Chapter 12

twelve

WILL

"What are you doing? We're supposed to meet Seth and the team in an hour."

I didn't so much as twitch when Jordan came into my living room questioning me. A few minutes ago, I'd heard the security system at the door leading from the garage beep announcing his arrival. I knew we had plans for conditioning this evening with the kids. But I'd gotten home from work forty minutes ago and thought I could sneak in an episode before Jordan picked me up.

Then I'd gotten sucked in, and now, here I was, snuggled up on the couch with a blanket over my workout clothes and an episode of The Walking Dead up on the television. Carl was curled up against my thigh with his head beneath the covers as if he, too, was embarrassed for me.

"I'm ready to go. I just wanted to finish this episode."

I felt Jordan sit down on the couch on the other side of Carl. "Are you watching The Walking Dead ?"

"Yes," I replied, impatient. Then I clicked the volume up on the remote.

A few minutes progressed in blessed silence, and then Jordan piped up again, "But why are you watching The Walking Dead ?"

I sighed and hit pause on the episode. Turning to Jordan, I grumbled, "Are you going to talk the whole time? "

"Trust me. You're going to want to watch the rest of this one later. I remembered when it aired near the holidays, and I pretty much thought the Governor ruined Christmas."

I threw the remote control at his shoulder. "Hey. No spoilers."

Jordan laughed. "Man, this show premiered over a decade ago. Where were you in 2010?"

Vibe ruined, I got out from under the blanket and stood. "Come on." I grabbed my hat off the coffee table and my water bottle, fully anticipating these high schoolers to run me ragged.

I patted Carl and told him I'd be back later.

"What?" Jordan was still laughing. "I'm sorry. I didn't say what happened. Also, I've never seen you interested in a television show. What brought all this on?"

I paused in the mudroom so Jordan could go out ahead of me and I could lock up. While there, I considered how to handle this. I didn't particularly want to admit that I was watching the show because of Becca. She'd mentioned it when she'd found out my dog's name and then made a joke that went right over my head. So one night a couple of weeks ago, I'd found the first episode on demand and watched it.

And when that episode ended, and I didn't hate it, I kept going. I'd accidentally stayed up until three in the morning. Now I was on season four, and the late-night binge-watching had really cut into my sleep. But I didn't actually mind. Part of me thought maybe I could casually bring up the show to Becca now that I knew what she meant about Carl the dog and Carl the boy from the series. Also, why couldn't that kid just stay in the damn house?"

Instead, I told my friend, "I just happened to catch the first episode and liked it. So now I'm watching it. It's not a big deal."

Jordan eyed me suspiciously as I climbed into the passenger seat of his big black truck and buckled up. "You just happened to watch the first episode . . . on demand on your television."

It wasn't phrased as a question, but his curiosity was front and center.

Sighing, I admitted, "Becca said something about it when she found out Carl's name. Asked if I was a fan of the show. "

Jordan's gaze flicked to mine as he navigated down the steep incline of my driveway out onto the main road. "Okaaayyy."

I reached for the bill of my hat and gave it a sharp tug downward. "She thought I was being funny. Like, ‘Carl, get in the house' because he's a dog, and that idiot kid on the show is always getting told to stay in the house."

Jordan chuckled. "That's pretty good. And it would have been hilarious if you'd done that on purpose instead of just giving your dog the name of a middle-aged human being who sounds like he works on cars in his spare time and chews tobacco."

I sighed again. It was easy to ignore Jordan. I knew he was just giving me shit. And besides, Carl was a good name for a dog. I didn't need to defend it.

"So you got curious and watched it?" he prompted as he maneuvered the vehicle down the winding roads of the mountainside. "Because of Becca, the tourist."

My eyes cut in his direction, but his face was impassive, easygoing. The tourist comment hadn't been an intentional jab, but I could tell he'd said it to make a point. You didn't know someone for twenty-five years without recognizing the meaning behind their words.

"I didn't put a whole lot of thought into it, Jordan."

He hummed noncommittally. "Right. Well, I've seen all eleven seasons and even some of the spinoff series. Feel free to share your TWD journey with me. Angry text whenever the need arises."

"I can't imagine the need will arise," I said.

"Or I guess you could talk to Becca, the tourist, about it."

"Stop calling her that," I snapped and then shook my head at how fucking ridiculous I was being.

It was confirmed when Jordan made a pleased sound from my left. "I knew it! I knew you liked her."

"What are we? Twelve?" But I could feel the heat creeping beneath my tee shirt and up my neck.

"About you, William J. Clark the Fourth, being into a girl? Yes. Yes, we are. Because that is how stunted you are. You have never, not once, thought about a woman enough to go home and search out a television show she mentioned." Jordan shook his head in wonder. "This is like Christmas."

My exhalation took my last two sighs and combined them into a mega-breath. "I am not discussing this with you."

"Why not? I'm your best friend. I'm the perfect candidate." He pulled up to the stop sign at the intersection of my private road and the highway. In no hurry, he turned in his seat to regard me, amusement evident in every one of his features. "And I've been waiting a million years for you to be interested in something—shit, anything—that wasn't baseball."

This insinuation that I was so consumed with the sport was . . . okay, accurate. But how else did people expect me to behave when being a major league pitcher had been my only goal in life? That level of compete required work and focus. It was not something you could just stumble into.

So, yeah, I'd gone all-in on a bet that hadn't paid out in the end. Of course I felt like shit about it. Maybe if I'd been a less motivated, less intense person, I would have let baseball run its course. Maybe I would have played in high school and then in college, and maybe that was where my journey would have ended. If I hadn't been so driven, maybe I would have met a nice girl while studying at the University of North Carolina. Perhaps we would have gotten married and settled down. If not for the overwhelming need I'd felt to be the best at every damn thing relating to the sport, I wouldn't be back on my family's farm with nothing to show for it.

Those were all very real possibilities, and Jordan was an asshole to think I didn't consider that every day of my life.

"I don't want to talk about Becca."

Just thinking about Becca was hard enough. The kissing had been good yesterday. Really good. I'd liked having her in my arms at Legacy Hills, doing what barely constituted as dancing. But drying her off after a rainstorm and taking care of her had been a different sort of feeling altogether. And then she'd been playful and sweet, responsive in a way that told me we'd be plenty compatible in other areas.

But the feeling of fear when I hadn't been able to find her during a dangerous situation had been unexpected and troubling. My worry and panic had gone beyond losing a wayward leafer in the corn maze. I'd been concerned about Becca—desperate to find her and make her safe. It had gone well past feeling responsible for a tourist at Grandpappy's. And the stark relief at finally locating her had been enough to rattle me.

I didn't need to take one failed obsession and replace it with another. I couldn't get so invested in this thing with Becca. Despite how I felt about her, she was still a visitor to Kirby Falls. And she was going to leave. Until I heard different, it was better to keep myself grounded and rational. Manage my motivations and expectations to something realistic.

Even if he was trustworthy and practically my brother, gossiping with Jordan wouldn't help with all the complications surrounding Becca.

I needed to have a conversation with her, but I was dragging my feet on it. It seemed pointless to ask her what she wanted when I didn't even know that myself. But some instinct told me to proceed with caution.

My friend gave me a pass and changed the subject. But I was mostly quiet on the way to the high school.

We did a four-mile run with the dozen boys present. I enjoyed it for the simple fact that it kept Jordan winded and unable to question me any more about Becca.

After twenty minutes of plyometric exercises, Seth called me over to a bucket of balls and one of the juniors on the varsity team. Mason Gentry played first base, but he also pitched when needed. Seth wanted me to advise him on a few things. The kid was big for his age and could throw hard, but his control was shit. But that was something that could be taught and managed. I watched him pitch to Jordan behind the plate for several minutes before I talked him through some things he could do to help the ball stay in the strike zone.

He made adjustments and pitched a few more with marked improvement. Gentry seemed like a good kid. He took direction well and asked the right kinds of questions. But more than that, he listened.

When I looked around, I noticed all the other players were still in the stands watching. I thought they would have packed it in.

"Thanks for taking the time to train with us, Mr. Clark. And thanks for the pointers. I'll work on it," Mason said quietly, drawing my attention from the onlookers .

"It's just Will," I said. "And it's no problem. You'll get there."

Seth and Mason took the balls and left the infield as Jordan jogged up to the mound from home plate. He looked smug, and I knew what he was going to harp on.

"Not a word," I groused as he tossed me his mitt, catching me off guard.

"What?" He grinned. "I wasn't going to say anything."

But I knew it was a lie. Jordan was dying to bring up the coaching thing again.

I eyed the boys still gathered on the bleachers as they finally stood, laughing and messing with one another and made for the parking lot.

I'd liked being part of a team at one time. It was different as a pitcher. I'd had my own pitching coach, and practices weren't the same for players in my position. But the camaraderie had been one of the things I'd always loved about baseball. I hadn't always been driven by the control and the challenge of pitching a great game. In the beginning, it had been about being a good teammate and earning a win for the players I shared the field with.

"But that had to feel good, right?" Jordan said, ignoring my threat.

I sent him a glare, but admitted, "Yeah. He seems like a good kid with talent."

"And you could help him," Jordan insisted. "You're patient and they respect the hell out of you."

Reaching down for my water bottle in the grass, I snorted in response.

Jordan grabbed his mitt out of my hand and whacked me in the stomach with it. "Shut up. They do."

There wasn't anything about my situation that should make those kids look at me starry-eyed. I was a cautionary tale accompanied by a mournful headshake. Jordan was supportive but misguided.

I didn't even know what it would take to be a high school coach—even if I wanted to. Which I didn't. I knew the assistants didn't need to be teachers at Kirby Falls High School, but I wasn't sure about the head coach.

Briefly, the idea of volunteering as an assistant coach flitted through my mind. The games. The kids. The teamwork. The camaraderie .

But a whole boatload of painful reminders accompanied the good aspects. I still felt like a failure. Adding hometown cliché to my résumé left a bitter taste in my mouth.

"Let's go," I said, deliberately trying to get Jordan off this topic. "We have the Orchard Festival in the morning."

"Okay, but let's finish that episode when we get back to your house."

Jordan was digging his keys out of his waist belt, a.k.a. fanny pack that I gave him relentless shit for, and didn't see me roll my eyes.

"Fine. But just watching. You don't get to commentate the whole episode." I pointed in his direction. "And no more spoilers."

"Cross my heart," Jordan swore with a grin.

And I just knew I was going to regret this.

I'd made it my goal to get down to Main Street early enough to set up our own tables for Grandpappy's and the Bake Shop beneath our big white tent. But when I arrived to see all six tables already arranged in an organized U-shape, complete with chairs for all employees, I knew the volunteers had gotten to us first. And when I'd found a small cooler filled with bottles of water hidden beneath the corner table, I'd known which helpful volunteer had taken care of us.

I glanced down the street to see if I could spot Becca in her lime-green volunteer tee shirt, but she wasn't anywhere nearby. So I got to work unloading the produce in the back of the truck instead. The rest of the crew would be along within the hour and then things would really get going.

Mom and Chloe would be under the tent with the rest of the Grandpappy's staff, serving apple cider slushies and all manner of baked goods. They'd even recruited Laramie to their side to assist in the prep work so that Mom and Chloe could handle the face-to-face with the customers. I was a little jealous that she'd thought of that while I had to be public-facing, selling Grandpappy's merchandise and fifteen varieties of apple on the farm side of things with Mac, my father, my aunt and uncle, and a handful of other farm employees .

The Judd's Orchard tent was right next door, as to be expected, and I shot Joan a salute when I noticed her arrival a few minutes after mine. She had her sister, Candy—right, Candace —on her heels, awkwardly carrying some sort of cardboard cutout. It looked like a giant apple with a cowboy hat. That was . . . different. But maybe kids would be into a photo op with a cartoon apple. I didn't know what the cowboy hat was all about. This was North Carolina, not Texas.

That reminded me, I needed to talk to Mac about social media crap. She handled that for Grandpappy's Farm, and Eloise Carter had given us strict instructions for tagging or hashtagging or something. I had the email on my phone.

When Mac strolled in, dark ponytail swinging, ten minutes before the start of the festival, I resisted my eye roll and pulled her aside. "Hey, so for social media, you're supposed to take photographs throughout the day and tag @TheOrchardFestival and hashtag a bunch of things so that Eloise can share them across their channels. I just forwarded you the info to the farm email address."

"Hello, William. Yes, I'm doing well, my dear cousin. I hope you are too," she replied dryly, shoving her giant purse under the table in the back.

"Just do it, Mac Attack."

"Don't you dare," she growled.

I grinned, unrepentant. "What?"

Her gray eyes—near replicas of my own, passed down from our grandfather—blazed fire. "You better not use that stupid nickname that Brady calls me."

"Which one?" I teased. The guy had about ten that he cycled through regularly. Mac Attack. Big Mac. Maxi Pad. Mac Daddy. Mac Truck. Mac and Cheese. Mac Book Pro. Brady Judd just never knew when to give up.

But I did, so I left Mac alone before she got her revenge on me. "Truce," I said, holding up my hands. "Just do the social media thing so I don't have to worry about it."

"Social media is my job, so, of course, I'll do it. You're not the only capable person under this tent, Will." Then she tightened her ponytail and shot me a glare before going over to talk to Larry and Chloe.

Frowning, I wondered where that snipe had come from. My cousin was a sassy firecracker any day of the week, but I hadn't meant to indicate that she couldn't handle herself. Sure, sometimes I didn't like how she shirked her responsibilities—requesting time off for arbitrary day dates or showing up on time by just the skin of her teeth. But I knew Mac was good at her job. I should apologize to her later.

Soon enough we were so busy that I didn't have time to think about the way I'd irritated my cousin. We sold apples by the bushel, peck, and half peck. My dad fielded questions about the farm while I bagged produce. I could see Mom and Larry and Chloe doing a brisk business from across the tent. They ran out of boxed apple cider doughnuts by noon. I knew because I sneaked over there to grab one for lunch, but I was a half hour too late.

Just after 1:30 p.m., I happened to glance up from the restock I was doing on the Mutsu apples when I noticed a lime-green tee shirt hovering at the corner of our table. Becca stood off to the side so that she wasn't in the way of any of the customers crowding around.

She wore a royal-blue Burke Hardware hat with her long blond ponytail snaked through the hole in the back. When she met my gaze, her face split into a wide smile.

I set down the crate I'd been grabbing yellow-green apples from and met her near the tent pole. "Hey."

"Hi, how are you? You guys have been so busy all day."

It was good to see her. I could tell from her rate of speech that she was just this side of jumpy. I felt that same happy dip in my belly that likely afflicted her, but I was better at hiding it. Becca rambled when she was nervous, and it was fucking adorable.

"Yeah, it's packed this year," I agreed. "You've been busy too, I bet."

She nodded. "Oh yeah. We got through setup surprisingly quickly, but I've been checking in with Eloise often to help out with whatever she needs."

I frowned at the thought of Eloise Carter wielding her influence and cornering Becca into overworking herself. "Have you gotten a break? Did you eat lunch?"

Becca brightened. "That's why I was loitering. I'm taking my break now, and I wanted to see if you or your mom or anyone else needed me to pick up anything. "

She'd been working hard since six in the morning. Setting up tables, lugging equipment around, and running all over Main Street to make sure everything was perfect. And when she got a minute to herself to refuel, she'd come here instead.

"Becca, you don't need to?—"

But I was cut off by Larry from over my shoulder. "Becca! We love you! Could you grab us something from the Empanada Shack?"

I watched incredulously as Mac joined in begging for food. "That would be amazing."

"Of course!" Becca said.

"I'll write down our order and grab you some cash," Mac said and then returned to my mother behind the cash register.

"You don't have to take care of them," I said as soon as my cousins wandered off. "They're adults. They can get their own lunch."

"I know." She smiled. "But I like helping. And they've been working so hard all day."

Debatable.

Before I could argue further, I felt my mother step up beside me. "Hey, Becca honey! You're not working too hard, are you?"

"No. Not at all. My shift is over at three, and I'll be able to go around and enjoy the festival after that."

"Well, good," my momma said, smiling at Becca. And to me, she instructed, "Here's some money and our order. Why don't you go with Becca over to the empanada food truck and help her bring everything back?"

It was phrased like a question, but I could read between the punctuation.

"That's okay," Becca was already protesting.

Mom's eyes narrowed at me, waiting for my argument. I sighed but didn't call her on the blatant setup attempt. I actually wanted to go with Becca.

"Sure thing," I replied, taking the list and the money and ducking beneath the rope holding the corner of the tent in place .

"Thank you, Becca! We appreciate you, sweet pea!"

Becca smiled at my mother's parting words, but then she looked at me and opened her mouth, the apology practically preparing to high dive off her tongue.

"It's okay," I said, gently grabbing her arm beneath the edge of her shirtsleeve. "They can spare me."

"Are you sure?" she murmured worriedly.

"Yep."

I kept the hand at her elbow to guide her between festivalgoers. The street was packed with people, and Becca was petite. I didn't want her to get run over by some rude tourists. However, my size and general facial expression afforded me some space among the folks circulating.

After working under the tent all morning, it felt nice to be under the September sun.

Becca said, "I'm looking forward to three o'clock when I can take my time and go visit all the booths. Since you're the insider, is there anywhere in particular I should be sure to hit?"

I watched a little boy come racing up with a stick of cotton candy that was bigger than he was. I reached down to grab Becca's hand to tug her to the side to avoid the undoubtedly sticky kid as he brushed close by.

It took me a minute to consider her question and then another minute to finally let go of her hand. "It's been a while since I've done more than work the festival," I admitted. "I'm probably not the best person to ask."

"Oh, okay," she said, nodding around a half-hearted smile that she tried to pass off as normal. But I'd seen her when her grin could hardly contain her joy. I was familiar with the difference.

I didn't know how to explain my complicated feelings surrounding my hometown unless I told her about baseball, and this wasn't really the time or the place. It wasn't her fault or anything she'd said.

Nowadays, when I thought of the Orchard Festival, I only associated it with work. But there'd been a time when the biggest event in Kirby Falls hadn't been all duty and obligation and my ass parked behind a table for eight hours .

At one time, the Orchard Fest had meant giant bags of cotton candy and weaving through pedestrians. When I'd been little, my dad had propped me up on a stool so I could grab the apples for him while he and Mom had sold to the tourists. I remembered liking the attention from the strangers. I'd felt special to be a part of the magic of my hometown.

Later, the event had meant riding in the parade on Sunday with the rest of the baseball team. It had felt like a lot of nonsense and small-town hero worship but the support and the applause had been nice to receive from neighbors in the crowd.

I couldn't remember when the Orchard Fest went from a fun weekend in mid-September shared with family and friends to something I dreaded on my calendar, but seeing Becca take it all in with fresh eyes made me feel a bit ashamed.

I didn't want to disappoint her even more, so I didn't say any of that. I just let it go.

It was important to remember that this was all new and exciting to Becca because she wasn't from here. Her status as a tourist just reiterated the fact that she wasn't staying.

No matter how much I'd liked kissing her and holding her and even dancing with her, she would still leave. It wouldn't do me any good to think about how good she'd tasted, how soft she was in my arms, and the sweet sounds she'd made against my lips if it had a big expiration date on it. We definitely needed to talk about where we went from here.