Free Back to You by Priscilla Glenn Page A

it,” Jenn said with a shrug. “Doesn’t make it any less true.”
    “Whatever,” Lauren laughed. “All I know is that when I find the right guy, there won’t be a reason for me to leave.”
    Jenn lifted her glass. “I can toast to that.” And Lauren tapped her glass to Jenn’s, her smile masking the fact that she couldn’t help wondering if there would ever be a guy she wouldn’t run from.

    “What story do you want tonight?” Michael asked his daughter as she climbed into bed wearing her Disney Princess pajamas, her hair still damp and smelling of her shampoo.
    “Can we look at the picture book?” she asked as she grabbed her stuffed cat and tucked it under the covers beside her.
    “The picture book?” he asked, surprised. “You haven’t asked for that in a long time.”
    Michael walked over to her bookshelf, squatting down in front of it as he looked for the small red photo album he’d put together the first year he moved to New York. There were only about eight pictures in it; for him, it had been a way to remember those things from his old life that he wanted to remember. And everything else, everything that wasn’t in that little book, could just disappear.
    It was a nice idea, but he should have known his demons would exist with or without photographic documentation.
    Still, he kept the album, even though he’d only looked at it a handful of times in rare moments of wistfulness. And then one day, Erin found it when she had crawled under his bed while they were playing hide and seek. For months on end after that, she asked for “the picture book” as her bedtime story; Michael would sit with her and they’d look at the pictures, and he’d tell her the story behind each one. After a while, all he had to do was turn the pages, and she’d be the one reciting the stories to him.
    But when they had moved to Bellefonte last month, their new neighbor, a kind, elderly lady named Mrs. Brigante, had given Erin a box of fairy-tale books as a welcome present, and she had become so entranced with them that she had forgotten about the album until tonight.
    Michael grabbed the little red book and walked back to her bed, sitting beside her and lifting his arm. She immediately crawled into the nook of his body, snuggling against him with her stuffed cat, and Michael put his arm around her before he opened the album in front of them.
    “Do you think you remember the stories, or should I tell them?” he asked.
    “I remember,” she said softly, pointing to the first picture. “That’s you, Daddy, when you were a little boy and a baseball star.”
    Michael smiled, looking down at the faded picture. He was in his red and white peewee baseball uniform, his oversized hat nearly covering his eyes, which were squinted against the sun despite the giant visor. He was just shy of six years old; the team’s coach had taken photos of each of the players that year and given the pictures to them in their end-of-the-season goodie bags. Michael had kept his in his drawer for months after that, with hopes that when he finally found out his father’s new address, he could send him the picture and show him that he was a baseball player now, just like his dad wanted.
    He hoped maybe that would be enough to bring him back.
    “That’s right,” he said. “I played second base. Nobody ever got past me.”
    “Can I play second base?”
    “You can do anything you want, baby girl. How about one of these days while it’s still warm, we go outside and I’ll show you how to throw and catch like me?”
    “Okay,” she murmured sleepily, reaching up to turn the page. “That’s you and your Grandma Rose. You were sticky, Daddy,” she said with a giggle. “‘Cause you got in the jelly.”
    Michael smiled down at her, leaning over to kiss the top of her head. “That’s some memory you got.” He turned his attention to the picture of him sitting on his grandmother’s lap, his hair wadded into sticky clumps and his face