Chapter 3
BANG!
AJR
brOOKE
Owen’s family’s seats in Badger stadium are filled with the usual suspects when I finally make it through the crowd and face the mountain of stairs I’ll need to climb to join them.
Shelly, his mom, shouts, “There’s our girl!
” with her arms spread wide for a hug, though I’ve got a small hike ahead of me before I’ll actually make it to her.
The rest of the Jones family follows suit, standing and making a small spectacle from the stands like they’re here to cheer me on and not Owen, whose game is about to start.
“Hey, y’all.” I wave and foolishly decide jogging up the steps is the best course of action as Shelly’s hands are still spread out like she’s expecting an insta-hug—not one given after a nice, leisurely stroll up this unholy set of stairs.
So, naturally, I have an impressive amount of back sweat dripping down my spine, a boob sweat stain pooling under my bra, and am embarrassingly out of breath by the time I reach her.
I’m wrapped in Shelly’s arms first but quickly sandwiched between her and Owen’s dad, Gary, in the tight squeeze they’re prone to giving me every time we see each other.
“Glad to see ya, girl,” Gary says, kissing the crown of my head.
He’s a picture-perfect example of what Owen will look like in thirty years.
Dark, curly hair, graying handsomely in a way that only ever happens for men.
Smile lines crinkling outside the ocean blue eyes he passed down to his son. “Ya made it just in time.”
“And how lucky are we getting you all to ourselves tonight,” Shelly says, not letting me go, though there’s an unfortunate amount of sweat transfer happening in this embrace she can’t possibly be comfortable with. I’m certainly not. “Aiden couldn’t make it?”
I know that she knows Aiden and I broke up, thanks to what I suspect is a stealthy but healthy Honey Hill group chat devoted to channeling information at rapid speeds between all of the women in our small town.
But Shelly Jones is not like the other Southern mamas I know.
She’s curious and honest by nature but never needlessly pries if she thinks it might cause someone she loves pain.
Though I’m barely sad over the loss of my relationship with Aiden. It was inevitable. And, honestly, I feel far more comfortable around the Joneses without Aiden here.
I shrug my shoulders, arms still trapped with Shelly’s hands on either side. “Things didn’t work out.”
She pouts, but there’s little regret in her voice. “Shame.” She pulls me close again. “We’ll just have to keep you all for ourselves a little longer, Brookey.”
“I think that’s probably best,” I agree, then make my way down the line, hugging Dinah and Jack, with Lola asleep in a carrier on Jack’s chest, and Gram, who saved me a seat beside her.
“Ya know none of us liked that boy for a single minute,” Gram says, handing over a bag of pretzel bites with Dinah’s shop logo, Knotty & Nice, stamped on the side. “He was a fool with koala claws for nails. And you were a fool for sticking with him for so long. Enjoy the snack.”
“Gracious, Gram. Don’t hold back.” I pop a pretzel bite in my mouth and fan my face. “Where’s Winnie tonight?”
Usually I can count on Owen’s little sister as back up when it comes to combatting Gram, who has an opinion about everything and, in contrast to Shelly, does not mind sharing it.
As such, Gram was very honest about her distaste for Aiden from the get-go.
And the guy I dated before him. And the guy before that.
But even if she agrees, Winnie usually publicly takes my side, choosing instead to beg me to love her brother “for real” in private.
“Oh, she’s busy bein’ a fool, herself, I suspect.” She clasps my hand on the armrest between us and winks. “You know I love you, darlin’.”
I smile through the peanut butter and jelly bite still melting in my mouth and nod my understanding.
I’m a faithful, Southern girl, through and through, but I’d never take another sip of sweet tea again if it meant I could eat the PB&J Pretzel Bites from Knotty & Nice every day for the rest of my life.
But even those bites couldn’t get me to walk up and down the stadium stairs again in this blaring Georgia heat, so I’m feeling pretty loved, indeed, knowing Gram saved these little gold nuggets just for me.
“Thanks for the bites, Gram.”
“Thanks for ditchin’ the loser, sweetheart. Now”—she squeezes my hand—“when are you gonna give our boy a chance?”
“Gram,” Dinah interrupts, laughter in her voice. “She just sat down. Give her time to breathe before you plan the wedding, alright?”
“Dinah, you married our Jacky after what… six months?”
“Yeah, but I’m irresistible,” Jackson says, as charming as ever and somehow made exponentially more appealing by the angel-baby sleeping against his chest. The Jones’ male genes are a beautiful mystery.
“You had multiple personalities and enough trauma and pain to write a medical soap opera, and yet, she loved you for you. You’re a lucky duck, Jacky.
Brooke and Owen have been together for years, and I reckon they know each other inside and out.
She’s had plenty of time.” Gram turns back to me and shakes a finger at me. “You’ve had plenty of time.”
“We’re just friends, Gram.” The line I’ve repeated for years’ worth of speculation flows easily from my lips.
“Said the liar,” she quips, perfectly timed as Owen runs out onto the field, taking his place on the pitcher’s mound and looking to where he knows we’re seated in the stands before his first pitch.
He rubs his hand in a circle over his belly—where I always say his heart lives—for good luck.
It’s an indistinct gesture to anyone else but one he’s made just for me at every game I’ve attended since college, and one I give back—for solidarity purposes only.
My heart is safely locked away in my chest, warm and cozy, and guarded by a currently very satisfied green goblin as my best friend smiles just for me before lining up the pitch and starting the ball game.
“So, what happens now with… ya know,” Dinah leans behind Gram and mouths, “Suite Hearts.”
Suite Hearts. The game show I applied for on a whim.
Aiden and I agreed that if I miraculously got selected we’d get married—a stipulation for the show—split the massive cash prize if we won, then break up amicably, as friends.
Thankfully, I haven’t been selected, so I won’t have to marry Aiden any time.
Ever. But that cash prize, one I would have used to pay off a mountain of debt and as a nest egg for my Honey Hill escape route, is sure looking good right about now.
“I haven’t heard anything, so I think it’s safe to say I didn’t get selected. No biggie.”
Dinah blows out a relieved breath and nods.
“I think they start filming in a few weeks. Apparently, Sumer Morrison is already here to host, and there’s rumors the whole fairgrounds outside of town are shut down and barricaded for the crew.
” She bounces in her seat a bit, obviously excited for some small-town excitement.
“I wonder if anyone from Honey Hill was chosen.”
There are NDAs involved with shows like Suite Hearts to avoid spoilers, so I doubt any of us would know the contestants for sure until the show airs, but that doesn’t stop Dinah and me from speculating.
Last season the suite was a treehouse, nestled outside of Seattle.
Most of the contestants—who for the duration of the competition have no access to electronics and must stay within the confines of their suite or be disqualified—were waterlogged from the constant Washington rain and barely speaking to each other by the end.
The couple who outlasted the others just acknowledged their very public divorce proceedings.
Nevertheless, I have never missed a season, subjecting Owen to my obsession for what he calls “trash TV.” Though, he’s never missed an episode either, so I know he secretly loves it.
The first few innings pass quickly as we cheer on Owen and the rest of the Badgers.
We debate on whether Mr. and Mrs. Cotten would make for compelling or disturbing television if they were selected for Suite Hearts and convince Jack and Gary to make the harrowing journey down to the concession level for more snacks and drinks.
I’m blissed out with my favorite people in the world and filled with iced cold sweet tea—and more pretzel bites than I’d ever admit to—by the time the sun has started to set and the top of the fifth inning begins.
The Badgers have managed to keep a lead, but Owen seems off tonight. He’s been working with the club’s athletic trainer to loosen up his right shoulder lately, but his pitches are getting stiffer as the night wears on. He’s barely looked to the stands, all his focus on the next pitch.
If I had a direct line to his coach right now—and I absolutely should at this point—I’d beg him to take Owen out.
To force him to rest. To put someone else in for this inning.
Because as he wipes his brow and takes what I know to be a fortifying breath, the close-up of Owen on the stadium’s big screen screams that my best friend is in some sort of trouble right now, and I think the rest of his family sees it too.
My phone’s ringer blares suddenly from my bag, static noise in the eerily quiet cloud I’m sitting in as every member of the family seems to hold their breath.
Come on, Babe. You’ve got this. One more pitch.
I will Owen to heed my silent pleas, telling myself he’s just nervous about the scouts he mentioned might be here.
Or that he really really has to use the bathroom—something he vehemently swears has never been an issue, but I just can’t quite believe.
I mean, everyone poops, right? Even superstar baseball players.