Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Georgie
The seats Logan got us are four rows behind home plate on the first base side, which is almost exactly where we sat last game.
When we first sat down, Lulabelle kept looking around us like someone who’s already graduated from reading Encyclopedia Brown to Nancy Drew, her brown curls flipping as she looked around. “How did you get these seats? These are for people who make a lot more money than you do. No offense.”
“None taken,” I told her. “And a friend who works with the team helped.”
We arrived early enough to see the players still in warm-up mode—stretching and tossing balls around. I scanned the field and saw the moment Logan came out of the dugout, holding a water bottle and looking around.
He glanced around the stands casually, but when his eyes found mine, he stopped, that crooked grin finding his lips. And he waved.
Lulabelle squealed and waved back. Then she grabbed my arm and yanked. “Is it Logan Fischer? Are y’all friends?”
I gave Logan a small wave, hoping the distance would be enough to keep him from seeing how red my cheeks were. “Yes. He’s a regular at Meant to Bean.”
She squealed and waved at Logan again, and he waved back before turning away to stretch. “Does he have a crush on you?”
“We’re friends, Lulabelle.”
“Mm-hmm,” she said, plunging her hand into the kettle corn and stuffing it into her mouth. “Well, if you get married, I want season tickets.”
I didn’t respond.
Now, the guys have all taken their positions and Logan is warming up on the mound.
Most knuckleballers are starters, the Chicks have taught me, but Logan has a handful of strong, reliable pitches that have made him a solid closer for the last two seasons. The Firebirds’ GM is invested in Logan learning to master the pitch, and starting will only help that.
Something tells me the Firebirds are getting excited about him.
The ump calls, “Play ball!” and gives a ball to Rojas to throw to Logan. Logan holds his glove up to his face, and then I get the sense that he’s looking past his glove to me.
The pitch he throws seems to float, and the batter swings at where it should have been, but it moves to the side and drops so fast, it’s like it vanished before his bat could make contact.
Strike one! Lulabelle and I both cheer with the rest of the stadium.
For a moment, I see him looking at us, and I watch his shoulders drop half an inch, like the tension is being pulled from him.
Is it just the fact that someone’s here to support him?
Or is it me?
As I watch him pitch, I marvel at how anyone can do something so hard, so precise. He’s throwing with more confidence than I’ve seen from him all year, taking less time between pitches so the clock never gets close to zero.
Before I met him, I never realized from afar how athletic he truly is.
The muscles in his thighs stand out as he holds his stance—thighs that are as thick as tree trunks up close.
How badly must it burn standing like that a hundred times a night?
The ball explodes from his arm when he throws a change-up—a ninety-six-mile-per-hour fastball that zips past the batter’s face because he wasn’t expecting it—and I think about how powerful his torso is but how his chest and shoulders are even broader in person.
He’s a presence on the mound, but he’s even more impressive in real life.
And that’s saying a lot, because he is so dominant tonight, the Firebirds will be calling him up to the Majors in no time, and I’m already imagining celebrating—
Oh. Right.
I sigh, my excitement dying like a leaf falling from a tree.
Logan’s success will spell the end of our chats, which already mean more to me than they should. In only a few days, we’ve talked about pain and tragedy and shared pieces of ourselves that I’ve never revealed to anyone else.
Sometime soon, he’ll be gone for good.
I can’t help but cheer for him, anyway.
For six innings, I clap and scream with Lulabelle as Logan only gives up four hits and two runs, pitching a game that will be impossible for the Firebirds to ignore, a game that will make him leave even sooner.
It’s okay. I’m used to losing things that were never really mine. It’ll all be okay.
At least that’s what I tell myself.
***
I drop Lulabelle at her house at nine forty-seven. She hugs me for a long time, her curly head against my ribs. And strangely, I think about my mama in her hospital bed.
“You have to promise me you’ll keep going, pumpkin,” she said as I lay next to her and she played with my hair. “No matter what happens, you are strong and you will not fade. You will not stop. You will keep going, for me. Promise me.”
“I promise, Mama,” I told her.
I wonder if she ever considered that this is as good as my promises have ever gotten—taking my nine-year-old niece to a baseball game, eating hot dogs and kettle corn four rows back behind home plate, and cheering for a pitcher who’s destined to become a favorite memory.
I wonder if she imagined hope and heartbreak in that promise. I wonder if she knew how hard keeping it would be.
I have promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep, I think.
And miles to go before I sleep.
I drive back to Meant to Bean, park behind the shop, and take the outside stairs up to my place.
The upstairs apartment is dark and quiet, but I don’t turn on the overhead lights.
It’s bright enough with the streetlamp and moonlight that I can see.
I set the kettle on the stove and make hot chocolate, humming a song about pies that Mama used to sing me while I stir.
When it’s done, I take my mug to the armchair by the window and I sit in the dark above my mother’s shop, breathing in the most comforting scent in the world while I wait for the steaming drink to cool enough that it won’t burn me.
I reach for a supply chain management textbook that is not from my outdoor library when my phone buzzes.
Logan
How did Lulabelle like the game?
Georgie
She loved it! Thank you, Logan. Getting the best seats in the house two nights in a week has ruined her for baseball, though. I don’t think she’ll be able to handle a game from the cheap seats ever again.
Logan
I didn’t think about that.
Does she watch games from the cheap seats often?
Georgie
Only when I’m babysitting.
Logan
How about this: when you babysit, I’ll get you the good seats.
Georgie
I can’t ask you to do that.
Logan
Funny enough, you didn’t ask. I offered. Remember?
Georgie
Oh, is that what happened?
Logan
How often do you babysit Lulabelle?
Georgie
A couple of times a month.
Sometimes Lulabelle’s family gets us the good seats, though. My stepsister does the books for her husband’s company and also helps my stepmom run a company, so they’re all pretty busy.
I stare at the text message, sick to my stomach that I called Meant to Bean “a company.” Not “my family’s company.
” Not “the company my dad took hundreds of thousands of dollars in loans against to cover my mom’s medical debt and then invested in a restaurant instead of paying it off, so thank goodness Marlowe figured out a way to save it. ”
Okay, I know why I didn’t say that last one.
But it’s true—Marlowe saved the company!
I don’t say that lightly. My dad became the custodial trustee of Meant to Bean after my mom died, which means he has legal authority over my inheritance until the loans are paid off, though when that might be, I’m afraid to ask.
After all, Marlowe has spent years pulling it out of the red, and he gave her full operational control shortly after they got married.
She doesn’t know I’ve been taking business classes since I was nineteen on a laptop I bought myself so I could prove that I really can take over the company.
No one knows. I’m twenty-five now with six credits left to earn my degree, and I doubt I’ll even invite my family to the graduation.
My dad’s always chasing “the next big thing,” and he’s been searching for it since before I was born.
He and my mom worked out okay because my mom had the shop and me and was fiercely independent.
I’m sure she’d have preferred a husband who wasn’t always looking for investors in some scheme just shy of Ponzi, but she never seemed to notice when he left.
She simply took care of things and moved on.
I don’t think Marlowe is independent by choice. She’s always done what she had to to survive.
I get it.
I just wish she were nicer about it.
My phone vibrates, and I spot a text from Logan I haven’t responded to yet.
Logan
Do you work with them?
Shoot.
How do I respond? I don’t want to paint a bad picture of them or of myself. I don’t want to lie. I don’t know how to be honest.
Georgie
I do. Not directly, but I work for the business.
Logan
You realize at this point, I assume you work for the mafia, right?
Georgie
Shh. We don’t talk about the family outside of the family.
Logan
Great.
I know too much, don’t I?
Georgie
Someday—and maybe that day will never come—I’ll call upon you for a favor...
Logan
Lulabelle already wants tickets, doesn’t she, Donna Georgiana?
Georgie
She does.
I liked watching you play tonight.
Sorry, that sounds so weird!
Logan
No, it doesn’t. I like that you liked it. It felt really good pitching tonight.
Georgie
You looked like you were having fun.
Logan
I was. Baseball has been my job for so long, I think I forgot how much fun it can be.
Georgie
I never thought about it like that.
Does it mean something that you were starting tonight instead of closing? I don’t know a lot about pitching order, but that’s pretty different, isn’t it?
Logan
Doug—the Firebirds’ general manager—doesn’t want me closing anymore.
He wants me to lean into the knuckleball.
I’ve only been throwing it for a couple of years, and you need enough time to get a sense for how the ball’s behaving when you throw it.
You get some weird, wild pitches with a knuckleball.
Georgie
I bet they loved what they saw.
Logan
I hope so.
The September deadline is looming.
That’s when the Major League teams have to finalize their rosters for the postseason.
Georgie
Wow! How are you feeling about that?
Logan
I try not to think about it, so…numb?
Georgie
Well, I’ll feel it for you.
Okay, I’m feeling excitement tempered by a lot of stress. Family hopes and expectations. The frustration of knowing you’re absolutely good enough but this is the most psychologically demanding sport that probably exists and a person’s head can only handle so much.
Oof. Okay, it’s a lot.
Logan
It is. Thanks for understanding.
Georgie
What helps when it all gets too intense?
Logan
…
I lean forward, staring at those dots.