Chapter Thirty-Nine
Eliza
“The fault […] is not in our stars, but in ourselves.”
—William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar
One week later, on a Friday morning, I woke up to the sun beaming into my room and the noise of a lawnmower across the street.
Two bouquets of flowers perched on my desk side by side—daisies from Reed and lilies from Dad.
Both had come to the Saturday night show the day after the championship and opening night.
They had sat together.
And through some act of God—or who am I kidding, maybe the juju of Andrew Lloyd Webber—I didn’t miss any cues, despite peeking at the back of their heads more than I did the stage. How could I not?
Reed and I had spent every moment we could together over the last several days.
He introduced me to his nana’s eccentric chickens, and his granddad even gave me an official tour of their farm.
We had survived a Fulton-Crowley luncheon at Angelo’s despite a heated moment about—you guessed it—baseball.
And Reed had survived a family dinner—even when TJ made a smart-ass comment about the Yankees buying championships.
At that point in the evening, though, Reed didn’t have to say much.
Dad had put TJ in his place in a matter of seconds, like he always did when TJ said that.
I just wished I could’ve slowed it all down.
Reed’s family was due to go back home today.
And in three days, we’d be visiting Arlington and then Philly to look at some houses and performing arts schools.
I knew summer couldn’t last forever, that Reed and I were going to see each other regardless of how many miles we had between us, but that didn’t make today’s goodbye any easier to swallow.
Dad yelled from downstairs, “Eliza, you up?”
“Yep!” I called, stretching.
“I made breakfast and a fresh pot of coffee. Interested?”
“Coffee” is always the magic word. “Be right down!”
I threw on a pair of old denim cutoffs and my favorite Aaron Judge jersey before skipping down every other stair and stopping short when I got to the kitchen doorway.
Bagels, muffins, fresh fruit, and two steaming mugs of coffee covered the table in front of our bay window. With the morning light streaming in and catching the steam and bits of dust in the air, the room seemed dreamy, almost magical.
“Did Mom set this up before she went to the store?”
“Nope. This”—he gestured with open arms to the bounty—“was all me.”
I eyed him suspiciously as I plopped into a chair.
“Well, I set up the silverware.” He stabbed a couple of melon pieces and dropped them onto his plate. “And I did pick up the bagels and muffins.”
I laughed. “Thanks, Dad.” After careful consideration, I went with my favorite, an everything bagel smothered in cream cheese. Perfection.
He sat down and took a long drink of his coffee. “I spoke to Ms. Sparrow and her fiancée as they came out of the bank yesterday. Looks like they’ll get approved for the loan.”
“That’s great!” After our Sunday night final performance, Ms. Sparrow tearfully accepted our bouquet on the stage then surprised all of us with an announcement that she and Ms. Adams would be buying the Lyric and hoped to start the rebuild this fall. There wasn’t a dry eye in that amphitheater.
“Meeting up with Reed again today?” Dad asked.
I nodded. “At the stadium, I think.”
“He leaves soon, right?”
The bagel turned scratchy as it slid down my throat. “Tomorrow.”
Thanks for reminding me.
“Wow.” He picked up a muffin and unwrapped it. “Doesn’t feel like it’s been two and a half months since the start of the season. So much has changed.”
Understatement of the year.
“So I know you’re busy getting that application and essay for the UNC internship completed, but I was wondering if you’d help me out with a little…project.” He set his mug down, cupping his hands around it.
“What kind of project?” I popped a piece of cantaloupe in my mouth.
“We need to think of a new name for the stadium.”
“Shouldn’t that be the Fultons’ concern now?”
“Yes.” He paused and pursed his lips. “And ours.”
The fruit caught in my throat. “Wait. What do you mean—”
“I’ve agreed to co-own it with the Fultons.”
My fork clattered against my plate. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.” He smiled. “Truth is, it’s a hell of a lot of work for one person to run alone, especially when you have another business to keep up. Makes sense to have two people—or two families—run it.”
“So that’s it?” I leaned back in my chair. “After decades of fighting, you guys are just going to work together now?”
“I thought the big lunch we had at Angelo’s the other day went well.
” He broke off a piece of his muffin and ate it.
“I mean, I know I got a little carried away when Louis made the comment about pro baseball not needing so many games per season, but come on. We got along fine for the rest of the afternoon.”
I guess he was choosing to forget the part where they also argued about whether baseball managers should be able to challenge calls, or the part where they argued about the correct way to boil hot dogs in concession stands, or about whether stadiums should use a prerecorded version of the national anthem.
“Have a little faith, Eliza.” Dad stole a grape from my plate. “People can surprise you.”
I leaned forward as hope welled up inside of me, squeezing my heart. “So…so this means we’re not moving? No trip to Arlington or Philly this week?”
“Not unless you want to take a look at those schools. I want to do what’s best for you too. Even if that means moving.”
I sprang out of the chair and fell against him. My voice was muffled against his polo. “Thank you.”
“No, thank you.” He hugged me tightly.
I pulled away. “For what?”
“For reminding me that I don’t need to run away from my ghosts.
I should honor them by staying and helping protect what they built.
” He clasped his hands in front of him as I sat back down.
“Watching you work in the theater, seeing the same joy on your face that I used to see on hers…it keeps your grandmother alive. Keeps her closer to here.” He tapped his chest. “I needed that.”
I rubbed my fingers over my tattoo.
Me too.
“I’ll always keep the light on for her, Dad,” I said. “Don’t you worry.”
The grass glistened with the morning dew in the outfield of Crowley Park, or now Fulton Park. Crowley-Fulton Park? Fulton-Crowley Park?
Reed sat on the rubber of the pitcher’s mound with his long legs pulled against his chest. The sun burned brightly above him, silhouetting his hair and shoulders. I couldn’t wait to tell him that we weren’t moving.
But it didn’t change the fact that he’d still be leaving. Tomorrow.
As if he felt me staring, he turned around and smiled. “Hey.”
“Hey.” I crossed the red dirt of the first-base line and sat next to him, intertwining my fingers with his. “Did you hear the news about my dad and your granddad?”
He chuckled and scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah, I heard it. Can’t believe they’re going to work together.”
“I know, right?” I leaned against his shoulder. “I’m so going to take videos and send them to you when they start arguing.”
“Or maybe I’ll send them to you.”
Send them to me? Why would he be sending them to me?
Unless…
“Dad’s retiring from the army.” He faced me. “And he and Mom want to move back here.” He paused, but I couldn’t speak. My brain was going a hundred miles a minute, and my mouth apparently couldn’t catch up.
“He’s going to be the one to work with your dad,” Reed continued, smiling. “And he wants to be around to learn the ropes of the farm for when Granddad finally retires—”
I cupped his face with my hands and kissed him so deeply that a prop box full of bulbs crashing onto a hardwood floor wouldn’t have fazed me.
“I was hoping you’d be happy about it.” He laughed softly and ran his fingers down my jaw, making the warm rays of the summer sun prickle against his cool touch.
Happy?
I was elated.
Ecstatic.
Relieved.
Until I remembered…
“You do realize that my dad coaches the high school team. He’ll be your coach this spring,” I said.
“I’m looking forward to it.” He bopped my nose. “I need a good coach for my senior year.”
The sunlight reflected off the silver chain that disappeared under his baseball tee. I ran my fingers over the grooves of it. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about this all summer. What’s on the necklace?”
He lifted the chain over his head and laid a set of dog tags in my hand.
I read the text engraved on one: “Always near, never far.”
“My father had them made for me before his last deployment. Said they’d bring me luck.” He looked around at the stadium and released a deep breath. “Guess he was right.”
Guess he was.
He stood and then pulled me to my feet. “So I’ve been thinking about that time we played ball in Clairview.”
I smirked and slipped his necklace back over his head.
“The one where I hit the hell out of your changeup? And then your fastball?”
“Yep, that time.” He laughed and nodded toward home plate, where a bat and a bucket of balls sat. “You up for a rematch?”
“Are you?” I bounced back and forth on my feet. “I am wearing my lucky jersey today. It never fails me.”
He flicked my hat and then picked up his from the mound, tugging it on. “We’ll see about that.”
I hurried behind home plate and threw him a few balls before taking my stance inside the box. “Don’t go easy on me, Fulton.”
He smiled. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Crowley.”