Play Along(59)

Kennedy takes her time chewing as she watches me. “She did a good job.”

“She was a great teacher.”

“She did a good job with you too.”

Fuck me.

I’ve got my handle on snarky Kennedy, shy Kennedy, and even drunk Kennedy, but sweet and honest Kennedy? I’m a goner already.

As I sit facing her, my legs extended in the space between us but bent so as to not take up too much of her space, Kennedy uncrosses hers, slipping her feet between mine. The couch isn’t long enough for my tall frame, but I couldn’t be happier about having to share it now, the two of us using the armrests as back support to face each other as we eat our midnight dinner.

Her voice is gentle when she says, “If you ever want to tell me about her, you can.”

A simple request, that if I want to, I can. No expectation. No demand to know more.

I swallow down any unwanted emotions that could be sitting at the back of my throat. “I don’t really like talking about her.”

Because there’s not a world in which I could pretend I’m not still that heartbroken thirteen-year-old boy waiting for his mom to get home, and I don’t know how to keep my lighthearted, easy mask on when she’s the topic of discussion.

Kennedy’s bare foot grazes mine, a smile on those lips I want to kiss again. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

“The woman knew how to make one hell of a bowl of spaghetti though.” Kennedy gestures to her nearly empty dish.

Huffing a laugh, I smile. A rare smile when I’m speaking of my mom.

“It’s not that I don’t want to tell you about her, Ken, it’s just that I miss her. A lot. I’ve lived more of my life without her than with, and still I haven’t stopped missing her.”

She drops the bowl to her lap, a grin gracing her lips. It’s not a pitying smile, it’s a genuine one. “How lucky is she to have two boys who love her as much as you and your brother do. And how lucky are you,” Kennedy continues, her knee nudging mine, “to have a mom you love so much you still miss her all these years later.”

I’ve never thought of it that way. I’ve never looked at the thirteen years I had with her with gratitude. It’s always been with anger, that I didn’t have enough time.

But I had thirteen years of being loved by a mother when Kennedy has had none.

“Grief seems like a privilege, in a way,” she says. “To have loved someone so much that you can’t imagine life without them. I’ve never felt that.”

“Not even when you lost your dad?”

She shakes her head, occupying herself by twirling her fork around her remaining noodles. “But I hope one day I’m capable of loving someone that much.” Her smile is optimistic as she looks up at me. “Maybe one day, even I’ll be missed.”

My heart sinks at her hopefulness.

Who the fuck has to hope that one day someone will care about them enough that their presence will be missed?

My wife, I guess.

Kennedy’s set on leaving Chicago, and I know that when she goes, there won’t be a day I won’t be missing her. There won’t be a day I won’t think about her dimples that hide when she scowls at me or her crossword puzzles or the way she bites her bottom lip when she’s concentrating at work. But it’s not her fault she doesn’t understand this yet. She was raised by fucked-up people who didn’t teach their daughter how important she is. How special and loved she is.

She wants me to teach her things? Well, that’s one lesson I’ll be sure to drill into that pretty head of hers.

“Another bowl?” I ask, grabbing hers and standing too quickly.

A sharp pain shoots through my groin and it happens so fast that I can’t hide the grimace on my face.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” My limp is impossible to mask as I hobble my way to the kitchen.

“Isaiah Rhodes.” Kennedy sits up. “What happened?”

Hands bracketed on the counter, I slowly open my hip flexor, stretching out the pained ligaments.

Kennedy stands from the couch when I don’t answer, carefully examining my movements. “Did you get hurt in the game tonight?”

Fuck.

She’s one of four people I was hoping wouldn’t find out.

“When I slid into third base during the fifth inning, I tweaked something in my hip flexor.”

“Why didn’t you come in for post-game treatment?”

I huff an exasperated laugh. “And have you rub out my groin in public? Wasn’t exactly trying to let the boys see just how hard I get for my wife.”

“Well, let me check it now.”

“No.”

“Isaiah, you can’t be playing injured. Dr. Fredrick is going to lose his mind that he wasn’t informed immediately. You have to tell the medical staff when you’re hurt. It’s in your contract.”

“Well, good news. I just did, but you’re not telling anyone else, Ken. It’s not a big deal and they’re going to make it something, keep me out of games I don’t need to miss. It’s just a little sore. I’ll be fine.”

“You could have a tear.”

“I don’t.”

She stands straighter, arms crossed over her chest. “I’ll be the judge of that. I need to examine you. Go lay on the couch.”