Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Georgie
Inever dreamed I would willingly leave my apartment at four thirty in the morning, but now that I told Marlowe I could be at the Sugar Maple Farms’ workers’ lot when they arrive at five AM and back at the factory for the shift change, I am somehow willingly leaving my apartment at four thirty in the morning.
Honestly, I’m so delirious, I wouldn’t be surprised if I’m actually dreaming about being awake. I stayed up late last night to work on a group project for class that the rest of my group isn’t working on. I never thought I’d dislike working with others, but I once was wrong and now I’m right.
R-i-g-h-t.
How is that pronounced “right?”
Weirds are so word.
Weirds?
I giggle to myself and at myself as I lock up and walk down the outside stairs that my grandparents added when they converted the house into the coffee shop.
Somewhere nearby, I can hear a truck passing, and I marvel that anyone else is up at all at this hour.
Poor sucker. I hope they’re more awake than I am.
The parking lot is dark except for the streetlamp on Sycamore, which throws a triangle of light across the asphalt, fading short of the northwest corner. With the truck backed up close to the back of the shop, I go through the motions of stocking it on autopilot.
When I’m done, I round to the front, about to climb in, when something catches my eye across the dark parking lot.
There’s something on top of the library.
I squint and stand in the dark, blinking. What is that lump?
I walk over. The streetlights cast enough light that as I get closer, I make out the shape of a bill and then colors—powder blue and rust red.
I smile.
It’s Logan’s baseball cap.
I pick it up and run my fingers over the tightly woven twill pattern.
I’ve looked at this hat for hours over the last week, taken note of the slight wear on the left corner of the brim.
I’ve caught whiffs of Logan’s Irish Spring soap and cedar shampoo, which I can smell before I even hold the cap to my face.
He was here—in my parking lot before the sun came up. He left me his hat.
My heart swells like a wave, emotion filling me, flooding me as I sniff it like a weirdo.
Irish Spring and cedar.
Sigh.
It’s too big, and normally, I wouldn’t adjust someone’s hat without their permission, but I know he left it for me.
Why would he leave it for you? a voice that sounds like Marlowe’s says in my head. No, sweetie. He’s a professional athlete. He must have come by to get a book and forgot it.
I hate how that Marlowe voice gets in my head, makes me doubt what I knew only ten seconds earlier.
I wring the hat in my hands and then loosen my grip, worried I’ve bent it out of shape. With my pulse thrumming faster in my ears, I open the library door, not sure why I’m suddenly nervous.
My fingers move over the spines of the books automatically as my eyes scan the books.
Both stop when they hit the Shel Silverstein collection.
It’s back.
It wasn’t here last night, which means he really was here this morning.
And while part of me wants to think this is still proof that he meant to leave the hat on purpose for me, my Marlowe voice could be right, too.
In fact, it’s way more likely. Why would he leave me his hat?
It’s so random! No, he probably took it off when he was trying to look at the books in the dark.
He probably wanted to return the book because he thinks his argument stands and he doesn’t want to have a loose end hanging over him while he’s on his road trip, especially in case he gets called up—
Stop, I tell myself. Breathe.
A flame requires oxygen, Mama used to say. You can’t burn bright if you’re not breathing. So when things feel too heavy, stop. Breathe. And burn bright.
I stop. Breathe. Let the cold embers flicker to life inside of me.
The simplest answer is usually the correct one, and Logan has been clear that he likes spending time with me.
It’s reasonable to think he left this book here, where he knows I spend a lot of time, in order to continue our discussion.
He said he was building a case, and maybe he wants me to mount a defense.
The thing is, I don’t want to win this or any argument. I want to understand what he sees, and I want to talk to him about it.
So I grab the book and spot another smaller book tucked next to it. It’s too dark to see it clearly, so I have to tilt the book toward the streetlamp to read the spine.
Tuesdays With Morrie?
My heart is pumping harder. Louder. This is Logan’s book.
It has to be. There are no dog-eared pages, and it’s in what used bookstores would call “Very Good Condition,” but the slight wear on the spine tells me this book has been read countless times.
I flip through the pristine pages until I spot a passage that was underlined in pencil so cleanly, he must have used a ruler.
I read the passage, trying to understand what stood out to Logan and what it cost him to leave this book for me. (It has to be for me, right?)
A klaxon alarm goes off on my phone, startling me and shattering the predawn stillness.
Four thirty-nine. It takes thirteen minutes to drive to Sugar Maple Farms, plus it’ll take a few minutes to open and get ready. Time to go.
I put Logan’s hat on my head and walk back to the truck.
I’ll send him a picture of it later in case he forgot it.
If he didn’t, I’ll tighten it.
I hate how badly I want to tighten it.
***
After a frantic hour and forty-five minutes at the farm where I can hardly keep up with the demand followed by the typical rush at the factory between seven and eight thirty, I’m exhausted by the time my break rolls around.
My phone alarm sounds at 8:49 AM, and a flutter of excitement hits me—a flutter quickly squashed by reality.
Logan won’t be at Meant to Bean, so I have no reason to drive to Mullet Ridge. No reason to get excited.
This next hour isn’t the highlight of my day anymore—not this week, at any rate. It’s break time, plain and simple.
I put up the “On Break!” sign, shutter up my truck, drop onto an upturned bucket, and read The Giving Tree, thinking about Logan’s argument that the Tree has sacrificed too much.
It’s not hard to see why he thinks that way. I even feel an uncomfortable niggle when I read it that way …
But it doesn’t resonate with me. I’m not sure what that means.
I scratch my temple and bump Logan’s hat—which I forgot I was wearing.
I take it off and get a whiff of that practical combination of soap and shampoo that probably smells like half the men in this state.
But a scent is like a T-shirt: Not every man wears it well.
And no one wears either like Logan does.
I’m surprised by how much I miss him being part of my day after such a short time. But if he’s become part of my day, then haven’t I become part of his, too?
This is so silly, I think. Whether he has feelings growing for you or not, the fact is he won’t be in Mullet Ridge forever. He probably won’t even be here through the fall.
I know this. I really do.
And that’s why it’s so confusing when I take a deep breath and feel the embers in me stir even more than they did last time. There are sparks in my chest that have stubbornly refused to go out.
I don’t want them to go out.
I snap a picture of Logan’s cap and send it to him.
Georgie
Someone left this on the Little Free Library.
Logan’s response comes in before I’ve even set my phone down.
Logan
How does it fit?
Georgie
I don’t know.
Logan
You haven’t tried it on? You should try it on.
Georgie
That feels presumptuous of me, don’t you think?
Someone probably forgot it.
Logan
Someone did not forget it.
Someone left it for you.
Georgie
Oh.
Are you sure?
Logan
Positive.
I know for a fact someone really likes the idea of you wearing his hat.
I stare at the phone, hiding my smile behind my hand, because even alone, it feels risky to release a smile this big into the world.
Georgie
What time do you play tomorrow?
Logan
12:05. Why?
Georgie
I’ll wear it the whole time.
So someone knows he has a fan cheering him on.
Logan
Someone would like that a lot.
But someone wouldn’t mind photographic proof that someone else is even wearing it…
I laugh, adjust the hat, and set it on my head.
This is so cliché, but it fits perfectly.
Like it was made for me. I’m not typically a hat girl, because I have so much hair and my head gets so hot.
But this cap is actual breathable and doesn’t seem to retain heat like normal caps do.
The powder blue is also a great color for my honey-blonde braid, and when I take a selfie and send it to Logan, my smile hurts to look at.
I am a smiler by nature, but I don’t think I’ve smiled this big in ten years.
That scares me.
When he sends back his response, it’s hard to quiet my fear.
Logan
Shoot.
If I knew how good that hat would look on you, I’d have put it on your head a week ago.
You were made to wear my hat.
That hat, I mean. Hats in general.
Georgie
That’s nice of you to say.
Logan
I only write the truth.
Are you on break?
Georgie
I am.
You?
Logan
On the bus. We won’t get to Fort Lauderdale until 3.
So I’m pretty much free all day.
It folds around me like a hug, him essentially saying he can text whenever I can today. He’s not trying to hide his interest in me.
I tuck a stray wisp of hair behind my ear, my fingers skimming the hat.
Yes, but is that enough? My dad has loved two women and doesn’t stay for them. Logan being interested doesn’t mean anything more than that.
I can’t lay my heart on the line simply because Logan likes texting me. I can’t let myself dream about whatever possibilities his texts stir up in me.
I can text, though.
In fact, I can’t stop.