19. FORGET ME NOT
THE CIVIL WARS
DINAH
“And you’re ready for this afternoon, young lady? You’re gonna win this thang?” Charlie trots around my store in her four-inch, emerald green wedges, as she’s prone to do. A jumbo, Classic Beer Pretzel in one hand and the largest size soda I offer in the other. She is larger than life in every facet of her life, and I’ve recently started offering the jumbo version of at least one flavor a week, just for her.
“Yes, ma’am.” I pop into the kitchen, pull a few dough balls from the proofing drawers and let them rest on the counter before heading back to the dining room. One of the girls will be in to work on twisting within the next half hour, when I’ll be officially off for the weekend to prep for the Peewee Spring Training game and the announcement of the winner of the Badger Bites Competition. “But shouldn’t you be hoping Maloy and Nate take the win?”
She waves her hand in the air, losing a few salt pieces to my floor in the process. “They have one another, and I like your pretzels better. Though I’ll never admit it in public, so don’t quote me on it. I mean, Dinah, they’ve based their entire livelihoods on tater tots. I’m a proud mama, but I gotta draw the line somewhere.”
“I like their tots. The Sweet Potato Marshmallow combo makes me think of Thanksgiving.”
“Yeah, yeah.” She takes another bite and slides onto a swivel chair. “Enough about them. Tell me ‘bout your flavors for the weekend.”
“Cracker Jacker Crumble Jumbo Pretzels. Peanut Butter and Jelly-filled Bites. And my Jalapeno Bacon Bites with Beer Cheese Dip. It’s Jack’s favorite.” I tick them off one at a time on my fingers.
“Mmmhhmmm. Delicious,” she hums. “And speakin’ of delicious. It’s ‘bout time you tell me every single delectable morsel about this romance with Jackson. You sure were awful cozy in the closet last week. And I heard that Stacy girl showed up outta nowhere.”
“Isn’t she local?”
“I don’t care where she’s from, she doesn’t belong with our boy. Now, spill.”
I wave her off and make myself busy. Jack and I discussed Stacy at length after meeting her last Saturday. He told me he’d planned to propose, that he thought they wanted a life together. But after the accident, when Jack woke up in the hospital as a different person, it was quickly evident that Stacy preferred one version of him over the other.
“She was nice enough. I’m glad I met her.”
Charlie whistles and clicks her tongue in her cheek. “Well, good riddance, I say! She never deserved him in the first place. And after the way I’ve seen y’all neckin’ all over this town, I don’t think she’d stand a chance if she ever came crawling back anyway.”
“She’s married, Charlie. Happily, by the looks of things.”
Charlie huffs, but I see the tilted smile she tries to hide.
I glance around the shop where customers seem happy in their little corners, but I’ve learned they always have a listening ear. Mrs. Cotten gives me a furtive wave that tells me she’s keeping up with every bit of this conversation and is positively titillated for more insider intel. Jackson and I will be front page news of her beloved blog, Somethin’ to Talk About.
I make a mental note to troll it later.
“The Petals’ storage closet is not all over town, Charlotte,” I gently remind my friend, making my way back behind the counter.
She gasps and takes a ferocious bite of her pretzel, talking through it. “Don’t you start with all that Charlotte business. That boy must be doin’ a doozy on your senses if you’re callin’ me by my proper name. I’ve got an oil for that.” She shakes her index finger at me over the rim of her cup as she abandons hope for gossip in favor of concocting the perfect potion for what ails me. “Bergamot and clary sage oughtta do the trick. I’ll be back later with ‘em, and I expect the tea when I return.”
She leaves the store as quickly as she came, but I know she couldn’t possibly bring me anything that’ll change the way I feel.
For the first time in my life, I am completely in love.
Everything about us feels right. Some days he’s Jackson and other days he’s Jack, but he’s always mine. Always considerate and kind. His touches, tender and respectful. His mind and heart, avenues I want to explore forever.
But I haven’t told him how I feel yet. Every time I come close, Emory’s voice, reminding me that I romanticize real life, chimes in my head. What’s more romantic than insta-love? Or than fighting for that love, tooth and nail, every step of the way. The readiness to hand your heart over to another completely.
It happened quickly, but it happened all the same. I love J. Jones. Now I just need to decide what to do with that.
He takes me to Monday family lunches, and I feel like I really and truly belong with their group. Winnie and Brooke fan their faces and giggle like teens every time Jack catches my eye, and each occurrence leaves me blushing with the knowledge that he saves those secret smiles for me. His parents hug me like I’m one of their own when we arrive and leave, and Owen started giving me playful noogies and brotherly advice on my second visit. He hasn’t stopped. And even after catching the beginnings of our dalliance in the storage closet, Gram is fully on board the Love Train too.
Every time I look the least bit unenthusiastic, tired, sad, worn out, happy, etcetera, Gram encourages Jacky to whisk me off to the nearest closet for some TLC. And sometimes, he obeys. I love it.
Greeting Emma, one of two teens that Shelly recommended from the local church, I lay out the plan for the weekend for her. It’s the first time I’m leaving everything in her hands, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have trepidations. But I feel like this weekend and the Badger Bites Competition is something I’ve been working towards, not only professionally, but also as a member of the Honey Hill community. I feel at home here and happy. I want to put down roots and stay. Winning the competition and having my business represented by our local baseball team would feel like putting my stamp of ownership on the town. That Honey Hill is mine. I belong. My perfect pretzels say so.
Not to mention the overwhelming burst of pride I get every time J. Jones comes home from Peewee practice brimming with energy and excitement over a game he has loved his entire life. Like he’s hit a homerun at the bottom of the ninth with bases loaded. Of course, he loves the team and his time with kids, but I suspect his renewed camaraderie with his friends and siblings after feeling isolated for so long has been like waking up after a long and hopeless, fog-covered dream. He’s happy, and so am I.
Competition or not, it feels like a win.
If I were the type of person who enjoyed spending my Saturday afternoons in the Southern heat, spring pollen whimsically swirling through the air on a breeze, and elementary-aged kids taunting one another from a cement dugout while their parents encourage them from the sidelines, then I would be entirely blissed out right now.
These sportsball parents are crazy. Griffin Lovett and his brother have not only started their own childish chants in the hour since this game started— We need a catcher, not a booger snatcher and Give us a pitcher, no more booty itchers— aimed at Jackson and Owen, respectively. But they also seem to be collecting stats for every child as if they were professionals, with all kinds of chatter over RBIs and hit percentages and unrealized potential.
I feel like maybe I should remind them the kids we’re cheering on—at least seven of which I’ve seen pick their nose and eat what they found—are between the ages of four and eight. But what do I know? Their wives seem to be on board, too, screaming like their heads will explode if Theo so much as tips the ball with the end of his bat. And that same kid’s grandparents are a whole different story. Maybe this is all a kooky, but well-respected piece of the small-town puzzle that I’ve yet to acclimate to. Give me a few years, a toddler, and my mini-megaphone, and I’ll be hollerin’ with the rest of ‘em.
Not to mention, sweet little Theo who yells like a loon each and every time Molly makes any kind of play out there. He comes by it honestly, that's for sure, out-yelling my sister—who cheers at a respectable, yet enthusiastic decibel in my opinion—by a mile. And Molly—rocking the cutest sports getup I've ever seen, strawberry blonde French braids, and a backwards baseball cap—is positively smitten by Theo’s attention.
Honestly, I don’t have to love any sport to love the joy on these kids' faces or the energy of the crowd, the sense of community as parents holler and cheer, and the aroma of fried snacks in the atmosphere. Jackson has been catching the ball all afternoon, high-fiving every kid who comes to bat, pumping his fist in the air when one makes contact—no matter how small—and joining the chatter from the box, ribbing his brother on the mound and his friends at first and third base.
And I am enjoying the show.
He demonstrated how to properly wear a hat backwards for Molly somewhere between the first inning and the snack break everyone took a half hour ago, and now it would be absolutely criminal to take my eyes off him. Remember when I thought forward-facing hats were kind of sexy and maybe a little mysterious? Yeah, that girl was new to sports. To baseball. To Jackson Jones. She was a fool. Because, from where I’m sitting now, all the romance books I’ve dedicated my life to studying have been spot on. Backwards ball caps are in a category of their own, and it is a steamy one. I swear, he does this to me on purpose.
He's carefree, laughing, and seems so very strong today. Completely in his element. And so am I.
During snack time, all the Badger Bites competitors were asked to set up tables and samples for spectators so votes could be cast on flavor, presentation, and compatibility with the team.
Though I know I had stiff competition when it came to the Banner brothers’ tater tot nachos, the fried donut holes Mrs. Holmes entered, and a frozen dipped-banana stand with every topping you could dream of, I'm proud of my entries. The response was amazing and my table quickly ran out of samples
The winner will be announced at the end of the game, earning a two-year contract as the official snack for the Honey Hill Badgers.
Win or lose, though, I'm just plum happy.
It looks like the game is about to begin again, though the coaches still seem nonchalant on the field. A few kids practice-swing in their chalk bubbles—I'll learn what they’re called eventually—while another receives instruction from Jackson at home plate.
He kneels down at the little girl's eye level, tapping her helmet and lifting her chin with his finger. His face is stern but soft, and I know he's likely giving her an inspirational speech of some sort. The kind you see in sports movies that end in a slow clap and smack on the rear. Which, obviously wouldn't be appropriate in this case, but inspirational, nonetheless.
The little player nods enthusiastically, wrapping her arms around Jackson's neck in a tight hug, and all the women in the stands collectively swoon. I am honestly proud, and equally shocked, that I don’t take the opportunity to stand in the middle of the bleachers right now and claim my territory. I’ll plant a flag with my name on it at his feet if I need to, but when he finds me in the crowd and throws me a flirty wink, I’m feeling far too satisfied with my current state to care what anyone thinks. That’s my man. The wink and the backwards hat are just for me, ladies.
The kids begin taking their places. Maloy and Nate goof off then convince half the players to take a lap around the fence before play starts again. When someone calls his name from the other side of the fence, Jackson turns from where he’s still kneeling, giving me another glimpse of the dazzling, charming grin that drew me to him in the first place.
I catch his eye but freeze when I see the bat swing behind him. The bat that he doesn't register until my eyes widen, and I see panic flash across his face. I think I scream his name, but it’s too late. Jackson turns his head back—a defensive impulse—facing the threat head on. The sickening thud of the bat hitting his skull is the last thing I hear before he falls and my world explodes in a deafening silence.