Page 21 of The Fall Classic

“What do you think?” he asks.

I look outside, where the sweet alyssum stirs in the light breeze. “I think it’s like what your dad said—you have to be where you’re supposed to be when you’re supposed to be there. He loves the woods, finds them captivating and beautiful, but this isn’t where he’s supposed to be. Not yet.”

He chews the inside of his cheek. “Do you think he’s the one who determined what his obligations are? Did he make these promises, or did he inherit them?”

I look at my cold hot chocolate.

Why does Logan always seem to have a way of asking questions two layers deeper than I want a discussion to get?

“Some promises are worth keeping,” I say softly.

His eyes soften around the corners. “That’s true. But aren’t they worth evaluating, too? I think sometimes we can get in our heads so much, we treat offhand comments like they’re deathbed vows.”

“We?”

“Not you and me,” he says, red creeping up his neck. “The collective we.”

“You speak in the plural a lot,” I say, gripping my cold mug. “It’s sweet.”

“It’s codependent,” he says. “I would blame being a triplet, but I guarantee you Liesel and Lucas aren’t sitting around talking to people in the plural like this.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” I say. “But you’ve been a we your whole life. That has to be a shock to the system to recalibrate your life as an I.”

“I’m holding on too tight,” he says, looking back outside again. “It’s a thing I do instead of healthy things like accepting reality or moving forward with my life.”

I don’t respond, giving him time to get his thoughts together. I learned at the beginning of the week that Logan likes to process out loud, at least with me. In fact, I hope it’s only with me.

Though I should know better than to hope.

He’s finished talking, and I think through my response before saying anything.

“I think loss is polarizing. Most times, we either hold on too tight to everything because we don’t want to lose anything else, or we become numb to everything so we don’t have to care.”

“Which are you?” he asks.

“I’m what’s behind door number three,” I say, smiling. “I hold on too tight to some things, become numb to others, and radically accept everything else, which is probably code for ‘resign myself,’ but it doesn’t sound as cool.”

Logan sniffs a laugh. “I could use some of that.”

“No,” I say. “Resignation is where dreams go to die. You have to let yourself dream.”

“So do you,” he says, stretching his arm out … and abruptly pulling it back.

My hand burns where he almost touched it.

“I should get going,” I say, all too aware that I snoozed my mental alarm nine minutes ago to talk to Logan for longer.

“I’ll walk you out,” he says, grabbing his duffel bag and book. “And, hey, would you want to come to the game tonight? No pressure, or anything.”

“Me?”

“And Lulabelle,” he adds. “I could leave tickets for you at the ticket office.”

His invitation heats me like my cocoa couldn’t.

I look at him for a moment. Have I mentioned Lulabelle over the last few days? Or does he actually remember her name from when we met during Spring Training?

“It’s her birthday Sunday, so that would be the best present I could give her.” I sound too excited, but I’m not good at faking emotion. I’m usually better at hiding it, though. “Thank you.”