Chapter 18 #2
I appreciate his smile, his moment of lightness in the middle of something so serious. I don’t know if there’s a baseball metaphor there or not. But he asked why I wanted to throw knuckleballs, and something tells me the two are related.
I don’t say anything.
“You know you tend to grip too long and too hard sometimes, and that awareness is allowing you to work on it. If you think you’re doing the same with Georgie or your brother or sister, work on it.”
“Gee, that sounds easy.”
He barks a laugh. “Yeah, no problem. I expect you’ll have it figured out by next week. Give or take.”
I stand up, and he follows, shaking my hand. “Thanks, Doc.”
“You’re doing better than you think you are, Logan. Once you learn to trust yourself, something tells me you’ll be unstoppable.”
“On the mound or in life?”
“I only get paid to worry about the mound, but I think you know the answer to that.”
***
I drive to Georgie’s with the windows down, the spot where Dr. Chang’s pen was still in my field of vision like an afterimage I can’t blink away.
It’s probably ten degrees cooler than it was a week ago, and the air holds that promise of autumn that my mom always loved.
Growing up in Edmonton, she hated winter, but man, she loved fall.
She would start watching Gilmore Girls every year the second September hit.
Can’t say I understand, but mostly because Lorelai drove me nuts.
Rory, too. Richard and Luke were all right, except for that whole kid thing. Mrs. Kim was the GOAT.
Is this the kind of conversation that would win me points with Georgie or obliterate them all?
When I get to the shop, I take the metal stairs two at a time.
I stopped and grabbed us brunch on the way, hoping she’s as hungry as I am.
I can never eat before a session with Dr. Chang.
The first few months, I had a stomachache going in every time.
The last month hasn’t been as bad, but I’m still waiting to eat until after I leave his office.
I’m about to knock on her door when I notice the white paint is chipped and peeling in places. And by places, I mean all over.
If I were going to be here for the rest of the season, I’d talk Alma into letting me scrape it and fix it one day while Georgie’s at work.
Man, it’s getting harder and harder to want to leave.
I shake away the thought and knock, to which Georgie calls, “It’s open!”
I open the door with my free hand and see her, cross-legged in jeans and a white T-shirt at her tiny kitchen table, doing homework.
True to her word, she hasn’t put up a single book on her shelf.
The window above the sink is open an inch, and the air coming through it carries the scent of last night’s rain.
“You brought food? You are an angel!”
“Oh, these are for me,” I say, taking out both to-go meals.
Her eyes widen. “I’m sorry, that was so presumptuous—”
“Georgie, I was teasing.” I laugh, bending down and kissing her cheek. It’s warm and soft and I could keep my lips here forever.
She grabs the top meal from the bag. “Gotcha.”
“Georgiana Ashman! You were messing with me?” She opens her crepes with Nutella and strawberries, and then she hands me my huevos rancheros omelet.
Her cheeks are red, but she’s laughing. “You asked me what my favorite thing at Toasty Biscuits is. It was a safe assumption.”
“Yeah, and I’d have to be the biggest jerk in the world to bring in boxes of food and none of it for you.”
She shrugs, unwrapping a plastic knife and fork and handing them to me. “There’s that, too.”
I unwrap her plastic knife and fork and pass them to her. Her brown eyes seem to dance.
This table’s so small, we’d only have to tip forward to kiss.
My eyes drop to her lips—pink, full, and smiling. And kissable—I cannot adequately explain how kissable they are—full and pouty, if it were possible to imagine her ever pouting. Pulling my eyes back up is an act of superhuman strength.
“So, how did your professor handle your apology?” I ask, putting hot sauce on my food.
She cuts a bite of crepe with her knife. “He said that in business, a missed deadline can mean an inability to make payroll, so getting a failing grade will serve as an important reminder for me.”
My nostrils flare, and the image of shaking this dweeb professor fills my mind. “I’m sorry. What does this mean for the class?”
“It was one assignment. I’ll have to adjust to the idea of my first B.”
The perfectionist in me knows exactly how badly that must hurt. And the wannabe boyfriend in me aches that I won’t be here to help. “You have to take care of yourself. If you don’t, it’ll happen again.”
“You’re right. But Olivia’s been hired to help on the truck, so there won’t be another problem.” She smiles and sits up. “It’ll all be fine.”
I can’t tell if she’s living in optimism or denial. I keep my eyes on her long enough to see her tuck back into her meal, the matter seemingly settled.
I hope so.
***
After we eat breakfast, we stand side by side, looking at the wall of empty shelves in front of us. “How do you organize your books?” I ask, holding a dusty boxed series called The Belgariad. “Alphabetically by author? Color? Mood?”
“By wherever I put it,” she says, looking up at me with an almost guilty smile.
I tut but can’t not smile back. “Georgie, Georgie, Georgie. What am I gonna do with you?”
Her eyes jump between mine, and then—for a split second—they flit down to my lips and back up.
Georgie looked at my lips.
Well, that settles it.
I lean closer.
She raises on her tiptoes.
Her eyes flutter closed.
Her head starts pulling back—
And she throws her arm up, hitting my nose with her elbow as she sneezes into the crook of her arm.
“Oof,” I say.
“I AM SO SORRY!” Georgie cries, sniffing and taking my face in her hands, even though I’m currently rubbing my nose with my palm. “It was the dust! I’m such a slob, Logan. I’m sorry. If I dusted more, this never would have happened.”
With my face in her palms, her eyes are searching, trying to find exactly how much damage she did (none, except for my pride).
“I’m fine. I didn’t get to kiss you like I wanted, but my nose is fine.”
She grins that big dimpled grin, brings my face down to hers, and kisses the tip of my nose. “There,” she says. “All better.”
“I take an elbow to the face and can’t even get a real kiss?”
She lets go and then leans her head against my shoulder. “You said you were coming back after you leave, right?”
“I am.”
She pauses before saying, “You can claim that kiss the second you get back.”
“The very first second?”
“That’s the one,” she says, sounding out of breath in a way that makes my pulse go crazy.
“I might throw a couple of games—”
“Do not throw games!” she says, wheeling on me.
“You interrupted me,” I say, smiling. “And I could be wrong, but that sounded pretty exclamatory.”
She takes my face in her hands again, and my hands find her shoulders. “Are you trying to trick me into being nasty?”
Her thumb slides across my cheek as we gaze too long at each other. Her lips part and her breath hitches, and shoot, if now’s not the perfect time to kiss her.
But I force myself to drop her shoulders and back away.
“If you say I have to wait until I get back to kiss you, then I’ll wait.
” I look back down at the books so I’m not tempted to sweep her into my arms and kiss her till Alma finds me and kicks me out.
“The second our season’s over, though, I’m hopping on the first plane to South Carolina to see you. ”
“Okay,” she breathes.
“Okay.” I say. “Now let’s stock some shelves.”