Page 7 of The Fall Classic

When Nicolette and Marlowe were talking one night about how the truck wasn’t doing as well as they’d expected, they actually asked my opinion … but only because I was the one they’d tasked with running it.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said, cleaning the tables near where they were sitting. “The location? We’re sort of lost on Maple Street. Maybe we could try approaching Sugar Maple Farms directly—see if they’d want us on their property during market days and at the factory the other days.”

“Why?” Marlowe asked.

I felt my cheeks burning already. “Because they have so many employees?”

Why did I make it sound like a question when I knew the answer?

“How many employees is that?”

“A few thousand?”

Marlowe’s nostrils flared, and she breathed in deeply, the way she always does when she’s angry. “This is your family’s legacy, and you knew the location wasn’t working. Next time, speak up sooner.”

“Mom,” Nicolette chastised. “That’s good advice, Georgie.”

Marlowe gave me a smile that almost felt apologetic, and it was almost enough to make me feel like she cared. “You are just like your father with all your … big ideas, Georgie.”

That comparison makes me sick every time.

Alma is wiping down more tables and muttering in Spanish too softly for me to hear. She doesn’t like my stepfamily.

Considering they’re the only family in my life, I appreciate that she at least tries to keep it to herself.

After I’ve flipped the last chair, I ask Alma how the night went.

“Busy,” she answers.

“Game nights are always busy lately,” I say. The Mullet Ridge Mudflaps have been around since I was a kid, but over the last year, they’ve gone from the bottom of the minor leagues to the top. Marlowe installed one of those art TVs so we can air local sporting events.

It’s pretty anti–coffee shop having a TV, but it’s been a smart business move.

Last year, billionaire Kayla Carville bought the team and brought in the Fischer brothers—Logan and Lucas—twin pitchers with a massive social media following, who turned every outing into something that went viral. Lucas has since been called up to the Major Leagues.

Logan is still here. Number 49.

And when I haven’t been busy working at the coffee van over in nearby Sugar Maple, I’ve been to every home game.

I know it’s silly, but after we met in Phoenix, my crush became larger than life. I didn’t offer to give him my number because I didn’t want the inevitable disappointment of him never using it. Yes, we live in the same town, but not for long.

He’s out living his dreams, and I’ve confined mine to this sleepy Southern town.

Logan is an incredible baseball player. His knuckleball is once-in-a-generation stuff, as the three old men I usually sit by at games like to say. Their names are all Chick, which I guess used to be short for Charles, and they’re the kind of cute, grumpy old men you’d see in a movie, the kind who’ve been sitting in the same seats since the stadium was built and almost seem like they’ll outlast it.

They love telling me all about baseball and the ins and outs of the sport that casual fans don’t realize. Like every baseball only lasts six or seven pitches before the ump takes it out of the rotation. Or how infield dirt isn’t actually dirt, but an engineered blend of sand, clay, and silt to better bounce and handle rain. Or how Logan will be called up to the pros in no time, once he gets over his “yips.”

That one I already knew.

He’ll be gone, and I’ll still be here in Mullet Ridge. Or Sugar Maple, depending where my stepmother decides I’m of most use.

Alma has finished wiping down the tables, and now she’s in the kitchen rinsing out her washcloth. I glance outside to the Little Free Library and call out.

“I’m going to check on the books. Be right back!”

I push back out into the night.

It’s louder out here, what with the sound of cars driving home from the game, but it’s an odd night. Somehow peaceful and charged at the same time. Maybe it was getting to sit with Lulabelle and Nicolette, who’s always sweeter when she’s not around her mom.