Chapter 33
BECCA
The leaves are starting to change, and there’s a crispness in the air. I love summer, but there is something about the shift of new seasons that has always brought joy to my soul.
Being at home without Sam these last two weeks has been strange, but healing. Working in the garden, sleeping in my sheets, I feel settled, not only focused on survival.
I am not obsessively checking my bank account five times a day to see what transactions have occurred. Between my paycheck and Charles’s commission, I’ve started to let the anxiety ease.
The soft launch opening date for Holly’s salon has passed, and progress seems to have stalled.
For Sam’s part, he has moved on completely to other jobs but still checks in for inspector issues.
The few times I have seen him since I moved back into the house, I have asked about the salon.
He brushes it aside and tells me not to worry; inspector issues can happen.
Rick’s text sits in the back of my mind like a splinter needing attention. But tonight, Sam asked if I could clear my schedule for a date he has been planning. I sit on the porch swing he built, waiting for him to arrive. It’s a weird feeling waiting at home for your husband to pick you up.
I shove that thought aside and focus on our growth. My heart does something embarrassing when I see my husband pull up in his Cascadia Bucks shirt, backward Mariners hat, and jeans that are so perfectly worn, designers would try hard to replicate them.
Sam just looks at me for a moment, one leg on a step, not quite stepping on the porch, and smiles.
“What?” I ask.
“Stay right there.” He whips his phone out, and I start to laugh when he snaps a photo.
“This is what dreams are made of, baby, you, sitting at our house, on the swing I built. This is what I imagined.” Sam smiles fondly at me.
My feelings are more complicated; this is not what my dreams were. When I asked for a porch swing, I imagined both of us on it. But I shake off that feeling and ask what I start every date with: “Since I don’t know where I’m going, is this okay?” I point to my outfit.
Sam walks over and grabs my hand to give me a twirl.
“Need to check every inch,” he explains as I laugh and spin in my knee-length butter yellow sundress.
“Almost perfect. You just need one thing,” he confesses.
“What?”
“My old Bucks hat. Believe it or not, tonight is the first game of the local playoffs, and they actually made it!” Sam’s excitement radiates through him.
“What? Really? That’s amazing! This never happens. We might actually have to wait in line for a beer since there could be a crowd.” I laugh at the possibility.
“I know, but don’t worry, I thought ahead and got us the best seats in the house.”
His forward thinking takes me aback. I am usually the planner in the relationship, and I take my job seriously. But to have nights like he has given me, where I just have to show up and have fun, they mean everything. Turning off my brain is a luxury I don’t get often.
I run back inside to grab the hat, and then we head out.
The Cascadia Bucks stadium is an older, beloved ballpark just outside the main stretch of town. The seats are chipped metal bleachers, and the scent of damp earth and grilled onions hangs in the air. The scoreboard is a simple, hand-operated affair, with each number hand-placed with every run.
Usually, the seats are first-come, first-served, but Sam ushers us to the section of the stadium reserved for local special guests like the teacher of the year or visiting former teammates.
We take our seats, a few rows behind home plate. Sam always told me that “purists” prefer this view so they have optimal viewing of the entire field, which, sitting here for the first time, I can understand.
“I feel like we’re celebrities right now. How in the world did you get us these seats?”
Sam leans in, kisses me on the cheek, and whispers in my ear, “They saw I had the most beautiful woman in the world with me and wanted to make sure everyone knew it.”
I lean back giggling, swatting his chest, “Stop it, you charmer. But seriously, why the VIP treatment?”
Before Sam can answer, an announcer kicks on, thanking the sponsors and announcing we will begin shortly. “I’ll be right back, baby,” Sam says, giving me a quick kiss before walking away to use the restroom, I presume.
I can’t get over how packed the stadium is tonight.
I look off in the distance on the first base line and squint …
is that Phoenix? I look next to her, and sure enough, there is Nessa, along with Mack, Reece, and Jared.
And one row behind them I see Holly, Grammy, and Grandad.
What is going on? Before I can pick up my phone and ask, I see a familiar figure run out onto the field.
Sam jogs to the pitcher's mound and clears his throat as he holds up a microphone.
“Hello Bucks fans! Sorry for the interruption. I won’t keep you long, I know we are all anxious to see the Bucks take home a victory tonight!”
The crowd cheers in agreement.
“Most of you are here for baseball tonight, and not a love story. But some stories don’t wait until the ninth inning. There’s a woman here tonight—Becca—and I owe her something I should’ve said a long time ago. Hell, I should’ve lived it.”
Sam locks eyes with me for the first time, and I feel the audience’s tension growing with mine.
“I messed up. I made choices that hurt someone I love. That’s on me. And while most of you don’t know the details, you know what it means to screw up something good and want to earn it back.”
The stadium goes silent as Sam continues. "I didn't come up here to grovel—" He pauses, scratching the back of his neck "Okay, well, maybe a little."
The crowd laughs along good-naturedly. “And I’m fully aware this is probably the most over-the-top thing I’ve ever done …”
Sam smiles, pulling lightly at the collar of his shirt with nerves. “I’m not here to pretend this fixes everything. I know it doesn’t. I came here to make something clear: Becca, you deserve the kind of love that shows up, even like this.”
He pauses, thinking about his next words. “The kind that shows up in front of everybody. And I should’ve been the first one to give it to you. You deserve to be made a fuss over. So here I am. On the field. Owning it. Waiting.”
Oh no … no … he isn’t, is he recreating the scene from Never Been Kissed? Is he crazy?
“If there’s a part of you—any part—that still wants this … that still wants us …Then meet me here in five minutes. And kiss me like it’s the first time. Make me the happiest man alive.”
On cue, a handmade sign gets dropped just in front of the scoreboard, and a portable digital clock is brought out from the commentators' booth, reading “five minutes.” The clock starts ticking down. Fans murmur in confusion at first, and cell phones are brought out everywhere to record the scene.
I look over to the crowd of my friends and see they are all holding up signs with a variety of phrases, like “Kiss Him Like You Mean It” and “#TeamBecca.”
My breath catches. I’m already crying, and I didn’t even feel it start. He planned all of these details, even down to the countdown?
The clock on the scoreboard reads 3:00, glowing bright and merciless when I finally come to my senses.
I hear Nessa screaming somewhere, “GO!” or “RUN!” or something equally dramatic, but it’s all a blur. I’m stuck, frozen between two rows of strangers who are slowly catching on.
Someone says, “That’s her!” And the points and whispers increase from there with good-natured smiles as if I’m someone worth making a scene for.
I laugh through a sob and press both hands to my face. This can’t be real. Sam, standing in the middle of the damn field, pouring his heart out in front of half the town, a five-minute countdown flashing behind him—all this planning … for me.
My phone buzzes in my hand, and I don’t even look at it. For once, this moment is mine.
I wipe my face, take a breath, and shake my head, still smiling, still crying. “I can’t believe all this fuss is for me.”
This doesn’t fix everything, but I can’t pretend it doesn’t matter to be seen, as cheesy as it is.
Nessa is still screaming somewhere. The clock reads 2:48. I look at Sam standing on that pitcher's mound—the one he said was sacred space—waiting for me.
And then I run. I don’t think. I don’t stop, I just keep looking straight ahead, just like Mr. Coulson in the movie.
The wind catches in my hair. The lights are too bright. My heart is pounding so loud I can barely hear the crowd, but they’re cheering. Or maybe I’m imagining that part. Security looks confused at first but smiles warmly and lets me through.
The scoreboard ticks down: 2:43.
I hit the edge of the field and jog a few steps before I start walking to him. Sam doesn’t move. He’s waiting; jaw tense, eyes locked on me like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he blinks.
I don’t stop until I’m right there in front of him. For a second, I just look at him. I need to see it up close, make sure it’s real.
His chest rises. I grab two fists of his shirt and yank him down toward me.
Then I kiss him.
It’s not polite. It’s not soft. It’s not for the crowd. It’s for me. For every lonely night. For every fight. For every apology he finally said out loud. For the man who wrecked my heart and then stood in front of a damn stadium to earn a second chance.
The scoreboard behind us reads: 2:39. Sam's hands find my face, mine stay fisted in his shirt. And I don't give a single damn who's watching. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know nothing is fully settled. But for the first time … I don’t let that stop me.