizza way more than I really care to admit.” She pauses. “But maybe I’d like to cook if I had more time to do it—to really prepare a meal and be thoughtful about it. Right now it’s a mad scramble to get it done and cleaned up before I collapse onto the couch in a heap of exhaustion.”

The scenario she’s painted twists my heart. Is that what her life is like? Does she not get to enjoy any of it? It makes what my mom said mean even more. Palmer deserves more than a night off from cooking and cleaning up messes.

I mentally pull myself back as my mind jumps into action, trying to figure out how to make her life easier. How to make her happier.

That’s not my place.

Is it?

Before I can think it through, Ethan joins us again.

“Got my stuff and said hi to Ted,” he says, panting. “Are you guys ready to go?”

“You two go on. I need to clean up here and have a quick chat with Ted myself. I’ll pick you up in twenty?”

Palmer nods. “Perfect.”

We exchange a simple grin, and I fight the urge to kiss her. Why does this conversation feel like it should end with a kiss?

“See you soon,” she says and then leads Ethan to her car.

I watch them go and feel a sense of satisfaction settle inside me. It’s reminiscent of a constructive day or a holiday with family that didn’t result in an argument about politics. It’s a peacefulness that washes over me, and the fact that Palmer and her son are the ones who instigated it worries me.

“Hey, Beck!”

I look over as Ted, a staggering man in bib overalls, gets to his feet. A bright-red beard matches the short hair poking out from under a San Diego Swifts baseball hat. I wonder if he’s always worn that hat or if he picked it up for this occasion. He wasn’t wearing it the one time I met with him at Bud’s.

“Ted,” I say, extending a hand as I near him. “It’s nice to see you again.”

“It’s nice to see you too. You’re doing a hell of a job with the boys.”

We shake hands.

“They’re a great bunch of kids,” I say.

He looks around. “Well, they try. Our really skilled kids play travel ball in the spring in Forest Falls, so these guys . . . you know. They aren’t going to be our all-star players or anything.”

The matter-of-factness of his tone strikes a chord inside me.

“These kids are twelve,” I say. “They’re just getting their coordination. Any of them could be an all-star in a couple of years.”