Page 50 of The Fall Classic

I smile.

It’s Logan’s baseball cap.

I pick it up and run my fingers over the tightly woven twill pattern. I’ve looked at this hat for hours over the last week, taken note of the slight wear on the left corner of the brim. I’ve caught whiffs of Logan’s Irish Spring soap and cedar shampoo, which I can smell before I even hold the cap to my face.

He was here—in my parking lot before the sun came up. He left me his hat.

My heart swells like a wave, emotion filling me, flooding me as I sniff it like a weirdo.

Irish Spring and cedar.

Sigh.

It’s too big, and normally, I wouldn’t adjust someone’s hat without their permission, but I know he left it for me.

Why would he leave it for you? a voice that sounds like Marlowe’s says in my head. No, sweetie. He’s a professional athlete. He must have come by to get a book and forgot it.

I hate how that Marlowe voice gets in my head, makes me doubt what I knew only ten seconds earlier.

I wring the hat in my hands and then loosen my grip, worried I’ve bent it out of shape. With my pulse thrumming faster in my ears, I open the library door, not sure why I’m suddenly nervous.

My fingers move over the spines of the books automatically as my eyes scan the books.

Both stop when they hit the Shel Silverstein collection.

It’s back.

It wasn’t here last night, which means he really was here this morning. And while part of me wants to think this is still proof that he meant to leave the hat on purpose for me, my Marlowe voice could be right, too. In fact, it’s way more likely. Why would he leave me his hat? It’s so random! No, he probably took it off when he was trying to look at the books in the dark. He probably wanted to return the book because he thinks his argument stands and he doesn’t want to have a loose end hanging over him while he’s on his road trip, especially in case he gets called up⁠—

Stop, I tell myself. Breathe.

A flame requires oxygen, Mama used to say. You can’t burn bright if you’re not breathing. So when things feel too heavy, stop. Breathe. And burn bright.

I stop. Breathe. Let the cold embers flicker to life inside of me.

The simplest answer is usually the correct one, and Logan has been clear that he likes spending time with me. It’s reasonable to think he left this book here, where he knows I spend a lot of time, in order to continue our discussion. He said he was building a case, and maybe he wants me to mount a defense.

The thing is, I don’t want to win this or any argument. I want to understand what he sees, and I want to talk to him about it.

So I grab the book and spot another smaller book tucked next to it. It’s too dark to see it clearly, so I have to tilt the book toward the streetlamp to read the spine.

Tuesdays With Morrie?

My heart is pumping harder. Louder. This is Logan’s book. It has to be. There are no dog-eared pages, and it’s in what used bookstores would call “Very Good Condition,” but the slight wear on the spine tells me this book has been read countless times. I flip through the pristine pages until I spot a passage that was underlined in pencil so cleanly, he must have used a ruler.

I read the passage, trying to understand what stood out to Logan and what it cost him to leave this book for me. (It has to be for me, right?)

A klaxon alarm goes off on my phone, startling me and shattering the predawn stillness.

Four thirty-nine. It takes thirteen minutes to drive to Sugar Maple Farms, plus it’ll take a few minutes to open and get ready. Time to go.

I put Logan’s hat on my head and walk back to the truck.

I’ll send him a picture of it later in case he forgot it.

If he didn’t, I’ll tighten it.

I hate how badly I want to tighten it.