Page 53 of Curveball

The memories hit me instantly—the other night, this couch, his hands, his mouth. A shiver ran through me. I squeezed my thighs together to try to dull the familiar ache.

Walker shifted beside me. “So,” he started. “I thought we should talk about the other night—”

I held up a hand. “Let me just stop you.”

He froze.

“I saw the photos,” I said quickly. “The articles. You and that woman.” I swallowed. “You’re single. You can do whatever you want. But it reminded me that you were right to stop things the other night. This,” I gestured between us, “was a mistake.”

Walker’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t speak.

“We should keep the past where it belongs,” I continued, words tumbling out faster now. “People grow up. They grow apart. We’re on different paths. I have a daughter now, and you’re still very much a famous professional baseball player. But at least we can walk away as friends. Right?”

He just stared at me, brow furrowed, eyes searching my face.

The silence made my chest constrict, so I kept going.

“I mean, you shouldn’t be tied down with your lifestyle. I know that. Five years ago, when I thought there was still something here…” I motioned between us again. “I was going to suggest we explore it. But you went back to Austin. And you made quite the name for yourself off the field.” I forced a laugh. “Which was fine. You were young. You were allowed to sleep around. We aren’t the same people anymore. I think we just got caught up in the past. The comfort, maybe? I think it’s best if we stay friends.”

Still nothing.

“So,” I said, my voice tight, “friends?” I offered a lopsided smile.

Walker let out a short, humorless laugh and shook his head. “It’s like déjà fucking vu.”

I frowned. “What are you talking about?”

His eyes narrowed. “If my memory serves me right, you said those exact words the first time you broke up with me.”

The air shifted.

“The fact that you immediately believe what you see in the media—without talking to me first—is unreal,” he continued, now rising to his feet. “I thought you knew me better than that. You really think I’d do what we did the other night and then turn around and go hook up with someone else?”

He pressed a hand to his chest. “That hurts, Farrah.” He scoffed, shaking his head. “If you had just asked me. Talked to me. You’d know that I got up and left the second that girl touched me.”

My heart slammed against my ribs. Shit. This wasn’t how I’d expected it to go.

“And maybe,” he went on, voice sharper now, “you should stop making assumptions about what I want and don’t want.”

He stood up and paced once, then stopped.

“Five years ago, I bought my house. For you.”

My breath caught.

“I wanted to plant roots in Primrose Hill. Be closer to you. I’d hoped that house would be yours one day, too.” His voice dropped. “I found it a few days after Christmas Eve, closed on it right before I left for spring training. I was going to show it to you. I was going to tell you how I felt.”

He met my eyes. “I was going to fight for you.”

Then his expression hardened.

“But you got engaged,” he said quietly. “You made your choice.”

He turned and headed for the front door.

My chest tightened until it felt impossible to breathe.

“And it looks like you made your choice again,” he said over his shoulder. “Without me.”