“Who knows what will happen?” I say, trying to hide my feelings from Ethan. “Baseball is mostly about fun, anyway. Remember?”

“Yeah.”

I pace the floor and have the thought that I’m suddenly my father, wishing my boy would talk to me. Wishing he’d just open up and tell me what’s going on so I don’t have to worry.

Oh, the irony.

“How’s school?” I say, cringing as I really sound like my mother. Next I’ll be asking him about the weather.

Just talk to me, kid.

“It’s fine,” he says like he’s not getting to the point anytime soon.

“Ethan?”

“Yeah?”

I sigh. “What’s going on?”

I stop walking near the window and gaze over the city. Cincinnati is beautiful. It looks like an amazing city to check out, and I think about telling Ethan about it—asking him if he knows any cool places we could go to if he and his mom were here.

But then I stop.

Because that’s not happening.

My spirits fall to the floor, taking my heart right along with them.

“Do you remember telling me that it takes guts to tell people how you feel?” he asks.

“Yeah, I do. We were at your house playing trivia.”

“You also told me that you and my mom had something special going on.”

Fuck.

I grit my teeth to the point that I hear them grind together. The intense pressure in my jaw is much preferable to the state of pain in my chest.

“This is really complicated, Ethan.”

“Why do adults just say things are complicated when they don’t want to explain them?”

Damn kid. I smile sadly.

“Fair question,” I say. “Sometimes there are tricky topics that adults might think kids can’t quite grasp.”

“Maybe. But sometimes there are things that kids have to think about, and they can’t figure them out because adults won’t explain them.”

“Another fair point.” I sigh. “My relationship with your mother is between the two of us. Okay? I mean that with all due respect. All I can share with you is that . . . is that something happened with me, not her—she’s innocent in this—and I have to leave.”

He groans, clearly unhappy with this answer. And then he takes in a quick breath.

Even though I can’t see him and am a couple of hours away, I sense the change in him. I can feel the vibration of an upset little boy bleeding through the phone.

“You told me not to let my thoughts turn into worries,” he says, his voice on the verge of panic. “And I’m worrying because of you.”

“Ethan . . .”