“Ew,” Kayla says from Scottie’s other side, tucked under Sean’s arm.
Scottie makes a “pfft” sound. “Oh, stop. Like you’ve ever eaten cotton candy.”
“I have!” Kayla says, looking at Sean. He’s a huge dude—just under six-four and almost as ripped as our dad, which will never stop being gross to say. “Didn’t I try cotton candy?”
“You did,” he says, and she kisses his cheek just above his thick, dark beard. “And you hated it.”
“I did,” she says, lifting a sparkling water to her lips and taking a sip. “I hated it so much.”
Scottie and Liesel shake their heads at each other.
“On a scale of one to freaked out, how worried are you right now?” Logan mutters.
“That Liesel and Scottie are already becoming allies against us?”
Logan snorts, but his brow is heavy. “No, that you’ve found your person?”
I study his face, wishing I could see his eyes behind his reflective rainbow sport sunglasses. Calling her “my person” isn’t quite right, because he’s always been that and always will be. But he’s right that with Scottie, it’s different. She’s not my other half—or my other third. She’s my whole heart.
“Not freaked out at all,” I say.
“Come on,” he prods, shaking his head. “You’re telling me that you went from being too scared to go all in ten days ago to acting like none of it scares you now?”
The sound of a ball popping in a catcher’s mitt draws my attention. I turn back to the game. “I don’t know that I’ll ever stop being afraid of something happening to her,” I admit, emotion almost choking me. We’re both watching our dad, thinking about how he found the love of his life and had triplet toddlers when he was our age. That guy never imagined he’d lose her to a degenerative disease.
But …
“Look at Dad,” I say, emotion burning the back of my throat. “And look at all us.” I gesture between us and Liesel, and then to Coop and Scottie. “Yes, he lost mom. We all did. But loss makes it sound like a zero-sum game, when I don’t think it is. Look how much he gained because he had her at all.”
Logan shakes his head, dashing a hand across his cheek. He’s not as free with emotion as I am, but Dad taught us that there’s strength in feeling. And considering he could be John Cena’s body double, it’s hard not to take him seriously.
“Shoot,” he says, sniffing and wiping his eyes with his sleeve. “Why’d you have to get all wise on me?”
I laugh. “Sorry to freak you out, but I do know some things. Not book things, but I’m okay with that.”
“You know a lot more than I do about life. No question.”
Logan’s last few games have been tough ones. He’s gotten back in his head, and it shows.
“Nah.” I nudge him with my elbow. “I’m just not smart enough to know all the things that should worry me.”
“You’re a kind of smart I’ll never understand.” He frowns and watches the batter smack the ball into right field. “I know things shouldn’t worry me. I just can’t stop.”
He pauses, like he’s about to say something else, then shakes his head and looks back at the field.
My chest squeezes as I look at my brother. “I hate that, man. I wish you didn’t have to deal with this.”
“Me too,” he says.
We watch the next few plays in silence, and soon we’re all standing for the seventh-inning stretch. I hop down into the row in front of me, filled with a need to hold Scottie close.
I wrap my arms around her from behind so we’re both facing the field, my chest to her back, her hands settling over my forearms as we sing along to “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.” I kiss Scottie’s cheek when she throws her free arm out dramatically to count “one, two, three strikes you’re out” on the big finish.
When the song ends, Scottie turns in my arms, smiling up at me, and then her expression shifts.
“How’s Logan doing?” she asks softly.
I glance over her shoulder. He’s still on his feet with everyone else, but there’s something stiff in the way he’s standing. “He’s had better days,” I admit. “But he’ll be okay.”
