Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The ease of the night before felt steady enough to carry forward.
The baseball field sat just beyond the edge of town, carved out of a wide green stretch that looked as though it had always been there.
Bleachers, worn and wooden, rose along the foul lines, and folding chairs were scattered wherever people felt like settling.
A chalkboard sign by the gate announced the matchup in careful block letters, the names of the teams flanked by little hand-drawn baseball bats.
Mac loved it instantly.
The players wore old-style uniforms—high socks, buttoned jerseys, caps tipped low.
Someone had brought a tinny speaker, and between innings, it crackled with music that sounded borrowed from another decade.
Kids chased foul balls through the grass.
A man near the fence sold peanuts from a paper sack, the shells already crunching underfoot.
“This is charming,” Mac said, shading her eyes as the pitcher wound up a pitch with exaggerated flair.
Connor grinned. “That’s the word people usually land on.”
They found a spot along the third-base line, Connor settling onto the bench first, then reaching out and pulling her down beside him, familiar, like this was already theirs.
It was casual, easy, her knee brushing his, his arm resting along the back of the bench without claiming more than the space she let him have.
She leaned back, watching the batter square up, then bunt with deliberate care.
“You’re not itching to jump in there, are you?” Connor asked lightly.
Mac shook her head, smiling. “Not even a little. I like being on this side of the line.”
He glanced at her, something thoughtful flickering across his face. “Good.”
The game moved at its own pace—no clock, no rush. People talked. Laughed. Drifted in and out. Mac let herself relax into it, the sun warm on her shoulders, the rhythm of the inning breaks oddly soothing. She didn’t analyze every play, didn’t feel the need to correct footwork or anticipate strategy.
She just watched.
In the fourth inning, Connor handed her a bag of peanuts. She cracked one open, tossed the shell to the ground and laughed when a kid darted in to retrieve it like a prize.
“This feels like something I missed,” she said, more to herself than to him.
Connor didn’t tease. “You were busy.”
She nodded. Busy had always sounded like enough.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
Mac didn’t reach for it right away. She waited until the batter struck out and the crowd clapped politely, then slipped the phone out just far enough to read the screen.
Paula.
Just one line.
Quick heads-up. Wisconsin wants to move fast. If we’re staying in play, we’ll need an answer by next week.
Her chest tightened—not sharply. Not panicked. Just enough to register that time had reentered the room.
She slid the phone back into her pocket without replying.
Connor was watching the field, one leg stretched out, the other bent, his attention apparently on the runner stealing second.
He hadn’t looked at her phone, and he didn’t ask what was going on.
Mac exhaled slowly and turned her focus back to the game, but something had changed. Not the way it felt to sit beside him, not the easy warmth of the afternoon. Just the awareness that time, generously loose a moment ago, had snapped back into shape.
The inning ended. People stood, stretched and wandered toward the lemonade stand.
“You want anything?” Connor asked.
She shook her head. “I’m good.”
He smiled, nudged her knee lightly with his own. “Me, too.”
She smiled back, meaning it.
They stayed until the final out, applauding as the teams shook hands and kids ran onto the field. As they walked back toward the car, Mac noticed how naturally people greeted Connor, how easily he fit into this version of Good Hope. How easily she did, too.
The thought lingered as they reached the road, the sun dipping lower now, the day easing toward evening.
She didn’t mention the text.
Not because she was hiding it, but because she wasn’t ready to let the clock start ticking out loud yet.