The Leftovers

time did you get in last night?”
    “Late,” she said. “A bunch of us went out to a bar.”
    “Derek, too?”
    She made a guilty face. She knew he didn’t approve of her relationship with her married boss, though she’d explained numerous times that it wasn’t much of a relationship—just a bad habit, really, something to pass the time.
    “Did he drive you home?”
    “It’s on the way.”
    Kevin swallowed his usual lecture. He wasn’t her father; she was entitled to her mistakes, just like everyone else.
    “I told you,” he said. “You can use the Civic anytime you want. It’s just sitting in the garage.”
    “I know. But even if I had a car last night, I was in no condition to drive.”
    He looked at her a little more closely as she sipped her coffee, both hands wrapped around the mug for warmth. She seemed alert and upbeat, not visibly hungover. At that age, he remembered, you just bounced right back.
    “What?” she asked, uncomfortable with the scrutiny.
    “Nothing.”
    She put down the mug, slipped her hands into her coat pockets.
    “Gonna be a cold night for softball,” she said.
    Kevin shrugged. “The weather’s part of the game, you know? You’re out there under the sky. Cold in the spring, hot in the summer. That’s why I never liked those domed stadiums. You lose all that.”
    “I could never get into softball.” She turned her head, distracted by a bluejay flashing by. “I played one season when I was a kid, and I couldn’t believe how boring it was. They used to stick me in the outfield, a million miles away from home plate. All I wanted to do was lie down in the grass, put my glove over my face, and take a nap.” She smiled, amused by the memory. “I did it a couple of times. Nobody even missed me.”
    “Too bad,” he said. “I guess I won’t try to recruit you for next season.”
    “Recruit me for what?”
    “My team. We’re thinking about going coed. We need more players.”
    She bit her bottom lip, looking thoughtful.
    “I might give it a try,” she told him.
    “But you just said—”
    “I’ve matured. I have a much higher tolerance for boredom.”
    Kevin plucked a peach blossom from the surface of his coffee and flicked it over the railing. He caught the teasing lilt in Aimee’s voice, but also the truth that lay beneath it. She had matured. Somehow, in the past couple of months, he’d stopped thinking of her as a high school girl, or his daughter’s cute friend who stayed out too late. She was his friend now, his coffee buddy, the sympathetic listener who’d helped him through his breakup with Nora, a young woman who brightened his day every time he saw her.
    “I promise I won’t put you in the outfield,” he said.
    “Cool.” She gathered her long hair with both hands as if making a ponytail, but then changed her mind, letting it spill back over her shoulders, soft and pretty against the rough twill of her jacket. “Maybe we could play catch sometime. When it’s warmer out. See if I even remember how to throw.”
    Kevin looked away, suddenly embarrassed. In the far corner of the yard, two squirrels raced up a tree trunk, their little feet scrabbling frantically on the bark. He couldn’t tell if they were having a good time or trying to kill each other.
    “Oh, well,” he said, playing the tabletop like a bongo. “Guess I better get to work.”
    *   *   *
    TOM WAS Christine’s alarm clock. It was his job to wake her by nine in the morning. If she slept any later than that, it made her cranky and threw off her whole circadian rhythm. He hated to disturb her, though: She looked so blissful lying there on her back, her breathing slow and shallow, one hand behind her head, the other by her side. Her face was empty and serene, her belly huge beneath the thin blanket, a perfect human igloo. Her due date was just a week away.
    “Hey, sleepyhead.” He took her hand, tugging gently on her index finger, then her middle finger, moving methodically toward the pinkie. “Time to get up.”
    “Go ’way,” she muttered. “I’m tired.”
    “I know. But you need to get up.”
    “Leave me alone.”
    This went on for another minute or two, Tom coaxing, Christine resisting, hampered by the fact that she could no longer roll onto her side without a massive amount of willpower and logistical calculation. Her preferred evasive maneuver—flopping onto her stomach and burying her face in the pillow—was totally out of the question.
    “Come on,