He unfolds his hands and leans back, grabbing the edge of the picnic table. He watches me closely. “And what is it that you want to do, Cole?”

Fuck if I know.

I stand and stretch my arms over my head. My right shoulder pulls from the injury I sustained on national television last year—a high throw to home and Balmby needing to score . . . and me in the way. At least I got him out.

But what do I want to do? That’s easy. I want to play baseball. Live the life I’ve always lived.

I want to get up in the morning, go to the field, work out, play ball. Then go home, have dinner, call a woman if I’m feeling that kind of way, and go to bed.

Wash, rinse, repeat.

Except I can’t. And I never will again.

My stomach twists so tight that I think I might puke.

“What do I want to do? Are you trying to get rid of me already, old man?” I ask, biting back bile.

“You know better than that.”

“I’ve only been here two days. I couldn’t possibly be driving you crazy yet.”

Dad gets to his feet. “You know that having you here is the best thing to happen to me and your mother in years. We’ve missed you. We’ve not gotten to see you nearly enough, but it was a sacrifice we all had to make and we made it happily. Hell, you could move in, and your mother would be over the moon.” He smirks. “But if you hear something in the middle of the night, close your ears.”

“Dad!” I make a face. “What . . . no. No. That’s my mother.”

He chuckles, amused with himself.

“I’m definitely not moving in with you. I’m retired, not desperate,” I say, physically shaking the idea out of my head.

“So, are you staying in San Diego?”

“Maybe.” I pace around Mom’s bright-yellow tulips. “It’ll probably depend on what offers come in and what my agent thinks I should do. There’s lots to consider.” I hope.

“Makes sense.”

I blow out a breath and shove my hands in my pockets. I stop walking.

The knot tightens like it does late at night, when there’s no way to distract myself from reality. I hate thinking about all this. There is no great solution.

There’s also no one to talk to about it. Not really. Not without making it a big deal . . . and making it real.

“What’s Mom making for dinner?” I ask, desperate for relief.

“Your favorite—chicken-fried steak and mashed potatoes.”

I smack a mosquito on my arm. “Well, let’s go in and get cleaned up before it’s time to eat. I’m a mess from that fence.”

Dad wraps his arm around my shoulders, and we head toward the house. “You know what, Cole?”

“What?”

We stop at the base of the stairs that lead to the back door. Dad turns to face me.