Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 10

dampen the guilt he felt about cheating on his wife, and about capitalizing on catastrophes. Connie had been understanding, all things considered. She'd even uprooted Adam and followed him here so he could more easily stay in Adam's life. College was a concern he hadn't focused on yet. Relocating, rehab, and taking the undemanding job working for Rissa had drained their savings, as had maintaining separate households. He'd had to cut her budget drastically, and she'd worked with him on that as well. "Congratulations. You're a wonderful editor, Connie. They're lucky to have you."
    "The bad news is, I think Adam may have downloaded a virus on my laptop, just when I need it the most. Can you fix it?"
    His computer skills were basic. "I'll take care of it."
    She gave him another smile, relief tinting her eyes. "In that case, I'll go get you another drink. So you don't have to deal with the man-eating piranha at the concession stand again." She winked before turning away, leaving George staring after her, stunned by the first joke she'd ever cracked about his being gay. Did he dare hope she'd accepted he wasn't going to go straight?
    In a perfect world, she'd have been the kind of woman who'd have enjoyed him bringing another man into their bed, and gotten off from watching George fuck him, but she wasn't. He blew out a harsh breath, turning back to the field. Not that he seemed to pick bisexual guys to fuck anyway. She got her items with no side-order of flirting, and returned, handing them to him with a smirk.
    "If you sit with me, George, I promise I won't think it's because you want us to get back together." She handed him the drink. He looked for some sign of deceit in her eyes and couldn't find it. She wasn't much of a liar.
    He loved her. Honest to God, he did. He loved her in the way friends loved each other. She was a caring person, and a great mother, and she could be really funny. Twisting the top off his drink, he followed as she walked toward the row of low bleachers, noting the guys who watched her walk by. She was slim and attractive, and he was torn about how he felt about the possibility she might bring another man into Adam's life, but he could hardly ask her not to. He slid onto the hard metal bench beside her as Adam stepped into the on deck circle. Partly to aggravate Connie, George slid his fingers into his mouth and whistled. Adam turned to see where the sound came from, and the flash of hope in his son's eyes reminded George why it wasn't a good idea to take her up on her innocuous offer. It wasn't Connie who was having the most trouble accepting George had lied about being straight.
    His conscience bit him harder than the unforgiving bleacher seat, but George soon got lost in the game. Adam had a good night, with a double, a single and one strikeout. He made a beautiful catch in centerfield and threw a nice two-hopper to the plate for the game-ending out. George and Connie clapped enthusiastically as he came off the field towards them, dirty, sweating and grinning. He'd almost grown into his front teeth, George realized.
    As Adam leaned sideways to peer around him, George turned to see what the kid was looking at. A young girl was heading toward them with her family. The pert blonde looked a couple of years older than Adam. Forced to come to watch her younger brother play, perhaps. Or she'd decided the game was a good place to hone her feminine skills. She tossed a flirtatious wave toward Adam. The boy returned it, but his face turned scarlet as they walked to the parking area.
    Glancing at Connie, George saw she'd noticed as well. He couldn't figure out why her pleased smile hurt so much. They arrived at Connie's car, and George slipped an arm around Adam's shoulder while Connie unlocked her trunk. The kid flinched away and pushed past his mother, to throw his equipment bag into the space. Connie straightened and handed him her laptop. George grabbed it. "Great game, kiddo," he said quickly, tucking it under his arm. "Behave for your mom. See you guys later." Draining the plastic bottle he'd been nursing, he crushed it in one hand before hurling it into the closest trash container, striding across the gravel lot to his truck.
    He felt isolated in the sea of families arriving for or leaving the games.
    The feeling lingered. His apartment, in a squat, concrete-block complex built in the sixties, felt like a prison as he paced the small rooms, snatching up scattered clothes and stuffing them into a