Chapter Forty-Seven
Taylor
And just like that, Justin and I are a couple.
It happens so smoothly, so effortlessly, that sometimes I wonder if I’m dreaming.
We slip into a routine that feels both new and comfortably worn, like a glove that fits perfectly from the first catch.
On the weekend, we watch baseball games at his place—his head in my lap while I absentmindedly run my fingers through his hair.
Evening walks around my neighborhood, where he listens to me rant about work—about the hardheaded rookie who refuses to adjust his grip, about the first base coach who keeps calling me the girl coach like it’s my actual title.
“He’s lucky to have you,” Justin says, squeezing my hand. “They all are.”
It’s easy.
Uncomplicated.
Exactly what I convinced myself I needed.
We take things slow physically, neither of us in a rush.
But one afternoon in late July, with Emma at a doctor’s appointment, slow turns into something more.
It’s nice—considerate, even. He asks if I’m comfortable, if everything feels good.
His hands are gentle, his body warm against mine, but even though I know what I’m doing, it still doesn’t feel any better than it did back in February.
Afterward, lying in my bed with the ceiling fan spinning lazily overhead, I feel something sink in my chest. Like I’m hollow in places that should be full.
It’s not him—he did everything right. It’s me.
It’s the way I keep waiting for a spark that never ignites, a connection that never quite clicks into place.
“Everything okay?” Justin asks, kissing my shoulder.
I smile tightly. “Yeah. Just thinking.”
“About?”
My throat tightens. “Work stuff,” I reply, hating myself a little for how easily the lie comes out.
Three days later, I’m sitting on the couch with Emma while she sorts through tiny baby clothes, her stomach now undeniably round under her oversized T-shirt.
“So are you going to tell me what’s wrong, or do I have to keep pretending I don’t notice you staring into space every five minutes?” she asks without looking up from folding a ridiculously small pair of pants.
I blink. “What?”
“You’ve been weird the past few days.” She sets them down. “And don’t say it’s nothing because I’ve used that line enough times to know it’s bullshit.”
I sigh, letting my head fall against the couch cushions. “How did you know?”
“Please. I’ve been watching you pretend to be fine my whole life.” She rubs her belly absentmindedly. “Talk to me.”
“Justin and I had sex,” I say, the words heavy in my mouth. “And it didn’t . . . feel right.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “He’s no good in bed?”
“No . . . he is . . . I mean, I think he is . . . it just felt different than it did with Todd—like even in comparison to my first time when I didn’t orgasm—” My face heats up as my sister starts laughing. “See, this is why I didn’t want to talk about it!”
“No, no, I’m sorry.” She pats my arm. “It’s just that I already told you what the difference was.”
“You did?”
“Yeah, when I first found out you guys were sleeping together. Remember?”
My eyes narrow. “Refresh my memory.”
“It feels different because you feel differently about Justin and Todd.” I continue blinking, so she sighs and explains further. “You don’t love Justin.”
My jaw locks. “I like him a lot.”
“I’m sure you do, but that doesn’t mean you’re in love with him.”
I open my mouth, wanting to argue, to say that she doesn’t know anything about love, that she’s eighteen and barely trusts her own instincts, but then I realize she might actually be the only person I know who’s always known how she feels, regardless of whether it’s reckless, raw or inconvenient.
The past year flashes across my mind—how many times I’ve texted Todd before anyone else, the relief in my chest every time I hear his voice, how even in the middle of something amazing, like winning a championship or getting a new job, it feels incomplete unless I share it with him.
I level my gaze on her, this suddenly wise version of my sister that I barely recognize. “When did you get so insightful?”
She pats her belly. “Turns out growing a human gives you perspective. Who knew?”
Still, I stay with Justin until the middle of August, wanting to give the relationship a real chance.
We go to Rangers games where I introduce him to my colleagues, spend evenings watching old baseball movies, even start planning a weekend trip to Houston.
But the spark I’m waiting for never grows.
If anything, it feels like there’s a wall between us that gets more solid with each day that passes.
It’s not until we’re at a work barbecue, watching him charm my boss with his law school stories, that it hits me: Justin doesn’t really know me.
Not the core of me. He knows Baseball Taylor and Responsible Big Sister Taylor, but he doesn’t know the messy parts—the nights I wake up in cold sweats worrying I’ll never be good enough, the raw anger I still carry toward my parents, the way baseball is both my salvation and my prison.
And the worst part is, I’ve never tried to show him those sides of me.
So one humid evening, I finally do what I should have done weeks ago. We’re sitting on his couch, half-watching the Indians game, when I turn to him.
“Justin, I need to tell you something.”
He mutes the TV immediately, turning to face me. “What’s up?”
“I . . .” My throat tightens. “I think we should stop seeing each other.”
His face falls, but I can see the lack of surprise in his eyes. Part of him has been expecting this. “Can I ask why?”
“Because you deserve someone who’s all in,” I say, the words coming out steadier than I feel. “And I’m not. I’ve been trying, but there’s something missing, and it’s not fair to either of us to pretend otherwise.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, then nods slowly. “It’s him, isn’t it? Todd?”
I sigh, dragging a hand down my face. “It’s complicated.”
“It always is.” He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re amazing, Taylor. Whoever ends up with you is going to be a lucky guy.”
Breaking up with Justin is painful, but nowhere near as painful as it would have been to keep pretending. We say goodbye with a hug that lingers just long enough to acknowledge what might have been if my heart wasn’t already claimed.