Quit Your Pitchin'

by Lani Lynn Vale

  I heard him take about eighteen hundred more pictures before I got into my vehicle and drove away, and wondered why I was so lucky to be married to a woman who had that man as her brother.

  My phone rang as I was about halfway home, and I put it to my ear without checking the caller ID.

  “Hello?” I answered.

  “Um, George?”

  I frowned. “Diamond?”

  It’d been over six months since we’d seen Diamond, or heard from her. Diamond was getting her act together, at least I hoped, and hopefully getting help.

  She was slowly getting better—at least from what I saw progress wise over the eight months that Wrigley and I were separated. I hoped she continued to do so in the time that she’d been away.

  “Yeah, it’s me,” she paused. “How’s Wrigley?”

  I smiled. “She’s pregnant, and apparently craving your Grammy’s Snowballs.”

  Diamond made a gagging sound. “Those things are disgusting. They taste like a meatball rolled in powdered sugar.”

  I chuckled, then sobered moments later. “Are you well, Diamond?”

  She paused for so long that I wasn’t sure she was going to answer.

  “I’m better,” she finally answered. “I’m getting help.”

  “Where?” I questioned.

  “A couple of hours away,” she said. “And no, I’m not done yet, and no, I won’t tell you where I am.”

  I snorted. “Your sister misses you.”

  She waited a beat before answering. “I miss her.”

  “Why’d you call?” I finally asked.

  I pulled into the driveway of our home and shut the truck off, but didn’t get out.

  Instead, I waited for her to answer.

  It was a long time coming.

  “I wanted to make sure that she was happy. And I wanted to make sure that I didn’t fuck up y’all’s lives by my actions.”

  I frowned. “Diamond, we both know that you weren’t you when that happened. You didn’t fuck anything up. Our marriage was never built on the best foundation.”

  “And now?” she asked. “Is it now?”

  “Now it’s got a goddamn bunker a mile-deep underneath of it. There’s no way it’ll ever break,” I admitted.

  She laughed. “That’s good.”

  “When are you going to call Wrigley?” I asked.

  She cleared her throat. “When I’m well.”

  With that, she hung up, and I was left wondering whether I should tell Wrigley about the call or wait for Diamond to make the first move.

  I was still contemplating my choices as I made my way inside our home.

  Lucy met me at the door, licked my hand, and then went to lay down next to the couch.

  I made my way over and grinned at what I saw.

  Wrigley was asleep, hands thrown over her head, with her belly exposed. Micah was smooshed in between Wrigley and the couch, his head resting on what was left of Wrigley’s lap.

  Our other baby, baby girl Hoffman, was dancing in her mother’s belly, a foot or an elbow tracing its way across her belly, back and forth. My rescue puppy that I’d gotten while separated from Wrigley lay at the floor by their feet.

  I’d never seen a more beautiful sight in the world.

  After taking a picture, and then studying my world for a few more long moments, I made myself useful.

  I made my woman cookies.

  And Diamond was right. They did taste like meatballs covered in powdered sugar.