“Does it matter? We’re married now.”
“It matters to me because she’s my sister.” He leans forward. “Jess doesn’t let people in easily. Not since Mom died.”
“She mentioned that,” I say quietly. “About your mom.”
Austin looks surprised. “She told you about Mom? Voluntarily?”
I nod, remembering how carefully she’d folded the Pearl Jam T-shirt, how her voice had softened when she’d shared how her mother had been a journalist, too.
“Huh.” Austin sits back. “She doesn’t talk about Mom with just anyone.”
“I’m not just anyone. I’m her husband.” The word still feels foreign on my tongue, like a language I’m learning to speak.
“That’s on paper. I’m talking about in here.” He taps his chest. “Jess puts on a tough act, the fearless journalist whodoesn’t flinch from asking the hard questions, but you know what she does after every major story breaks?”
I shake my head.
“She calls me and asks if she did the right thing. If the story was worth whatever fallout it caused.” Austin picks at the label on his beer bottle. “She cares so much about the impact of her work that she loses sleep over it, but she’ll never let the subject of her reporting see that doubt.”
That catches me off guard.
The Jess I know, or thought I knew, is all confident swagger and unflinching determination. The idea of her second-guessing herself doesn’t fit the image she projects.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because if this is real, and the jury’s still out on that, you need to know who you married. Not just the public version.”
He fixes me with a level gaze. “And if it’s not real, if this is some weird PR stunt or whatever, then I’m warning you now, don’t break her heart.”
My throat goes a little dry. For the first time, it hits me: she’s Jess Lexington-Carmichael now.
She has my name.
It was just a legal formality, a check box on some paperwork, but suddenly, it feels bigger than that.
He’s trusting me. She’s trusting me. And I’m not sure what the hell to do with that.
“Breakherheart? She’s more likely to break mine.” I say.
Austin just gives me a knowing look. “You’d be surprised.”
We spend the next hour catching up on safer topics like his rehab progress, mutual teammates from USC, and thecurrent baseball season, before he checks his watch and announces he has a physical therapy appointment.
“It was good seeing you, man,” he says as we part ways outside. “Weird circumstances, but good.”
“You, too. Your slider looked deadly before the injury. You’ll get it back.”
“That’s the plan.” Austin hesitates. “And Lucas? Whatever’s really going on with you and Jess? Just be careful with each other, ok?”
I nod, giving him a tight smile before heading for my car. The conversation has left me off-balance with too many half-truths and too many feelings I’m not ready to face.
My phone buzzes just as I slide behind the wheel. “MOM” flashes on the screen.
With my dad, every call feels like an obligation, a test, a power play I didn’t agree to but will somehow still lose.
But my mom? She’s different.
She’s the reason I haven’t cut ties completely. She’s the tether that pulls me back in, even when I swear I’m done.
