Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
Logan
On Tuesday, Georgie sends me a selfie of her in my hat an hour before the game.
Georgie
I’m cheering you on, 49! And yes, that’s an exclamation point, because I contain multitudes. ;)
She has no idea the effect her selfie or text or exclamation point have on me. I pitch the best I have in months, and the whole time, I’m thinking about a girl in a coffee truck in Sugar Maple, South Carolina.
It’s not part of my strategy, but it works as well as any technique ever has. My knuckleball is so good today that I have batters blinking instead of cursing, like they’re too busy being confused to be mad. My catcher settles into his crouch with more confidence than I’ve seen from him before.
Makes sense. Knuckleballers almost always come with a catcher who can actually find the ball, so if I get called up, it’s all but a guarantee Rojas is coming with me.
Fletch pulls me partway through the sixth, and Rojas drops next to me in the dugout, sweaty, dusty, and smiling.
“That was fun.”
I chuckle. “Yeah. It was.”
“Let’s do it again. Maybe in Chicago.” He holds up a fist and I bump it, and we watch the rest of the game next to each other.
I miss my brother. I always miss my brother.
But Rojas is a good dude, and I have Georgie cheering me on back in South Carolina.
I’m doing okay.
***
Fletch finds me in the tunnel after the game. “Fischer, hold up,” he says, and I wait for him to reach me, and then we walk toward the locker room together.
“Good outing.”
“Thanks.”
“What were you thinking about out there?”
I could answer this a dozen different ways, but Fletch’s BS meter is strong.
“Not pitching.”
He nods slowly. “It showed.”
“In a good way?”
“You struck out nine guys with three walks and two earned runs. Yes, Fischer, in a good way.” He inhales, nodding. “Listen, you know you pitched well. Make sure what you’ve got out there is coming from you, not from her. Because she can’t be in the stands every time.”
“She wasn’t in the stands this time.”
Then he snorts—the jerk. “I knew it was a girl.” He walks toward his office at the far end of the locker room. “But I mean it, Fisch. Make sure it’s coming from you.”
He doesn’t wait for a response. He’s already gone, and I’m left standing in front of my locker while my anxiety makes a half-hearted effort to find a seam—something to tug on, a weak spot to unravel. But nothing’s giving. Not right now.
I look at my phone and see four missed texts from Georgie. Excitement, more excitement, exclamation points, and a congratulations.
I don’t let myself smile until I’m alone.
***
I didn’t anticipate Georgie fitting into my schedule on a road trip so effortlessly. In fact, she doesn’t just fit; she recharges something in me. I come back to the hotel after games restless and wound up, and then her name appears on my screen and all that tightness unwinds.
I wish I were doing the same for her.
Maybe I’m reading between the lines, but every day she seems more worn out, and I can only tell that over text because she keeps sending me selfies in my hat and the blue under her eyes is getting more pronounced. On Friday night I ask about the schedule.
Georgie
It’s fine! I’m adjusting. It turns out anyone can become a morning person if they try hard enough.
Logan
That doesn’t sound convincing. I say that as a morning person.
Georgie
No, it’s true!
Logan
How early are we talking?
Georgie
Pretty early.
Logan
Georgie…
Georgie
4:30. It’s so peaceful!
Logan
You texted me at 11:30 last night. What are you doing getting five hours of sleep?
Georgie
My morning break has recently freed up so I’ve started napping during it. It turns out I love naps!
Logan
I need to talk to your boss.
Georgie
You really don’t.
Logan
I respectfully disagree. But I should let you rest. I have experience with 4:30am. It’s bleak.
Georgie
It has a purpose. I’ve seen a lot of smiling faces when I show up at five. That makes it worth it.
Logan
You’re not a glass half full kind of person, are you? You’re a “glass all the way full because the other half is full of air!” kind of person.
Georgie
I wish I were more like that, but I try to be.
Logan
You succeed. Get some sleep, Georgie.
Georgie
<3
Logan
<))
***
It’s Sunday morning, and I’m at the table in my hotel room reading on my Kindle app when Georgie accidentally FaceTimes me.
I know it’s an accident because her phone is facing what looks like the truck roof, and I’m catching glimpses of her arm as she works.
“Morning,” Georgie says in a bright voice that tugs at something deep inside me. But she’s not talking to me. “What can I get you?”
“I don’t know,” a woman says. “This is my first time. We’re here for a family reunion, and my daughter told me I had to try Meant to Bean coffee.”
I can hear the smile in Georgie’s voice. “I’m so glad she enjoyed it. Do you have a favorite drink?”
“Not really. I like most anything.”
“In that case, let me ask: How do you feel today? Emotionally?”
“Nostalgic. Maybe sad. It’s the last day of our reunion.”
There’s a brief pause, and I see Georgie’s elbow move.
“That helps. Reunion aside, are you holding on to summer or ready for fall?”
“Fall, please. Get me out of this heat!” the woman says with a laugh.
“In that case, I think I have just the thing. And if you don’t like it, it’s on the house.”
I hear sounds of scooping and pouring and hissing. I have no idea what she’s making, but I find myself leaning toward the phone like it’ll help me see.
She slides the cup across the window. “I’m calling this ‘It’s Bean Real.’ Brown butter espresso, steamed milk, a dash of cardamom, and enough maple to remind you that the best season of the year is right around the corner.”
There’s a pause, and I think the woman is sipping. Then she sighs. “Oh, that’s lovely. How did you do that?”
“I learned from the best,” Georgie says, warm and easy. “You know, my mama once told me to be grateful goodbyes hurt so much because it means something mattered enough to miss.”
“That’s beautiful. Thank you, sweetie.”
“My pleasure.”
I hear Georgie exhale, and I sit forward, wishing I could fall into the phone and come out the other side with her.
There’s a beat of quiet in the truck, and then I hear the soft slide of the service window closing as the volume on the outside world lowers and the light on my screen shifts slightly as the truck dims.
Then Georgie looks down, her hands positioned like she’s ready to text, and—
I’m grinning before she sees me.
She freezes, staring at the screen. She’s wearing my hat, and her eyes go wider than I thought eyes could go.
“Oh no.” She squeaks. Her mouth stays open. “Hi.”
“Hey,” I say, my grin not going anywhere.
There’s a knock at the service window, and Georgie’s face flies up then back down at me, torn.
“Can I get a napkin?” someone’s calling, their voice muffled.
I hear rustling and the sound of the window opening and closing before I see her again, her cheeks rose red as she holds the phone and sits on what looks like a bucket or stool, maybe, in a corner of the truck
“I should have told you,” she says finally.
“What, that you’re so good at your job you can read people’s moods and give them exactly what they need?”
Her eyes well, and I feel the tug in my chest pull tighter. “No, that I work in a coffee truck.”
“And you’re awesome at it.”
She opens her mouth. Closes it. Sighs and sniffs.
“I’ve only worked on the truck for a few months.
But I grew up working at Meant to Bean, as you probably guessed.
” She pauses, the red in her cheeks fading to pink.
“I’m not embarrassed about the work. I’m proud of it.
I just didn’t know how to bring it up. We met there, and I probably should have told you that first night. ”
“I don’t mind. You could be digging ditches or running a bank, and it wouldn’t change anything. I like you.”
The words are out before my brain has caught up. My brain! The one that’s been on high alert at even the most minor events of my adult life, just decided to sit this one out while I went full disclosure on someone I’ve known for under two weeks?
Thanks a lot, dummy.
But Georgie’s smile could heat Chicago in winter. “Did you say running a bank or robbing a bank?”
I laugh. “Running. If you were robbing one, I’d assume you had a good reason. Robin Hood stuff. Getting your great-aunt’s brooch back from your thieving ex, or something.”
Her laugh takes over her face. “That’s good to know if I ever consider a career change.”
I chuckle. “I don’t think you need a career change unless you want one.”
“I don’t. But I’m taking business classes,” she says. “At night. Online. I’m almost done with my degree.” She covers her eyes with one hand. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”
“I’m glad you are. How long have you been working on your degree?”
“Five and a half years. I started when I was nineteen.”
“While working full-time?”
“Yeah.” She exhales. “It’s silly, doing it online …”
“I did a couple of semesters online,” I say.
“So I could live at home and be around my mom more.” I swallow, remembering sitting in the den where her hospital bed was, listening to lectures with her, doing homework in the same room while she rested.
They’re hard memories, but I wouldn’t trade them for anything.
“Where you learn doesn’t change what you learn, and working full-time while you do it is impressive, not silly. ”
“Thanks for saying that,” she says. A low-grade frustration drones in me at whoever or whatever has made her feel like she has to minimize her hard work.
She’s been doing this for over five years in the midst of everything else on her plate, and she told me like it was a confession instead of an accomplishment.
She’s nibbling on the inside of her cheek.
“I haven’t actually told anyone what I’m doing, so don’t mention it to Alma, okay?
Or my stepfamily, if you ever meet them,” she adds in a rush.
“Your secret’s safe with me. But you have a lot to be proud of. Whether it’s running the best coffee truck in South Carolina or robbing banks. Whatever’s next, you’ll be great.”
She smiles, and this time she doesn’t try to keep it small. “You always say the nicest things.”
“Yeah, well, you’re very hard to be nice to.”
She drops her head, laughing. Man, I could watch those dimples all day.
My phone alarm goes off and I silence it fast, but Georgie catches it. “You need to go.”
“Yeah. But I’d rather keep talking to you.”
“You already know I’m rooting for you,” she says, pointing to the hat on her head, which looks way too good above all that warm golden hair. “Go get ’em, 49.”
“What number barista are you? You need a number.”
She wrinkles her nose, laughing. “Baristas don’t really have numbers.”
“All right, then a letter. You got this, G. This is our day.”
“Yeah it is. Sideways heart, 49.”
“Sideways ice cream cone, G.”
We both smile.
Then I press the button before she can, because I don’t want to watch her hang up on me.
I drop my head to the table and stay there for a moment. I’ve been in this hotel room all week. I go home tomorrow.
Not nearly soon enough.