Edge and Belle

Chapter 8 (Edge): Uncle

When you're trying to win back your girl, if there were rules for this sort of thing, the first rule would probably be Don't make her any more pissed off than she already is.

It's basic, common sense. Any idiot could figure that out.

I was not an idiot. Well, normally I wasn't an idiot.

So how did I fuck up so badly that she was now angrier than ever at me and I was standing on her porch, about to knock on her door, determined to get her to accept my apology -- although my presence could possibly piss her off even more than she already was.

I was staring down the pitcher and had two strikes under my belt. I could not afford a third one.

For a man who always had a plan, I was at a loss here. How do you make someone listen to you and forgive you when they'd just as soon have your head on a platter?

Since I became the assistant coach two weeks ago, I'd been frustrated with the lack of progress with Belle and West. Piper, when no one was looking, would look at me shyly and wiggle her fingers at me in a little wave. I always smiled when she did that and waved back, then she'd duck her head and look around to make sure West or her mom hadn't seen her greeting the enemy. That killed me a bit that she felt she had to do that, and I chalked up another fuck up on the scoreboard.

But I wasn't backing down. No matter how long it took, Belle was going to see that I meant business. I regretted my words and hated that I hurt her and she was going to realize that we belonged together. She was also going to know just how aware I was that she was a package deal -- and the children were bonuses, not baggage.

Every practice, I'd stroll up to Belle to say hello during the break, hoping there'd be some softening in her face, her body, her attitude.

Spoiler alert: there wasn't.

I didn't let that stop me, and I think some of the team mothers actually enjoyed watching me strike out every single practice and after every single game. I felt their eyes on me and they all just melted away as I came over to Belle. She was what I called coldly polite to me; she'd answer my questions with one-word answers and not ask me anything back. Her hands would begin to fidget, a sure tell of hers that she was agitated, and I'd end each conversation the same way, my voice low so the other moms who were eyeing us couldn't overhear: "I'm not giving up on you, on us, on all of us, Belle."

Then, before she could come back at me about what I'd said, I'd tell her to have a good day and I'd walk back over to the dugout.

Her son wasn't any more open than his mother, either. West was just this side of respectful, having somehow learned how to walk the line between I will be polite and I want to kill you. I could tell he despised when I gave him advice, the same as I did with the other boys, and he accepted my suggestions, but I could see in his eyes that he did not want to use any of the techniques and strategies I offered.

But the boys were on a winning streak, so they all -- even West -- listened and learned.

For two weeks, I was continuously running into a brick wall, the only hopeful sign being those brief finger waves from Piper. Otherwise, I was still being shut out and shut out hard.

And then, today, I completely blew it. Like blew it so epically that even I wasn't sure I could come back from this.

On Saturdays -- game days -- I always arrived at the baseball field half an hour before the boys were due to arrive. I set out what equipment I could and double-checked the roster of who was playing which innings. When the boys started trickling in, I checked them off the list, had them pull their bats and gloves out of their bags, and begin warming up by playing catch with their teammates.