He doesn't even hesitate. "The National Mustard Museum."
I blink. "The what now?"
"Well, I would pick a baseball museum," Danny explains, "but you and John have already taken me to all of them. The Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, the Negro Leagues Baseball Museum in Kansas City, the Babe Ruth Museum in Baltimore, even that little one in Louisville where they make the bats."
He's right. Over the years, John and I have made it our mission to take Danny to every baseball-related museum andlandmark we could find. He's probably seen more baseball history than most professional players.
"So my next favorite thing is mustard," Danny continues matter-of-factly. "That's why I want to go to the National Mustard Museum in Middleton. They have over a thousand different mustards from all fifty states and seventy countries. And you can taste them. All of them."
"Okay, that makes sense," I say, though I'm not entirely sure it does. "So where is this mustard museum? Where’s Middleton?"
"Wisconsin."
I start laughing. Here I am, offering to take my brother literally anywhere in the world—Paris, Tokyo, the Great Barrier Reef—and he wants to go to Wisconsin to look at mustard jars.
"What's so funny?" Danny asks, looking genuinely confused.
"Nothing, buddy. It's just... you could pick anywhere. The pyramids in Egypt, the beaches in Hawaii, anywhere at all. And you want to go to Wisconsin for mustard."
"It's not just mustard," Danny corrects me in all seriousness. "They also have mustard artifacts and mustard history and a mustard tasting bar where they put them on hot dogs. Plus they give you a certificate when you finish the tour."
Of course they do. Danny loves his certificates."Okay, deal,” I say. “When you're better, we're going to Wisconsin to become mustard experts."
"That’s going to be the best day ever." Danny shoots me a grin. Then he pauses and frowns. "Blair?"
"Yeah, buddy?"
"How come you're sad?"
I glance at him, surprised. "I'm not sad. Why would you think that?"
It's a lie, and apparently not a convincing one. I've been carrying this weight in my chest since my phone call with Liv.The hurt in her voice, the way she cut me off when I tried to explain—it's been eating at me.
Danny turns to face me fully. People underestimate him because of his disability, but his emotional intelligence is razor-sharp. He reads faces, picks up on subtle changes in tone and body language that others miss.
"Your mouth is different," he says, pointing at my face. "It goes down now instead of up. And your eyes look tired, but not sleepy-tired. Sad-tired."
Damn it. Danny notices everything—it's one of his superpowers.
"And you keep looking at your phone but you don't call anybody," he continues. "You just stare at it and put it away and make that noise."
"What noise?"
"The sad noise. Like this." He demonstrates with a heavy sigh that's so accurate it makes me wince. "Mom makes that noise when she's worried about something but doesn't want to tell me."
I can't help but smile. "You don't miss much, do you?"
"Nope," he says with pride. "So why are you sad?"
I consider deflecting again, but decide to be honest. He's been through hell this week, and here he is worried about my emotional state.
"Okay, maybe I am a little sad," I admit. "Remember that friend I told you about? The date at the wedding?"
"The one you danced with?"
"Yeah, Liv. Well, she was my friend. And I really liked her. A lot." I run my hand through my hair. "But I lied to her about some things, and I shouldn't have done that."
Danny's expression grows serious. "What kind of lies?"
