Chapter 15
fifteen
. . .
Jess
The Pacific glitters like scattered diamonds in the early morning light as I trudge up the beach with my surfboard tucked under my arm and salt water dripping from my wetsuit. My muscles burn with the pleasant fatigue that only comes from battling waves for two hours straight.
Austin jogs up beside me, looking annoyingly fresh despite our early surf session. At twenty-six, my younger brother is the picture of athletic prime. Or he would be, if not for the surgical scar on his elbow.
“Admit it.” Grinning, he shakes water from his hair like an oversized golden retriever. “You missed this.”
“The surfing or your insufferable gloating when you catch more waves than me?” Being in the water together has always been our safe space, our shared language since the days after Mom died.
“Both.” He bumps my shoulder. “You’re rusty. Too many mornings in bed with that husband of yours instead of paddling out.”
I hope the flush in my cheeks can be attributed to exertion rather than the sudden image of mornings in bed with Lucas.
“Dad’s making his famous pancakes. Garrett is there, too. Come have breakfast?”
I hesitate. Family breakfast means questions about Lucas, about our marriage—questions I’m not prepared to answer without carefully constructed half-truths.
“Dad’s been asking about you,” Austin adds, his expression softening. “He misses you.”
Guilt tugs at me. I’ve been avoiding my family since Vegas, using work and the documentary as excuses. “Ok, but I can’t stay long. I’ve got—”
“Stuff with Lucas, I know.” Austin tosses his board into the back of his Jeep. “The newlywed bubble. I’ll get you back home before he can miss you.”
I climb into the passenger seat, peeling back my wetsuit to let my skin breathe. “How’s the arm feeling?”
Austin flexes his elbow carefully. “Better. Doc says I’m ahead of schedule, but I’m still looking at another four months of rehab before I can even think about throwing again.”
“Must be driving you crazy being sidelined.”
“You have no idea.” He starts the car, and the familiar rumble of the engine is comforting in its consistency. “Tampa’s off to a strong start this season, and I’m stuck doing resistance bands and watching from the couch.”
His frustration is palpable. Austin’s been the golden boy of baseball since he could hold a bat. He was a high school phenom, college all-star, and first-round draft pick. Being injured is foreign territory for him.
“At least you’re using the time wisely,” I say. “Taking those sports management classes, right?”
He nods. “Yeah, figured I should have a backup plan. Not everyone gets to play until they’re forty.”
“Smart.” I study his profile as he drives, noticing the subtle changes since he moved to Florida three years ago. He’s more confident, more mature, but still with that easy optimism that’s always been his defining quality. “You seeing anyone? Dad mentioned something about a model from South Beach.”
Austin laughs. “That was nothing. Just some PR setup the team arranged.”
“No one special, then?”
“Nah.” He flicks on his turn signal. “I’m not in a rush. When it happens, I want it to be real, you know? Not just convenient or expected.”
“My brother the romantic,” I tease.
“Mock all you want, but I’ve seen what the real thing looks like.” He gives me a pointed look. “With Mom and Dad. And now with you and Lucas.”
My stomach twists with guilt. “Austin—”
“It’s cool if you don’t want to talk about it,” he says, misinterpreting my hesitation. “I just never expected you to be the one to fall head over heels first.”
I stare out the window at the passing coastline. “Life’s full of surprises.”
“That, it is.” There’s something wistful in his tone that makes me glance back at him.
“What about you? What are you looking for?”
He thinks for a moment. “Someone who challenges me, who sees me as Austin, not just the baseball player. Someone with depth, you know? And passion for something that matters.”
“Sounds like you’ve given this some thought.”
“I’ve had a lot of time to think lately.” He taps his injured arm. “Sitting on the sidelines gives you perspective.”
“Well, when you find her, make sure she’s worthy of you,” I say, surprised by the protective surge I feel. “You deserve someone exceptional.”
Austin laughs. “Look at you, getting all big sister on me. I seem to remember you telling every girl I liked in high school that I had terrible gas problems.”
“I was doing them a service. Full disclosure and all that.”
We’re both laughing as we pull into our father’s driveway. The Spanish-style mansion is exactly as it’s been since we moved here after Mom died, immaculately maintained but somehow frozen in time, like it was built for a version of our family that never existed.
Dad greets us in the kitchen, spatula in hand, looking surprisingly vibrant in his Devils baseball cap and “World’s Best Grandpa” apron (a gift from Garrett when his daughter was born last year).
“There she is!” he booms, enveloping me in a hug that smells of maple syrup and the same aftershave he’s worn for thirty years. “Mrs. Carmichael finally graces us with her presence.”
“Dad,” I warn, but I can’t help smiling. At sixty-two, Sam Lexington is still a force—former college baseball star turned business mogul turned team owner, with a laugh that fills every room.
“What? I can’t tease my daughter about her whirlwind romance?” He flips a pancake with practiced ease. “When are you bringing that husband of yours to a game? I’ve got a luxury box with your names on it.”
“Soon,” I promise vaguely. “We’ve been swamped with the documentary and work.”
“Ah, yes, the documentary.” He shakes his head. “My journalist daughter, suddenly the subject instead of the storyteller.”
Garrett walks in with a cup of coffee in one hand and a baby monitor in the other. My older brother has always been the most serious of us, following Dad into the business side of baseball while Austin played and I rebelled.
“The prodigal sister returns,” he says, but his smile is warm as he kisses my cheek. “How’s married life?”
“Surprisingly complicated,” I answer truthfully.
“All the best things are,” Dad says, sliding pancakes onto plates. “Your mother used to say that marriage is like baseball. It’s long stretches of routine punctuated by moments of pure magic and terror.”
“Sounds about right,” Garrett agrees, glancing at the baby monitor where his daughter occasionally makes soft sleeping sounds.
“Where’s Kristy this weekend?” I ask, nodding toward the monitor.
“Visiting her mom,” he says. “She’ll be back tomorrow.”
We settle around the kitchen island, falling into the comfortable rhythm of family breakfast.
“Hey, Dad? Can I ask you something?”
He looks up, curious. “Of course.”
“The trust from Mom,” I say slowly. “Why didn’t you ever mention it?”
Dad’s expression softens. “Because it wasn’t mine to explain.
Those were your mother’s wishes. I didn’t want to influence your choices, Jess.
She set it up with the lawyers before she died, and she was very clear that she wanted you to make your own path, but she also wanted to give you something meaningful. When the time was right.”
I nod, swallowing past the unexpected lump in my throat. “So, you knew about the marriage clause?”
“I did,” he says quietly. “But I also knew how fiercely independent you are. If I told you, I worried you’d see it as manipulation, and that’s the last thing your mother would’ve wanted.”
“What about you guys?” I glance between Austin and Garrett. “Did Mom leave you anything?”
Garrett leans back in his chair. “Same rules. Found out when Kristy and I married. Came with a stake in the team. Just minority shares, but still. I think she knew I’d be the one to follow in Dad’s footsteps.”
I turn to Austin. “And you?”
He lifts a brow. “I’m not married, so technically, I wouldn’t know, right?”
Garrett and I exchange a glance, suddenly aware that we’ve said too much. We look at Dad to rescue us.
Austin speaks up. “Ok, wow. You all suck at poker faces.”
I open my mouth to respond, but he waves a hand. “It’s fine. I’m not mad. I always knew she had something lined up for all of us. I stumbled across some paperwork once. Nothing I could make sense of, but it had our names on it.”
He pauses, and his voice becomes softer. “I guess I’ll have to wait and see what she has planned for me.”
She knew us. All of us. Somehow, she’d carved out these wildly specific paths for each of her kids, trusting that we’d grow into exactly who she believed we could be.
Garrett clears his throat and shifts the mood, asking Austin how rehab’s going. Just like that, we all slip back into the familiar rhythms of teasing, storytelling, and avoiding eye contact when it gets too real.
Austin shares physical therapy war stories. I deflect questions about Lucas with carefully curated anecdotes from our dinner party. Garrett updates us on the team’s performance and his daughter’s first steps.
As we’re clearing dishes, Dad pulls me aside while Austin and Garrett debate pitcher stats in the other room.
“Walk with me?” he asks, and I follow him out to the terrace, overlooking the ocean.
We stand in silence for a moment, watching waves crash against the shore. It’s a view that never gets old.
“You know,” Dad says finally, “I wasn’t sure about this Lucas fellow at first. Seemed sudden, out of character for my methodical daughter.”
I tense, preparing for interrogation.
“But I see how you light up when you talk about him,” he continues. “Even when you’re complaining about his work habits. It reminds me of how your mother used to talk about me.”
The comparison steals my breath. “Dad—”
“I know, I know. You hate the sentimentality.” He smiles, crinkling the lines around his eyes. “But let me impart some fatherly wisdom, if I may.”
I nod, my throat suddenly tight.
“Love isn’t what you expect it to be, Jess. It’s not the fairy tales or the romance novels. It’s finding the person who makes the hard things easier and the good things better. The person who sees all your jagged edges and sharp corners and isn’t intimidated by them.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
LUCAS
Dylan wants more B-roll of us being “domestically authentic.” Whatever that means. How soon can you get home?
Home. When did Lucas’s apartment become home?
“That him?” Dad asks, noticing my expression.
“Yeah.” I tuck the phone away. “Documentary stuff.”
Dad studies me. “You know, your mother would have liked him.”
“Austin said the same thing.”
“Smart kid, your brother.” He wraps an arm around my shoulders. “She always wanted you children to find partners who challenged you, who made you better versions of yourselves.”
I think about Lucas, how he pushes back when I push, how he sees through my defenses, how he listened when he asked about mom.
“I should go,” I say, surprising myself with the urgency I feel. “Lucas is waiting.”
Dad’s smile is knowing. “Of course.”
Austin and I say goodbye, and as we head toward his Jeep, excitement settles in my chest. There’s a pull, a longing to be back in Lucas’s apartment, with its Disneyland posters and perfectly arranged kitchen.
JESS
On my way. Need anything?
LUCAS
Just you.
The smile creeps across my face before I get sidetracked by trying to dissect what he means.
“What’s got you grinning so big?” Austin asks.
“Nothing,” I reply, but I’m still smiling as I slide into my seat. “Just Lucas being Lucas.”
As we drive away, my father’s words echo in my mind: The person who makes the hard things easier and the good things better.
But this is a six-month arrangement with a clear end date. So, why does the thought of that ending make my chest ache?