Chapter 1 #2
We can't talk. Talking would involve explaining why I told my sister I was too busy with post-college job hunting to come to his draft announcement party.
I said I couldn't handle the uncertainty of minor league life when I was really terrified of holding him back.
I let him think I was choosing my career over him when the truth was so much more complicated.
No, talking is definitely not on the agenda for this week.
I just need to survive seven days of wedding festivities, pretend I don't still know his stats by heart, and absolutely not think about how good he looks in that fitted Henley or remember what it felt like when he used to look for me in the stands before every game.
"Tracy?" Megan's voice breaks through my spiral. "You okay? You're doing that mumbling thing again."
"I'm fine!" I chirp. "Just thinking about... wedding stuff. So much wedding stuff to think about!"
Jay hides a smile behind his water glass, and I realize he knows exactly what I was doing. He could always read me like one of his scouting reports.
This is going to be the longest week of my life.
Dinner continues with more stories, more laughter, more careful avoiding of direct conversation with Jay. When Greg insists on picking up the check—"First of many celebrations this week!"—I think I might actually make it through this evening unscathed.
Then Megan announces, "Oh, we should exchange numbers! You know, for coordinating rides and stuff this week."
Phones appear around the table. I dutifully input numbers, telling myself it's fine, it's normal, it's just logistics. When I get to Jay, he holds out his phone with my contact already pulled up.
"You still have my number?" I blurt before I can stop myself.
"Never deleted it," he says simply, and something in my chest squeezes tight.
I update my information with shaking fingers, trying not to notice that he has me saved as "Tracy " in his phone. When I hand it back, our fingers brush, and it's like touching a live wire.
"Well!" I stand abruptly, nearly knocking over my chair. "This has been great, but I should—we should—Megan, we have that... thing. That wedding thing. That we need to do."
"What thing?" Megan looks genuinely confused. "We don't have any?—"
"The urgent thing. With the... flowers. Or possibly the cake. Very urgent cake-flower situation."
Jay stands too. "Actually, I should head out anyway. Early practice tomorrow."
"But it's only eight o'clock," Greg protests.
"Game day routine," Jay says, and I have to bite my tongue to keep from saying that his game day routine doesn't start until the morning of. He's lying for my benefit, giving me an out, and I'm pathetically grateful.
We all say our goodbyes, promises to see each other tomorrow ringing through the restaurant. I manage to make it to the parking lot before Megan pounces.
"Okay, spill," she demands, blocking my path to her car. "What was that about?"
"What was what about?"
"You and Jay! The weird energy. And you clearly know each other better than 'we had some classes together.' The way he looked at you like?—"
"Like nothing. There's nothing to spill. We knew each other in college, and it's not a big deal." I sidestep her and yank on the passenger door handle. It's locked, because of course it is.
"Tracy, I’ve known you for twenty-seven years, and you are the worst liar in the family. Your voice goes all squeaky, and you start talking about urgent cake-flower situations." She unlocks the car but doesn't get in. "What really happened between you and Jay?"
I could tell her. I could spill the whole story right here in this parking lot, about falling in love over baseball statistics and study sessions, about being his good luck charm for three perfect years, about the way it felt to lose him and pretend it was what I wanted.
Instead, I say, "We might have dated. Briefly. A million years ago. It's ancient history."
Megan's eyes light up like Christmas morning. "You dated? Tracy! This is huge! Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because it wasn't important. We dated, we broke up, end of story. Can we go now? I need to review the vendor contracts for?—"
"Oh my gosh," she breathes, "you're still in love with him."
"Why would you say something like that? I am not?—"
"You are! You totally are! That's why you were being so weird in the car, and why you know about baseball, and why you almost cried into your sweet tea when he said he never deleted your number!"
"I did not almost cry!"
"You did! You got that scrunchy face you make when you're trying not to feel feelings!" She's practically bouncing now, her teacher enthusiasm at maximum capacity. "This is perfect! It's like a romance novel! Former lovers reunited at a wedding?—"
"Megan, no." I use my firm marketing manager voice.
"Whatever you're thinking, stop thinking it.
Jay and I are ancient history. We're different people now.
He's focused on baseball, I'm focused on my career, and we're just going to be polite acquaintances for the duration of your wedding festivities. That's it."
She unlocks the car, but I can see the wheels turning in her head. "If you say so."
"I do say so."
"But if you realized you're meant to be together?—"
"Megan!"
"I'm just saying, it would be a really great wedding present. I've always wanted a sister-in-law."
I slump in my seat as she starts the car. "You're impossible."
"I'm romantic. There's a difference." She pulls out of the parking lot, humming what sounds suspiciously like "Take Me Out to the Ballgame."
As we drive back to the house, I let my head fall against the window and try not to think about tomorrow. About sitting in the stands at Dell Diamond. About watching Jay pitch in person for the first time in five years.
My phone buzzes. Without thinking, I check it.
Jay: It's really good to see you, Tracy. Even if it's weird.
I stare at the message for a long moment before typing back: Yeah. Weird is one word for it.
Three dots appear immediately, like he was waiting for my response. Then: My fastball's better now. Finally hitting the corners like you always said I should.
I close my eyes against the wave of memory—countless afternoons analyzing his mechanics, charting pitch locations, believing in him when coaches doubted he'd come back from surgery.
That's good, I type, then delete it. Too casual.
I'm glad you're doing well, I try instead. Delete. Too formal.
Finally, I settle on: Can't wait to see it tomorrow.
The response comes quickly: You always were my good luck charm.
I turn off my phone before I can do something stupid like tell him I've watched every televised game, that I still chart his pitches out of habit, that I've never found another reason to care about baseball that wasn't him.
"You're smiling," Megan observes.
"No, I'm not."
"You totally are. Was that Jay? What did he say? Are you?—"
"Megan, I love you, but if you don't stop talking about Jay, I'm going to take my color-coded binders and go home."
She gasps dramatically. "You wouldn't. You love those binders more than life itself."
She's not wrong. But as we pull into the driveway and I see the Stars schedule I definitely didn't screenshot pulled up on my phone, I'm starting to think there might be one thing I love more than perfect organization.
And he's pitching tomorrow night.