She hums, a little pleased sound, and then her breathing evens out, slow and steady.
I lie there in the flickering light, listening to the storm rage and the woman I love sleep on my chest, and for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I’m waiting for something to go wrong.
I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
The storm finally starts to ebb sometime in the deep hours, the rain easing from a furious drumline to a steady, sleepy patter. My eyes grow heavy, but I force myself to stay awake a little longer, just to memorize this.
Bailey. The way her hand twitches in her sleep, fingers still locked with mine. The quiet little puff of air every third breath. The warmth of her thigh over my hip like a seat belt.
Tomorrow, there will be questions. Siblings. Teammates. Small-town speculation. Logistics about my rehab schedule and her shop hours, about how we fit our lives together in ways that don’t look like they do in the books on her shelves.
But tonight, there’s just this.
Grabbing my phone, I do something I’ve been avoiding for the last few days—I write an email.
Coach—
Cleared throwing well. I’ll be in on Monday. I also want to talk about role and pace. I’m not the kid I was. I can give you everything I have. It just might not look like what it used to. If that’s a problem, tell me now so I don’t sell you something I can’t stand behind.
I read it twice, three times, then hit send before I let fear dress it in different words. I stare at the screen until the sent confirmation stops pulsing. Then I text Bailey.
Me: Sent Coach my thoughts.
She replies with a photo of the otter in a triumphant pose.
Bailey: Proud of my quarterback.
I save it like a teenage idiot and refuse to be ashamed.
I sleep hard. When dawn threads the blinds, I feel taller, like a bone set correctly overnight.
The next day is player logistics and adults using acronyms in emails. Before I take their requested video, I stop by the shop. Bailey presses a kiss to my cheek for luck and slips a note in my pocket I don’t read until I’m back at the farm.
You don’t have to become smaller to fit the life you want. I’ll make more room. -B.
I throw the ball into the net and rush around trees as if they’re offensive linemen, sending the video to the coaches, feeling like nothing more than a pawn.
My phone buzzes.
Coach:Let’s talk Monday. Proud of you, kid.
I smile and don’t apologize for how big it is.
When I head back to the lighthouse for the afternoon shift I pretended wasn’t mine, the bay looks wide enough to hold both lives. Maybe it is. Maybe I’m the one who wasn’t.
I park, jog up the path, and stop dead at the sight waiting at the gate: a news van at the curb. A guy with a camera on his shoulder. A woman with a mic adjusting her hair in the side mirror. My chest drops and then hardens. The email, the boundaries, the polite no—we did all of it. They came anyway.
Before the old panic can rehearse the old dance, Bailey steps out onto the porch, stance small but immovable, chin up. She sees me. Doesn’t wave. Doesn’t mouth a warning. Just looks at me like I already know how to walk through this with her.
I do.
I walk up the steps and take her hand like we always meant to do it in front of everybody. The reporter turns, smile bright and sharp. “Crew, Bailey—can we grab you for just a minute about the story hour?”
“No,” I say, calm. “But you can email the team. They’ll send a statement.”
She tries again, a different angle. “Is this official? Are you two—”
“It’s a bookstore,” Bailey says, voice even. “And it’s a school event. Please don’t film the kids.”
