“Moreno came by earlier. He wants us back and is making a strong case. We have to ask ourselves where we want the band to go. Are we happy staying in Beaumont and doing a gig here or there? Or do we want stadiums and the shit we had before?”
Our waitress returns and makes quick work of leaving our drinks. I down mine before she has a chance to leave and set the empty back on her tray. “Another one, please,” I ask, receiving a nod.
Harrison leans back in his chair and plays with his glass. “The kids have lives in Beaumont.”
“I know.”
“But we have a place here.” He shrugs. “They like the beach house, but it’s not a place to raise a family of five.”
“I’d have to talk to the missus, but Little One is small enough that she won’t know the difference.”
“I don’t know if I could take the girls away from Mason.” Harrison drives it home with that statement. It’s been a month or so since I’ve visited his gravesite. Sometimes it’s too hard to go there, and then when I do end up going, Mr. Powell is there and I have to wait for him to leave. I always feel better after talking to Mason and wish I had reached out to him years ago.
Taking a deep breath, I lean forward and face my band mates. My best friends. My family. “I’m going to be honest and tell you I’m spilt. The musician in me wants this, maybe not with Moreno, but with another successful manager. Gary’s great, but he’s not cutting it. The other side of me knows Josie will not go for this and asking her will mean the end of us... and I refuse to go down that path. I left her once for music, I won’t do it again.”
I let the words sink in. I can see it on their faces; they know I’ll choose her over the band. Harrison and JD can decide to sign with Moreno or shop for someone new. I left her once for music. I won’t do it again.
I may have just sealed my fate as a musician. If that’s the case, so be it. I’ll teach music at the school and watch my kids play sports. Come to think of it, right now retirement has a nice ring to it.
“We are down two and Noah’s up to bat. We have runners on second and third,” I tell Liam. He’s been on and off the phone with me during the game, which I know has to be boring for him. But our team is trying to get to the district finals and we need to win. If Noah had been pitching today, I would be biting my nails off.
“How many outs?” He asks. I can hear a guitar in the background and I know he’s interrupting their rehearsal to be on the phone with me.
“One.” If Noah gets out, we have one more at bat to try and tie this game.
“What’s the count?”
“Two and two. Stupid calls,” I mutter because behind me is the home plate umpire’s wife and the last thing I want is for her to say something to her husband and him to find a way to hurt Noah’s game.
The pitch is delivered and I can tell Noah’s going to swing; it must look good to him. The loud clink from the bat connecting with the ball has me on my feet. My heart is racing as the ball flies through the air and the centerfielder back peddles, which is a mistake. Even I know you’re supposed to turn and run. His glove is extended, missing the ball by about a mile.
“Run!” I stand and start screaming at the top of my lungs and because my son knows what he’s doing, he’s currently rounding second base while none of the outfielders have even picked up the ball. Nick is on third base wind milling his arm so Noah knows to continue. The other parents are standing, yelling for Noah to run faster. If he scores, we’re in the lead.
The ball is thrown toward home. Nick is yelling. Noah drops his leg and slides into home just as the ball lands in the catcher’s glove. I look at the umpire and wait for his call.
“Safe,” he yells as his arms go wide.
“What’s going…?”
“Oh god, baby, I’m sorry for yelling. Noah just hit a home-run. We’re up by one,” I’m so excited that I can barely keep still, even as I sit down my legs are shaking. I’m given a few pats on the back by other parents as well.
“Woohoo,” Liam yells and repeats what I just told him to the guys. “That’s my boy.”
The next batter strikes out, ending our inning. “Liam, Noah’s going in to finish the game. Oh, sweet mama, I don’t know if I can take this.”
“He’ll be fine. Nick knows what he’s doing. He wants Noah to close out the game.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Its just, you’re not here and I need something to squeeze.”
Liam laughs. “Thanks, Jojo. I’m glad you only need me next to you so you have something to dig your nails into.”
“Har har. Okay, batter up.”
Liam stops talking and knows I’ll give him Noah’s pitch count. It’s easier if he doesn’t ask me questions so I can focus and be nervous for our son who looks cool as a cucumber out on the mound. Our catcher, Junior Appleton, looks to Nick for the call and gives Noah the signal before setting up the location he wants the ball.
“Swing and miss.”
“Ball… shitty call.”
“Be nice, Josie.”
“I am,” I mumble into the phone. I can’t help it if the umpire is blind. “Hit, thrown out at first.”