Page 25 of The Fall Classic

For a moment, I see him looking at us, and I watch his shoulders drop half an inch, like the tension is being pulled from him.

Is it just the fact that someone’s here to support him?

Or is it me?

As I watch him pitch, I marvel at how anyone can do something so hard, so precise. He’s throwing with more confidence than I’ve seen from him all year, taking less time between pitches so the clock never gets close to zero.

Before I met him, I never realized from afar how athletic he truly is. The muscles in his thighs stand out as he holds his stance—thighs that are as thick as tree trunks up close. How badly must it burn standing like that a hundred times a night? The ball explodes from his arm when he throws a change-up—a ninety-six-mile-per-hour fastball that zips past the batter’s face because he wasn’t expecting it—and I think about how powerful his torso is but how his chest and shoulders are even broader in person.

He’s a presence on the mound, but he’s even more impressive in real life.

And that’s saying a lot, because he is so dominant tonight, the Firebirds will be calling him up to the Majors in no time, and I’m already imagining celebrating⁠—

Oh. Right.

I sigh, my excitement dying like a leaf falling from a tree.

Logan’s success will spell the end of our chats, which already mean more to me than they should. In only a few days, we’ve talked about pain and tragedy and shared pieces of ourselves that I’ve never revealed to anyone else.

Sometime soon, he’ll be gone for good.

I can’t help but cheer for him, anyway.

For six innings, I clap and scream with Lulabelle as Logan only gives up four hits and two runs, pitching a game that will be impossible for the Firebirds to ignore, a game that will make him leave even sooner.

It’s okay. I’m used to losing things that were never really mine. It’ll all be okay.

At least that’s what I tell myself.

***

I drop Lulabelle at her house at nine forty-seven. She hugs me for a long time, her curly head against my ribs. And strangely, I think about my mama in her hospital bed.

“You have to promise me you’ll keep going, pumpkin,” she said as I lay next to her and she played with my hair. “No matter what happens, you are strong and you will not fade. You will not stop. You will keep going, for me. Promise me.”

“I promise, Mama,” I told her.

I wonder if she ever considered that this is as good as my promises have ever gotten—taking my nine-year-old niece to a baseball game, eating hot dogs and kettle corn four rows back behind home plate, and cheering for a pitcher who’s destined to become a favorite memory.

I wonder if she imagined hope and heartbreak in that promise. I wonder if she knew how hard keeping it would be.

I have promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep, I think.

And miles to go before I sleep.

I drive back to Meant to Bean, park behind the shop, and take the outside stairs up to my place.

The upstairs apartment is dark and quiet, but I don’t turn on the overhead lights. It’s bright enough with the streetlamp and moonlight that I can see. I set the kettle on the stove and make hot chocolate, humming a song about pies that Mama used to sing me while I stir. When it’s done, I take my mug to the armchair by the window and I sit in the dark above my mother’s shop, breathing in the most comforting scent in the world while I wait for the steaming drink to cool enough that it won’t burn me.

I reach for a supply chain management textbook that is not from my outdoor library when my phone buzzes.

Logan

How did Lulabelle like the game?

Georgie

She loved it! Thank you, Logan. Getting the best seats in the house two nights in a week has ruined her for baseball, though. I don’t think she’ll be able to handle a game from the cheap seats ever again.