Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Logan
Georgie is working at Meant to Bean today while Olivia and another employee work the truck. I tried to start scraping Georgie’s outside doorframe upstairs, but when she heard me working, she ran upstairs and stopped me.
“You have an arm injury! You can’t be doing odd jobs for me.”
“I can and will,” I said, holding the scraper. I’d spent an hour watching tutorials before I got there so I’d know exactly what to do.
“You will not,” she said, pulling the scraper from my hand and picking up my brand-new sander. “End of story.” She started walking down the stairs with them, leaving me to follow.
“Sassy Georgie,” I grumbled.
“It’s Nasty Georgie, thank you very much.”
When we got down the stairs, she set down my tools and leaned up to kiss me, her lips warm and inviting. “You can read at the booth, if you need something to do.”
“If you twist my arm,” I teased, putting my hands on her waist.
“No arm twisting will be done. No straining or lifting or anything. Got it?”
“I may need some convincing.”
She laughed and put her arms around my neck, and she convinced me.
Since then, I’ve been sitting in the booth with a book.
Very little reading has actually been done.
I’m too busy watching Georgie light up every customer’s life.
We had a movie marathon last night on her couch, but we were …
preoccupied. Turns out when you’re kissing through a movie, you don’t get much out of it.
She missed most of An American in Paris but loved what she saw of Roman Holiday.
I’ve never enjoyed either movie better.
When Alma’s granddaughter, Ava, comes into the shop, Georgie waves me over and introduces us.
Ava’s even shorter than Alma, but she has her abuela’s energy when she eyes me. “Are you Georgie’s boyfriend?”
I nod.
“Want to come to my quinceanera?”
“Of course. If my girlfriend wants me to,” I add, because Georgie is chewing on the side of her cheek, not smiling. “When is it?”
“Friday, the twenty-fourth.”
I swallow and look up at Georgie. I got back yesterday, but the countdown started before that. If rehab goes well—and everyone’s confident it will—I’ll be due back in Chicago that weekend.
“I may have a conflict, but I’ll see if I can make it,” I tell her.
I hate seeing Georgie’s brave smile at Ava. I don’t want her to give brave smiles. I want her to give smiles brimming with confidence and faith in us—what we have, where we’re heading together.
After the season, I promise myself.
Ava pulls out her phone, and Georgie gushes over the pictures of the dress and makeup for the big day, and I return to the booth and watch.
“So we’re doing the traditional dance for the first song with my parents and grandparents and all my uncles, but then I’m doing a choreographed one with my court,” Ava tells Georgie, leaning over the counter. Alma is steaming milk nearby for an order at the outside counter.
“Abuela, can you tell Isabella not to match my hairstyle? She’s trying to make it all about her.”
Alma looks up and smiles. “Of course, mija. It’s your day.”
“And can we talk about the neckline? Everyone else’s dress is so much lower—”
“No.” Alma doesn’t even glance up this time.
“You haven’t even seen the picture—”
“I don’t need to see the picture. You already look beautiful.”
Ava huffs, then tries a different angle. “Fine. But can I invite Dallas? He said he’d come if I asked him.”
That one does it. Alma sets down the steaming pitcher, and what comes out of her mouth is fast and sharp.
“?Ni se te ocurra invitarlo a mi casa! Ya te dije que no, y no se hable más del tema.”
I catch only a few of the words, but I was a teenager once. I’m fluent in that tone.
Georgie looks over at me, her eyes big, her lips rolled together to keep from smiling, and I realize she knows a lot more Spanish than I do.
Ava mopes but says, “Sí, Abuela,” and soon, she’s giving Georgie a hug goodbye and then waving at me like we’re old friends.
Georgie comes over on her break, but I stop her before she can sit.
“Want to take a walk with me outside?” I ask.
Something sparks in her eyes, and I wonder if she’s thinking what I’m thinking.
Kissing.
So much kissing.
“Sure!” she says, taking my hand as we walk outside.
I guide her over to the stand of trees at the edge of the parking lot. Once we’re a few yards in, I spin her around to face me and then kiss her.
She goes up on her toes to meet me halfway, and for a second there’s nothing in my head at all—just her hands grabbing my shirt and the small satisfied sound she makes against my mouth that I feel more than hear.
And then my brain starts whirring.
Every time I think about how happy I am, a mental countdown clock starts ticking, reminding me how many days and hours until I have to get back to Chicago. It’s that same panicky feeling I’ve had when I’m standing on a mound, knowing when I let go, I can’t control everything that happens next.
Shut up and kiss her, I tell myself.
I do my best.
***
During my afternoon rehab the next day with my trainer, I’m doing wrist circles. Ten each direction, twice a day, per the instructions Dr. Alvarez sent to Mullet Ridge. I’ve done six in one direction and I’m still thinking about the same thing I was thinking about when I started.
What if the reason I got hurt in the first place is that I stopped gripping so hard? What if I loosened up for her, or because of her, and I still don’t actually know how to release correctly because I didn’t really learn anything in therapy but Georgie’s such a good Band-Aid, no one can tell?
I catch that thought before it can take hold, at least, and recognize it for how verifiably wrong it is.
That fear’s not real.
Marcus showed me the video: In April, my wrist was locked. Now it’s loose. It’s an overcorrection, but it’s mechanics, not Georgie.
And it’s fixable.
My trainer puts me through more stretches, and my thoughts finally bring up a new fear, but one I’m worried is more accurate:
I don’t know how to focus on rehab, on baseball and be present with Georgie, let alone pursue a future with her.
It’s like every single one is a competing directive.
Rehab right, get back to Chicago on time, don’t waste a single day of my fifteen-day recovery window, even if I’m anxious to get done rehab early every day so I can sit and watch her make lattes and engage in small talk that’s nowhere near small and is actually the highlight of so many people’s days.
And then when I get to Georgie, how can I be fully present instead of half worrying about my grip or stressing out about holding on too hard?
How can I chase both of these things at full speed without tapping the brakes on the other one?
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and my trainer gives me a look.
“I told you to leave that in your locker,” he says.
“Sorry. I’ll take it over there.”
“Yeah, and check your texts at the same time,” he mumbles to himself as he points toward my locker.
“Only if you insist,” I say with a wink, looking at my phone the second I turn toward my locker.
Georgie
I’m driving the truck back to Mullet Ridge now. :) How’s rehab?
Logan
I still have a couple of exercises left, then band work and ice. Want to catch up on homework while I finish here and then I can take you out for dinner? And by “take you out for dinner,” I mean “are you okay driving?”
Georgie
:) Of course! I’ll pick you up in the parking lot.
Logan
I really want them to ship my truck back.
But I’m glad they believe in me and, yes, I acknowledge that it’s an unnecessary expense for them to ship it back, especially when I’m in walking distance of the stadium and my girlfriend is happy to drive me everywhere I want to go.
Georgie
Say that again.
Logan
Like, copy and paste that whole insane text?
Georgie
Sure. Or just the girlfriend part. ;)
Logan
Whatever you say, girlfriend.
Ick. That makes me sound like your sassy best friend. I don’t mean it that way.
Georgie
Haha. I get it. And I like it.
Logan
I like you.
Georgie
I like you back.
“FISCHER! Stop texting your girlfriend and get over here now,” my trainer barks.
Logan
Gotta run. <))
Georgie
<3
***
I come out the clubhouse doors to the parking lot where I find the Meant to Bean coffee truck and a line at least a dozen people long. I slip over to the door and climb up before anyone can notice me.
I’m a much bigger deal in Mullet Ridge now than I was a few weeks ago.
“Hey,” I call from the doorway. Georgie glances at me from the espresso machine. “What’s this?” I ask, gesturing to the line outside.
“I guess the people want coffee,” she says. “And the new girl way overstocked this morning, so I figured I’d sell until I’m out.”
I put an arm around Georgie’s waist and kiss her cheek. It’s warmer in the truck than it is outside, for a change, and the slight sheen of sweat on Georgie’s cheek makes me realize how hard she’s working alone.
“How can I help? Need me to give some poor girls my number?”
She scoffs, her mouth dropping. “Don’t even joke about that!”
I grin and sneak a kiss while she puts a cap on a to-go cup.
“Without giving out your number, could you hand these Whip Smarts to the pretty woman wearing the Carville-O’Shannan Mudflaps jersey?”
At the window, I snort when I see that the woman wearing the Carville-O’Shannan jersey is in fact Kayla Carville-O’Shannan, the owner of the team. Her long auburn ponytail has been pulled through the back of an Augusta Arsenal cap. Her husband’s their goalie.
“Kayla? What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Logan! I could ask you the same thing.”
“Rehab,” I tell her, handing her three drinks.
She’s standing with a blonde woman wearing a pink McLadyPants hat, and she’s pushing two strollers back and forth and cooing to the babies in them.
Another woman with thick, long brown curls and a light purple stripe in her hair is talking on her phone, but she seems to be with them.
“I know you’re rehabbing,” Kayla says. “I mean in this coffee truck.”