“I am.”
We’re quiet for a beat. Then he glances over at me.
“So…how was your day?”
I swirl the wine in my glass. “Just trying to figure out what I’m doing with my life.”
He nods, doesn’t press. That’s somehow worse.
“I found this old letter,” I say. “One I wrote to my ex. Never gave it to him. I thought…I don’t know, that we were going to get married. Have kids. Be that classic story.”
“And then?”
I shake my head. “And then one day, poof, it was over. And so were my twenties. No wedding, no kids. Just me, starting over in a town I never thought I’d return to.”
My voice wobbles. Damn it. The wine.
“I’ve always wanted a big family. Like me and my brothers. Now I don’t even know if that’s in the cards anymore.”
He looks at me, really looks at me. “It still could be.”
I scoff, half-laughing. “Sorry. Wine. Ignore me.”
“I’m not ignoring you,” he says. “I get it.”
I look at him. “How many kids did you want?”
He tips his head. “Used to be four. Big house. Big family.”
“And now?”
He pauses. “Now? I think I just want to love someone so much it makes my brain melt. If we end up with kids, great. If not…just give me the real thing.”
My chest tightens.
“What about you?” I ask. “The majors. Still chasing the dream?”
“I don’t know. I always thought I’d make it. Since I was nine, I’ve had this picture in my head of me in a major league stadium, name on the back of the jersey. But I’m twenty-nine. And sometimes I wonder if I’ve been holding onto a ghost.” He takes a long sip of his beer. “Like maybe I should just give up. Become a coach at some junior college. But once I have my sights on something, it’s never been easy for me to give up.”
I watch him for a long moment.
“You’re good,” I say. “And you’re not done yet.”
He looks at me with something soft and heavy behind his eyes. “Neither are you.”
And just like that, we’re sitting in silence. The wine low in the glasses. The space between us warm and fragile. Like maybe neither of us is as far off course as we thought.
We’re two glasses into that bottle, the kind Jackson keeps on the top shelf and claims is “for guests,” which apparently includes stray minor league baseball players now.
I’m in my pajamas—okay, technically, my old high school softball tee and a pair of cotton shorts that I forgot were this short—and Logan’s lounging on the opposite end of the couch in a pair of athletic shorts, long legs sprawled like he owns the place.
He doesn’t.
But he sort of does.
“What aboutThe Notebook?” I offer, trying not to grin as I top off my glass.
Logan groans, head falling back dramatically against the cushion. “Absolutely not. I don’t need to cry in front of my future wife this early in the game.”
