Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
The reception is already in full swing when we arrive. Greg's best man Brian is halfway through his speech, and I catch the tail end of "—never seen Jay pitch better than he did last night. Must've had some extra motivation in the stands."
Jay finds me at the bar. "Champagne?"
"Please. You know I’m not a drinker, but for this special occasion I’m going to have a glass of bubbly to celebrate.”
“That seems okay.” He smiles and looks behind us at the party going on. “Brian's about to make this weird, isn't he?"
"Oh, definitely." He hands me a glass, fingers brushing mine. "But first, I believe I owe you a dance."
"The speeches aren't even?—"
"To all the teammates in life," Brian raises his glass, "on the field and off. To Greg and Megan!"
Everyone toasts. Jay touches his glass to mine. "See? Speeches done. Dance floor. Now."
"That’s kind of bossy."
"You like it."
"I—" The opening notes of "Centerfield" fill the reception hall. "Did you request this?"
"Would you believe me if I said no?"
"Jay—"
"Dance with me, Tracy. I've got a bus to catch in an hour."
And then I'm in his arms on the dance floor, and muscle memory takes over. Three years of sorority formals and baseball banquets, swaying to the cover band play a pretty decent John Fogerty while Jay hummed in my ear.
"You still lead with your right foot," he murmurs.
"You still count the beat out loud."
"Only with you." He spins me out and back. "You mess up my rhythm."
"Your rhythm is fine. Twenty-one strikeouts, remember?"
"Because you were watching."
"Jay—"
"I know we said Tuesday. But I need you to know—this week, seeing you again, it's everything I've wanted for five years."
I step on his foot. He stumbles just a little, and I almost fall down since I’m wearing heels.
"Smooth," he laughs as he stabilizes us both.
"You can't just say things like that while Fogerty is playing!"
"Would you prefer I wait until 'Take Me Out to the Ballgame'?"
"I prefer you don't make me cry at my sister's wedding."
"Happy tears?"
"The happiest," I admit.
"Excuse me!" Megan's voice cuts through the music. "I need to steal my sister. Urgent maid of honor duties!"
"We're dancing," I protest as she literally pulls me away.
"Jay has to leave soon anyway," she says, dragging me toward the parking lot. "And we need to stop by the house. Mom needs the, um, wedding thing. From my old room."
"What wedding thing? And why are we going to your parents' house?"
"The important thing. Just... trust me. Get in the car."
I glance back at Jay, who's watching us with amused confusion. "Five minutes!" I call.
"I'll be timing you!" he calls back.
Megan practically shoves me into her car and speeds toward our parents' house, which is thankfully only five minutes away. "What is so urgent that?—"
"I may have been looking for my old yearbook," she says in a rush. "In your room. And I may have found something interesting in your closet."
My blood runs cold. "Megan. You didn't."
"I did!" She pulls into the driveway. "Tracy, we need to talk about what's in that box."
I follow her into the house and up to my childhood bedroom, my heart racing. There, spread across my old twin bed like evidence in a crime scene, is five years of carefully preserved Jay Talley memorabilia.
"This is an invasion of privacy!"
"This is three hundred pages of pitch analysis!" She holds up the spiral notebook. "Tracy, you charted his mechanics!"
"He was working on a new changeup grip!"
"For his entire junior season?"
"It's front and back!"
"And the ticket stubs?" She waves the manila envelope. "Every. Single. Game. For three years!"
"I'm sentimental!"
"And the photos?" She holds up a stack. "You at batting practice. Jay signing your glove. You two covered in champagne after the conference championship?—"
"Those are the best memories!"
"And this?" She pulls out a Ziplock bag. "Is this grass from the field?"
"That's from his no-hitter junior year," I mumble.
"You are so far gone it's not even funny." She suddenly gasps. "Wow, this is why you knew his stats. You've been following his career this whole time!"
"Can we please?—"
"Does he know? Does he know you saved all this?"
"Of course he doesn't know! How would I explain this?" I gesture at the evidence. "Hey Jay, I kept grass clippings from your games. Totally normal behavior!"
"Tracy." She sits on the bed, surrounded by my secret shame. "Honey. Why didn't you go with him?"
The question hangs in the air. I sink down beside her.
"Because I loved him too much," I finally say. "He worked so hard to get drafted, overcame the surgery, everything. How could I ask him to worry about me when he needed to focus on making it back?"
"Did he ask you to?"
"No. He asked me to come with him. Said we'd figure it out together."
"And you said no because...?"
"Because what if I was the reason he didn't make it? What if having to think about my career, our relationship, what if it was too much?"
"Tracy." She takes my hand. "What if you were the reason he did make it?"
"I couldn't risk it and I couldn't be what held him back." I pick up a photo of us after his first complete game. "So I kept all of this instead. Pathetic, right?"
"It's not pathetic. It's love." She squeezes my hand. "But Tracy, you can't live in the past forever."
"I know. I just... I couldn't throw it away."
"What about the jersey? I didn't see?—"
"That's... in my suitcase. At the house."
Her eyes widen. "You brought it with you?"
"I sometimes... sleep in it," I admit quietly.
"Tracy!" She jumps up. "We have to go back. Right now."
"What? Why?"
"Because Jay's about to leave, and you need to show him."
"Show him what? That I'm a crazy person who kept his jersey?"
"Show him you never stopped loving him!"
"Tracy?" Jay's voice suddenly carries from downstairs. "Everything okay? Your mom let me in—said you were up here?"
We freeze.
"Oh no, he followed us," I whisper.
"This is perfect!" Megan whispers back. "He can see?—"
"No!" I frantically start shoving things back in the box. "He cannot see this!"
"Tracy?" His footsteps are on the stairs. "Your five minutes turned into fifteen. Ted's getting antsy?—"
He appears in the doorway and stops dead. Taking in the photos, ticket stubs, and the scouting notebook scattered on the bed. And the worst of it was the Ziplock bag of grass I'm trying to hide behind my back.
"Is that..." He steps closer, voice strange. "Is that from my no-hitter?"
"I can explain," I say weakly.
"You kept it. You kept all of it."
"I know it's weird?—"
"I have a box too," he says.
I blink. "What?"
"In my apartment. Your journalism clips. The program from when you won that award. A ticket stub from that concert we went to junior year." He picks up a photo of us at the baseball banquet. "That rubber bracelet you made me wear for good luck until it fell apart."
"You... kept things?"
"Everything I could." He looks at me, eyes soft. "I told myself I'd throw it out when I got called up. Then I told myself I'd throw it out when I found someone else. Then I just... stopped lying to myself about why I kept it."
Megan makes a small sound and slips out of the room. We barely notice.
"This is embarrassing," I say, gesturing at the evidence of my obsession.
"This is everything," he corrects. "Tracy, do you know how many times I've wanted to call you? How many times I've written texts I didn't send?"
"Why didn't you?"
"Because you made your choice. You chose your life over us. I had to respect that."
"I chose your dreams over my heart," I correct. "And I've regretted it every day since."
He crosses to me in two strides. "Tell me you still have the jersey."
"It's in my suitcase."
"The Future Mrs. Talley one?"
I nod, not trusting my voice.
"Go get it."
"Jay—"
"Please. Go get it."
I practically run back to the house, Megan trailing behind me, Jay following in his car. I burst into the guest room and dig through my suitcase until I find it—soft and worn from too many nights of sleeping in it.
Jay's waiting in the foyer when I come back down, the jersey clutched to my chest.
"Let me see," he says gently.
I hold it up. The "Future Mrs. Talley" is fading just a little but still quite visible. His number 22 still part of my best memories.
"Put it on," he says.
"What?"
"Put it on. Please."
I pull it over my bridesmaid dress, probably ruining my hair. It still fits perfectly. Still smells faintly of baseball field and memories.
"There," he says, voice rough. "That's better."
"Jay—"
"Marry me."
"What?"
"Not today. Not tomorrow. But someday. When I make it back up, or maybe even if I don't. Marry me, Tracy."
"Jay—"
"I know it's crazy. I know we just got back together five minutes ago. But I also know you kept grass from my no-hitter and I kept your journalism bracelet, and if that's not forever, I don't know what is."
Ted honks outside.
"That's your ride," I say weakly.
"Answer me first."
"You can't propose at my sister's wedding while I'm wearing a bridesmaid dress with a jersey over it!"
"Watch me." He drops to one knee right there in the foyer. "Tracy, please. You've been wearing my name for five years. Want to make it official?"
"This is insane."
"Is that a no?"
I look down at him—this boy I fell in love with over baseball statistics, who kept my bracelet, who's proposing with no ring while Ted honks increasingly urgently outside.
"It's a yes," I say. "Someday. When you're ready. Yes."
He jumps up and kisses me hard and fast and perfect.
"I love you," he says against my lips. "I love that you kept the grass. I love that you still wear my jersey. I love that you know my ERA to four decimal places?—"
"Two point seven four three," I correct.
"See? Perfect." He kisses me again. "I have to go."
"I know."
"I'll call you from Sacramento."
"I'll be watching the game."
"I know you will." He backs toward the door. "You always are."
"Always," I confirm.
He's gone, Ted's car peeling out of the driveway. I stand there in my bridesmaid dress and his jersey, grinning like an idiot.
"So," Megan says from the stairs, "did my baby sister just get engaged?"
"Someday engaged," I correct. "It's a thing."
"Is it though?"
"It is now."
She squeals and runs down to hug me. "Best! Wedding! Ever!"
"You got married. That makes it the best wedding ever."
"And you got back together with Jay! And someday engaged! With grass clippings as evidence of your love!"
"We're never telling that story."
"We're telling everyone that story!"
We head back to the reception, where I definitely keep the jersey on over my dress, where I catch the bouquet (Megan absolutely aimed), where I dance with my dad and he says he knew something was up when I asked him for MiLB TV for Christmas "for background noise."
And later, when I'm back in the guest room, carefully folding the jersey, I get a text.
Jay: Made it to Sacramento. Threw a bullpen session. Ted says I looked loose.
Me: That's good.
Jay: Also, the grass clippings? Most romantic thing anyone's ever done for me.
Me: Most creepy, you mean.
Jay: Most perfect. Like you.
Me: Smooth talker.
Jay: I'm serious. I want that future. The whole thing. You at my games, me at your marketing presentations, probably some arguments about my slider grip.
Me: Your slider is fine. It's your changeup that needs work.
Jay: See? Perfect.
Me: I love you.
Jay: I love you too. Even the crazy parts. Especially the crazy parts.
Me: Good. Because I'm probably going to keep collecting grass.
Jay: I'm counting on it. Hey Tracy?
Me: Yeah?
Jay: Someday starts now.
I smile at my phone, then at the jersey draped over my chair, then at the baseball still sitting on the dresser—the one signed with his college number.
Someday starts now. And I can't wait.