Chapter 24
Sophie
I think I’m falling for him.
Who am I kidding—I’ve already fallen, hard.
Liam gets me in a way no one ever has. He never asks me to be more or less than I am.
He knows where I left my keys and how to unlock the pleasure in my body.
He understands the difference between my frustrated sighs and the sharp gasp of a yes—and he knows how to respond to both.
He knows when to push and when to hold space.
But more than anything, he understands how crushing it is to carry the weight of other people’s expectations.
He doesn’t see Sophie, Cal’s kid sister. Or Sophia, the artist with something to prove.
He just sees me.
I’ve already started imagining what could come next. For so long, my future felt pre-written—like I’d boarded a train years ago and never questioned where it was headed. Then I abruptly got off, and I’ve been stuck at this station for the last two years.
With Liam, everything feels different. I’m still unsure what the future holds for me or where art or my career fits into it, but for the first time, not knowing doesn’t feel like I’m lost or stuck—it feels expansive.
And I think that is because I don’t have to do it alone.
My future, our future, can be shaped by us.
Maybe when Cal comes home, Liam and I don’t have to let this go. Maybe this could be something more.
I turn under the grounding weight of his arm and bury my face in his chest, in his scent, citrus and musky and safe. I tuck myself tighter against his body like I’m trying to cocoon into his flesh.
He responds, just a sleepy pull that brings me closer. His arm curls around my back, pressing me to him like he’s anchoring us both. His eyes stay closed, but I know he’s awake—barely. Like we’re both suspended in the softness of a dream we don’t want to leave.
“I could get used to this,” he whispers into my hair.
“Same.”
“Yeah?” he pulls back to look into my eyes, and I nod. “I’d like that.”
“So would I,” I agree and nuzzle into his body.
He tucks my leg over his hip, his hand tracing slow, aimless paths along my thigh.
His phone buzzes on the nightstand, and we both freeze.
He glances over. “It’s not Cal,” he confirms before pulling me tighter to his body, almost possessive.
One hand squeezes my calf in a rhythm that feels more instinct than thought, and he presses a kiss into my hair.
I could stay here all day, maybe never leave this bed, these arms, ever.
His phone buzzes again.
“Fuck me,” he mutters and snakes a hand out to grab it. I try to shift away, give him space, but he holds me tight against him. “Yeah,” he says into the phone, his other hand trailing up the ridges of my spine.
“Jackson, wait—start over,” he says, sitting up and pulling me with him until I’m nearly in his lap. I glance up at his face, trying to read his dazed expression. Is it good news? Bad?
“It’s July fucking 30th. You’ve got to be kidding me,” he mutters, before easing me onto the bed and striding to the window in his underwear. I tuck the sheet around my nearly naked body and wait, an uneasy lump rising in my throat.
“Yeah, yeah, of course,” he says, nodding his head, then scrubs his hand through his hair. His eyes flick to mine for a moment, then he looks away, like he can’t hold my gaze. “No, of course…this is great. Yeah, I’ll be there.”
He drops his hand and turns to look at me. His mouth opens like he’s about to say something, but nothing comes out. He paces in a tight circle, rubbing the back of his neck. For a second, he just stands there, staring at the floor, then he lifts his head.
“I got a roster spot,” he says, still sounding dazed. “Sophie—it’s the Cubs’ Triple-A team. In Iowa. My agent said they need someone with utility experience and a solid bat. I report tomorrow.”
My throat goes dry.
I should be happy for him, thrilled, but instead the last seven weeks play like a bad highlight reel through my mind. He was never done with baseball. Of course, he wasn’t. He’d kept up his brutal training routine, his disciplined diet, still breaking down swing analytics over our morning lattes.
While I was staring at a blank canvas and a dwindling bank account.
I’d never ask him to give up his dream, but all I can think of is how cruel the timing feels. We just found each other—really found each other. For the first time in years, something in my life felt right. And now he’s leaving.
This summer—just like he said—was a break. A pause on the path to the dream he never gave up on.
The one that takes him away from me just when I thought we had a future.
“You’re leaving?” I ask, and I hate how small my voice sounds.
“It’s the Iowa Cubs,” he says. “Their starting utility guy pulled a hamstring—he was batting .312. If I can show I’ve still got my swing, it’s my best shot.”
“But you’re leaving…tomorrow?”
He exhales, and his shoulders slump. “I have to go, Soph. I mean…this was always the goal.”
He won’t even look at me when he says it.
Of course it was.
I was just a detour.
Just sex. No strings. Just like we’d said.
Then why did it hurt so much?
I watch his back. The ridges of muscles shift as he breathes, looking out the bedroom window to the street below. I thought we’d become friends this summer. I thought we’d become more.
He turns around to look at me, his eyes searching mine, panicked and desperate. A true friend would push down the hurt, the petty jealousy in my gut, and celebrate the one thing he’s wanted his entire life.
But I can’t.
I gather my things, and before I slip out of the room, I whisper, “We were supposed to be broken together.”