“That’s…” I want to tell Emma that this is a horrible idea, like most of her ideas, but I can’t. “… Sort of perfect.”

“I wish you’d give me more credit for being the genius that I am.” Emma takes another bite of her wrap and smiles. “This is going to be so much fun.”

God, I hope she’s right.

AIDEN

It’s weird how much one change in your life can crash into every other part, like a highway pileup. My crappy vision means I can’t play baseball, which means I’m avoiding most of my friends, which means I’m home most nights, because I can’t drive anywhere else. Except eating dinner with my parents every Wednesday night probably shouldn’t be described in terms of injuries and fatalities. My parents don’t suck. My dad can be really intense, but mostly he’s just a really passionate, enthusiastic person. People like to cast him in the role of the overbearing wannabe-coach dad, but I always got that he was just as invested as me. He was never dragging me out of bed and out onto the field, but he was building me my own practice mound in our backyard and driving me to clinics on the weekends and camps in the summer. I’d rather have a dad who pushes me and dreams big with me than one who doesn’t care at all.

But this last month it’s become apparent that after thousands of games and hundreds of tournaments, baseball was definitely our thing. The thing we did together and talked about together, and dreamed about. And without it, I’m not quite sure how Dad and I fit anymore. I kind of wish we could just rewind it all and go back to the days of hammers and drills and weekend projects together.

“How was work? I heard you helped out the Henry girl.” Dad nods to Mom. “Joanie’s daughter.”

Mom cuts a piece of broccoli with her fork. “She’s working at the Depot?”

“I stopped by to meet her this afternoon after that incident I told you about,” Dad says to Mom. “Good kid, actually. Not what I expected when Ellis told me he hired her.”

“What did you expect?” It’s not that I care what they think about her, so much as it’s weird that Dad sounds like he’s talking about some kind of pseudo-delinquent, which seems like the opposite of the Olivia who was clearly trying to do everything perfect on her first day.

Mom scrapes her fork around her plate, pushing the tiny remnants of broccoli and potato together. Yuck. It’s utterly unholy to mix food like that.

“Well, just with her mom being the way she was, I was expecting something else,” Dad says.