Chapter 2
Two
I shove my hands into my pockets and peer across the street at the Sugar Pine Café.
Sliding into the cab of my Audi, I inhale and count to myself. One, two, three.
I spend a lot of time breathing these days. Listening to my breaths, counting my breaths, holding my breath, not holding my breath, focusing on my breath. Apparently breathing is vital to one’s mental and physical health.
My fingers curl around the spine of my book until my knuckles turn white. I drop my gaze from the café front, close my eyes, and breathe.
My eyes open a sliver, and I see just the spine of my book. Brothers in Ash and Iron.
She made me read this book. Long ago. She told me it would change how I thought about loyalty and forgiveness. She was right.
I flip to my one dog-eared page and read aloud: “A man may be loyal to his flag; he still must decide where his heart belongs.” It was my favorite quote.
She told me to highlight it. I told her she shouldn’t graffiti inside a hardback.
She looked at my dog ear and told me I shouldn’t deface perfectly good books.
I smirk with the memory and wipe away the tear it produces.
Clearing my throat, I sit up straight, start my car, and drive away.
Callum and Fran only live ten minutes from the café. I make it there before my throat has a chance to stop aching. I sit in my car a minute longer, letting the sting subside.
I’m halfway up the walkway when Fran opens the door. She tilts her head, her brown bob touching just the top of her left shoulder. “How did it go?”
I shrug. “Same as always.” But not completely. I bought her breakfast this morning. I looked at her, deliberately, and she looked back. But I can’t form words that express what happened without sounding pathetic.
Fran wraps a hand around my shoulder and pats me lightly. It’s somehow awkward and sweet all at once. “Come sit.”
I let Fran lead me into the house, missing the warmth of the sun the minute it’s out of sight.
It reminds me of her. It warms me the same way she once did.
“Cal’s out back,” Fran says. “Let me grab him.”
“Nah. I’ll go to him. I could use the fresh air.” Sure, I just spent an entire hour outside on the café patio. But moving is good. Motion for my body and my brain. Though with the simple thought, my right leg stings with an aches.
Fran’s brow wrinkles—it does that a lot these days. “Okay. Iced tea? Lemonade?”
My brain flits back to the glass on her table, back at the café. What was she drinking? It didn’t look like lemonade.
“Tea,” I say, my response on autopilot. I rub my hand over the back of my neck, standing between the back door that leads to Callum and the kitchen that leads to Fran. “Did you happen to invite her?” I ask—as if it hasn’t been on my mind all week.
Fran pulls in a breath, her hand around an empty glass.
I shrug like my world isn’t depending on it. “It’s okay if not. You’re busy—”
“No.” That forehead crease is back. Fran shakes her head. “I asked her.”
“Ah.” I grit my teeth. She asked. But she isn’t giving me an answer, which means—
“She just isn’t ready for big crowds. You get it.”
I nod. “I do.” And yet my already broken heart breaks a little bit more.
What an unfair thought on my part. A selfish thought.
I step out into the sunshine where Callum’s on the ground in front of a massively long box. It’s only as tall as a couple of two-by-fours, but the thing is as wide and long as a king-sized bed. He’s hammering together more two-by-fours as if this structure isn’t wide enough.
“Hey,” he says. “How’d it go?”
“Good.” I tilt my head. “Same.”
His lips, turned up at the corners, falter just a little. “Baby steps,” he says. “We’ll get there.”
“That’s the goal.”
“Hand me that level,” Callum says as he sets the open box he’s constructing on the ground. It’s massive—Callum may be constructing a wall for a small backyard house.
“What are you doing?” I say, an edge to my tone.
“Planter boxes.” He stares at the King Kong-sized box.
“That’s a planter box? What will Fran be growing? Banana trees? Is she feeding the team?”
Callum snuffs out a laugh. “You know Fran. Go big or go home.”
“You went big.” I look at the thing taking up half of Callum’s backyard.
“When did Fran get you working on this? You could always try to get away with telling her you aren’t allowed odd jobs while we’re in season.
” There’s a small stab of guilt and pain with that sentence.
Cal is in season. There’s nothing “we” about it.
My best friend doesn’t miss a beat. “She’d know that was bogus. We’ve got work to do on and off the field, I suppose.”
I scoff, but it’s a weak noise. “I’m not much help on the field right now.”
Callum sets the level onto his giant-sized box, pausing his work. “Maybe there’s a reason for that. Maybe you aren’t supposed to split your focus.”
“That’s not what Lucca says?”
Cal squints, his forehead and around his eyes crinkling as he thinks. “Who cares what Lucca says? We’ll be fine. You do what you need to.”
Lucca isn’t the only one unhappy with my absence. I’m not exactly thrilled. A physical match would clear my head. But that isn’t in the cards right now. It doesn’t matter how Lucca or Coach or I feel—my leg isn’t going to magically heal.
Crossing my arms, I watch as Callum pounds one more nail into his simple box. “Were you there when Fran asked her about the game?”
Cal stands and drops his hammer to the ground. “Yeah. I was.”
“And?”
“And she’s in a rough spot, Zev. She needs some time.”
I know that. That’s all I’ve heard. For months.
Time.
She needs time.
And I need time to rewind.