Ella danced back and forth. “I have to go, Mama, I have to go bad!”
Sarah nodded, took Ella’s head in her hands, holding it tightly.
Dear God, don’t let that be Boone.
Dear God, don’t let him be like that.
Dear God, don’t let him humiliate us all like that.
Strike three, the announcer called. The fans booed the umpire, shouting it should have been a ball. Brennan booed with them.
Boone tucked the bat under his arm and walked back to the dugout, peeling off his glove.
Sarah dragged Brennan with them to the bathroom. On the way back they stopped for ice cream. Sarah tried to concentrate on the game, but for the next couple of innings she could barely see the field, unable to focus.
They ended up leaving at the top of the seventh. Ella didn’t mind. Brennan did. Sarah promised him a treat when they got home, and then, as she drove him, wondering what she’d give him . . .
Ella fell asleep in the car. Sarah put her to bed when they got back to the house then found a minibag of M&M’s for Brennan. He ate them in his bed, munching away, leaning against his night-light pillow, which glowed with different colors every few seconds.
“Good night, bud,” Sarah said, kissing his forehead and leaving his room, making sure to keep his door open a crack.
In her room, she sat down at the foot of her bed, numb. She chewed on her thumb, shocked.
Horrified.
Jeff and Alyssa were so sweet together. Alyssa was so devoted to him. Jeff was a nice guy. A good guy. A great neighbor. Boone’s friend.
Sarah stripped, stepped into shorts and tugged on a camisole, and climbed into bed. She didn’t sleep, though.
She kept thinking about Alyssa. And Jeff. And the fact that Jeff apparently had cheated on Alyssa right and left.
Boone had to have known. So why hadn’t he told her?
Sarah was still awake when he came home three hours later. She looked at the clock. Midnight. Her stomach hurt. It was late. She knew the game hadn’t gone extra innings. She’d left bed and checked her computer to be sure.
Now she listened to him change in the hideous green bathroom. Listened as he turned out the light, opened the door, walked to the bed in the dark.
He climbed into bed, mashed up a pillow under his head. He’d brushed his teeth and used mouthwash, but she could still smell alcohol on him. He’d been out in a bar. Drinking . . .
And doing God only knew what else . . .
Sarah’s stomach churned, spewing acid. She swallowed, and swallowed again, hating where her imagination was taking her.
* * *
The next morning, after Boone woke up and came downstairs, Sarah poured him a cup of coffee, doctored it with milk and sugar, and then handed it to him, asking if he’d heard about Alyssa and Jeff.
“Heard what?” he asked, taking a seat on one of the kitchen stools.
“They’re divorcing.”
Boone frowned. “No, I hadn’t heard that. Who told you?”
“Olivia. Max Fenton’s wife. She texted me last night.”
“Have you talked to Alyssa?”
Sarah shook her head. “Wanted to talk to you first. See what you thought.”
“I don’t know. This is all news to me.”
She leaned back against the counter. “Apparently he’s been cheating on her. Olivia said everyone knew. That Jeff would even pick these girls on the pass list at home—”
“I don’t know about that,” Boone said, looking uncomfortable and rising from the stool.
Sarah crossed her arms, knuckles pressed to her ribs. “Would you tell me if you did know something?”
“About what?”
“You know what. About them. About him. About Jeff having affairs and making Alyssa look stupid.”
“She doesn’t look stupid.”
“She does if everyone on the team knew her husband was screwing around with other women—”
“Why are you yelling at me?”
“I’m upset!”
“Baby, this isn’t about us. We’re not them. And we don’t know what happened, and to be perfectly honest, I’m good with that.”
She took a deep breath, lowered her voice. “I just can’t believe Jeff would do that to her. I didn’t think he was that kind of man.”
Boone said nothing.
“Poor Alyssa.” Sarah pressed her fist to her mouth, remembering her last conversation with her friend, sitting in the kitchen drinking wine, planning Alyssa’s visit to California.
“I think you have to let it go,” Boone said. “You’re just going to make yourself crazy, and fretting about it, or fuming about it, won’t change anything. It is what it is—”
“Which is wrong.”
“But it’s not your business.”