Chapter 14

fourteen

WILL

Tuesday night's conditioning practice with the baseball team ended up being more one-on-one time with the kids than I was expecting. But the boys were eager and hungry, and I could understand wanting to learn all you could. I'd worked with Mason Gentry a bit more, the pitcher I'd shown a few pointers to last week. Once I'd focused my attention on one kid, it seemed the others wanted their five minutes with the has-been too.

Overall, I didn't mind. They seemed like good players. And they were out training of their own volition. Motivation wasn't something teenage boys were born with, so it didn't feel like a wasted effort to take some time out of my day to talk to them about the sport.

When we finished up, Jordan managed to get Seth to agree to come to dinner with him and Chloe. He invited me, but I thought it best to let them have some time to themselves.

As everyone packed up their water and gear, a middle-aged white man approached me from where he'd been parked on the bleachers for much of the unofficial practice. He wore khakis and a button-up and looked like any other baseball dad hanging out in the stands.

The man caught me throwing on a hoodie as the night air dipped, cooling the sweat lingering on my skin from our earlier run .

"Hi there! I wanted to introduce myself," the stranger said, a pleasant smile easy on his face.

"Will Clark." I shook the hand he extended, feeling my muscles go tight as familiar tension took hold. I wondered what this guy wanted.

"I'm Jim Gentry. Mason's dad."

My shoulders relaxed. "Good kid you got there."

Jim smiled like he knew it. "I'm lucky. He doesn't give me much trouble. I wanted to thank you for taking the time to work with him."

I reached for my duffel bag and straightened. "It's no trouble. He's talented and a good listener. That's a rare combination."

The man nodded. "I'm hopeless at baseball. Never played in my life. But we go out and throw a lot, and I come to his games. It doesn't count for much, but it's something."

I thought about my own dad. He'd encouraged my love of baseball from a young age. We'd played catch out on the farm, and he'd even driven over to Chapel Hill to see some of my college games. I remembered my family in the stands when I pitched my first start in the majors. My dad had a whistle you could hear from anywhere, and when I'd taken the mound, I'd heard it, as sharp and supportive as a slap on the back. Sometimes the best thing you could do was show up, and I'd been lucky as hell to have a father who supported me. Mason was clearly in the same boat.

"That is something," I finally replied.

Jim Gentry fell into step beside me as we made our way off the field and out to the parking lot behind the high school. Mason was ahead with a group of boys, laughing and horsing around. Seth and Jordan were gone already.

"I'm also the principal here at Kirby Falls High," Jim said suddenly.

I'd known that my old principal, Carlton Early, had retired a few years back, but I hadn't heard who replaced him. I knew they'd brought in a new hire from Georgia or somewhere.

"You like it?" I asked to be conversational, not entirely sure where this was going .

Jim chuckled a little under his breath. "I do. I've been here three years now, and I finally feel settled. Mason likes it, but I try to give him his space. We moved here from Savannah."

My mind chose that moment to conjure up Becca Kernsy—fitting in and flourishing in Kirby Falls in only a few weeks. Becca had already settled in and she hadn't even moved here. And then I told my brain, for the hundredth time since Saturday, to stop thinking about Becca. But it had been difficult. She hadn't shown up to Grandpappy's on Monday, and I'd wondered if that had been my doing.

Clearing my throat, I offered, "Yeah, I spent a little time in Georgia. Beautiful place." But I wasn't going to expand on my very short stint playing in Atlanta. It didn't seem like what Jim wanted to talk about anyway, which was a relief.

"Well, I'll leave you to your night, Mr. Clark. I just wanted to introduce myself and express my gratitude."

"Call me Will," I offered, turning to shake his hand once more. "It was nice meeting you."

We parted ways, and I made the drive over to Montell's Sandwich Shop. I figured I'd grab something to take home while I was in town. Maybe eat while I watched another episode of The Walking Dead . I was somehow on season six.

I placed my order and paid at the counter, then slid into a booth to wait. Pulling out my phone, I figured I should check to make sure Mac did the tagging and hashtagging thing for the Orchard Festival.

After bringing up the app, I could see that the Grandpappy's account had several new posts from the past weekend. One featured a colorful row of apples packed in white paper sacks, ready and waiting for tourists to take them home. Another shot showed my mom smiling broadly while she served a cup of apple slushie to a young girl. I'd have to ask Mac to send me that one to print out. My dad would like it.

Then I navigated over to the Orchard Festival's account to see if they'd featured the farm at all. There was Mac's pretty row of apples reposted and shared. Mac had even gone in and answered questions in the comments section from people too lazy to go over and visit Grandpappy's website to check hours of operation and apple varieties. I'd clearly been wrong to give my cousin shit about the social media stuff. She obviously had it handled.

I scrolled through a few more of the photos on Eloise's Orchard Fest account. One photo had far and away more likes and comments than any of the others. It was an objectively gorgeous shot of Margaret Mahroney's flower booth. The warm light was hitting the autumn bouquet just right, deep golds and maroons shining. I didn't know a lot about photography, but the background was blurry in such a way that the focus was entirely on the bright blooms and the rays of sunlight working their way across the flowers in their Mason jars, even reflecting off the water in the base. The whole thing looked atmospheric and uplifting. The photo made a statement. I tapped the caption to read . . .

Reposted from @Snap.Bam.Bloom

Come by and see us today at the 75 th Annual Orchard Festival! We have gorgeous fall floral arrangements of all sizes. Special thanks to @TryBeccaKernsy for this lovely photo and her enthusiasm. She's our favorite Orchard Fest volunteer! Becca even set us up with a web designer to get us into the 21 st century. Coming soon from @UngoliantWebServices, you'll be able to order your Snap Bam Blooms from anywhere in the continental U.S.!!

The post had over six thousand likes and hundreds of comments asking to buy and what Margaret's shipping options would be. There were so many compliments about the gorgeous photo and even several other local businesses chiming in about Becca being the Orchard Festival's MVP volunteer. My uncle George from Burke Hardware had something nice to say too. I didn't even realize he knew how to social media.

I wondered how Eloise decided which businesses to feature. And even more nagging was my curiosity over Becca's guiding hand. Had she known that Snap Bam Bloom had been struggling since the death of Margaret's husband last winter?

My thumb hovered over Becca's social media handle for all of a second before I tapped. My grip tightened involuntarily at the explosion of Kirby Falls on her feed, all through Becca's artistic eye. There was a gorgeous sunset from a week ago that I knew was taken from the back patio at the tiny house. Scrolling, I found myself face-to-face with so much of my hometown. There were local businesses and restaurants on display. The new sign above Apollo's with Magdaline Kouides and her parents beneath it, arms thrown wide, huge smiles on their faces. Becca had an entire ten-photo carousel featuring the food of Hog's Wild food truck. Perry McArthur, the owner and proprietor, had even commented on the post that Becca "was the best and got free food for life."

My fingers scrolled through weeks of photos—a visual diary of everything familiar but through Becca's lens. Everything about my hometown looked brighter and shinier. Was this how she saw it—how she saw all of us?

I paused when I got to an image from our hike on Mr. Abrams's trail from exactly one week ago. The caption was simple: What a view . In the background were the endless layers of hazy blue mountains, and just shy of center was the back of a lone figure, mostly in shadow. The hills were lit up by bright sunshine with only the barest hint of fog lingering in the deepest valleys. So the contrast between the tall form of a man and the landscape was striking. Just a dark silhouette with a backward cap framed on either side by drooping branches and all that bright space in front of him beyond the rock-edged cliff. Save for my momma, no one would even be able to tell it was me. I hadn't realized she'd snapped a photo.

Something warm and weighty had me rubbing absently at my chest. I didn't know how to feel about the picture, but some masochistic part of me wanted a version where Becca stood next to me, arm around my waist while I kissed her forehead. That wasn't something a friend should be thinking, but I was the dumbass who'd set the new rule. But it was better this way—for both of us. Silly daydreams and romantic notions wouldn't make either of us happy in the long run, and it definitely wouldn't protect my heart.

Just when I thought I had this girl figured out, a brand-new layer revealed itself. It hurt to think that I'd been so judgmental and stupid during our first meeting. My first impression of a hopeless city girl had been wrong. She was a grown woman with a life, a complicated family, and the biggest heart of anyone I'd ever met. She loved my town, and she connected with my neighbors. And I wanted more of her—more smiles and sweetness and my arms wrapped around her.

I wanted her to stay, I realized selfishly. I wanted the chance to take her back to that trail, to look out over those mountains and pull her against me while a self-timer captured an image of us both .

A comment below the post caught my attention. I tapped the screen to expand. Two accounts dominated the conversation with a little of Becca sprinkled in. I recognized the handles from comments on several of Becca's Kirby Falls photos.

A smile curved my lips as I read.

@CeCeSlater: IS THAT TREEBEARD?

@PippaNoStockings: I thought we were going with Lorax?

@CeCeSlater: Only because she made us stop referring to him as Lumbersnack.

A short bark of laughter emerged, but I didn't look around to see if anyone had noticed. You could not have pried the phone out of my cold, dead hand.

@TryBeccaKernsy: OMG STAHHHP you two

@PippaNoStockings: It's mostly Cece

@CeCeSlater: What? It's not like he's going to see it. He's too busy saving women from his forest. And too busy chopping all that wood. That hard, hard wood.

@TryBeccaKernsy: @CeCeSlater I'm going to murder you

@TryBeccaKernsy: I'll video call you both later if you promise to be good and stop now

Amusement threatening, I rubbed a hand down my beard, wondering what they said about me on that video call. They obviously knew about the tree incident that brought Becca into my life.

Scrolling further, I found a drought in the photos—a three-year break. There were a few coffeehouse images with twinkle lights and designer lattes. Going further, a colorful crocheted blanket that looked familiar spread across an empty twin-sized bed, then an elderly woman working on a puzzle, only her gnarled hands visible among the pieces.

Becca didn't have any selfies, but four years ago, there was a point-of-view shot of two people sitting side-by-side on a couch, the same crocheted blanket covering two pairs of legs propped up next to each other on a worn floral ottoman. Wheel of Fortune was caught in a frozen moment in the background behind their feet. The caption read: Mrs. W and me on a wild Friday night .

Now my chest ached for an entirely different reason, and I felt like an asshole for invading her privacy despite her account being public and available to the world.

Becca's mourning was right there between the borders of her photos. Her life had practically stalled out following the death of Mrs. Walters. Knowing what she'd been through with her family and how important the old woman had been made me immeasurably sad for Becca's loss.

But now, this resurgence in Kirby Falls brought light and happiness back into her life. She was taking the town by storm, impacting residents left and right. Becca was happy here, and I knew she'd be happy if she stayed. But that wasn't my choice to make.

I closed out of the app and looked up to see my sub wrapped and waiting for me on the table.

Head rising, I met the gaze of the kid behind the counter. He shrugged. "I said your name a couple of times, but you didn't answer. I dropped it off a while ago."

No, I hadn't noticed. I'd been staring at my phone, too wrapped up in the life of Becca Kernsy to notice anything else.

Jordan: Friday Night Outdoor Movie, 8pm, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone

Me: No.

Jordan: Come on. Firefly is sponsoring. And I'm fully staffed so I'll be watching the movie with Chloe. Come with us.

Me: *GIF of a tricycle*

Jordan: I'm proud of your relevant GIF usage, but you will not be the third wheel. Becca is coming too.

Me: Fine .

The space in front of Firefly Cider's main outdoor stage had been cleared of tables and chairs. They'd been shifted to the perimeter so folks could gather on the lawn with their blankets for the outdoor movie. This was the last one of the year. Kirby Falls Parks and Rec planned them for every Friday, all summer long, and Firefly was hosting tonight.

Someone had set up a projector and a screen beneath the covered awning of the stage, and the sun was about ten minutes from setting. The mid-September weather would get chilly tonight, but most people were decked out with sleeping bags and big quilts to keep warm.

Folks gathered with ciders in hand and plates from the food truck parked out front. Kids ran feral and screaming through the lawn dotted with a patchwork of blankets. And there, in the front row, was Jordan and Chloe and Becca on an unzipped sleeping bag.

I made my way through the crowd, stopping to speak to my cousin Bonnie and her husband, Danny. Bonnie was a sweetheart and didn't seem to mind all the kids—probably her students from the elementary school—who ran up and interrupted. Danny seemed oblivious. It looked like he was watching a football game on his phone.

Jordan spotted me first and held out a cider as I dropped two of my own sleeping bags on the ground. "Glad you could make it."

"Didn't have much choice," I grumbled. But that wasn't entirely true. I could have blown off movie night. But once my friend mentioned Becca's presence, I knew I'd be spending a Friday night in town being sociable.

Things had been . . . off since the "just friends" conversation during the festival last week. Becca finally came back to Grandpappy's on Wednesday to work in front of the Bake Shop, but I hadn't done more than nod in her direction since then.

"Hi, Will," Becca said brightly.

I realized I'd been staring at her like a moron. "Hey. How are you?"

"Good!" But her fingers were busy on the zipper of the sleeping bag across her lap .

"Y'all want some popcorn?" Chloe asked, drawing my attention as both she and Jordan stood. "We'll get some for everyone."

"Sure," I murmured as I worked to open up one of my sleeping bags and spread it out on the other side of Becca.

"Thanks, guys," Becca said, and Chloe and Jordan made for the popcorn stand.

Becca flipped over onto her hands and knees and helped tuck the edges of my sleeping bag flat alongside Jordan's. Her blond hair was down, dangling past her shoulders as she moved. Her pale pink sweatshirt looked cozy, and a part of me thought it would be nice to lie back on those blankets, all snuggled up with her in my arms.

Instead, I cleared my throat, and she passed me the cider I'd set aside.

"Busy week?" she asked mildly. There was no accusation in her tone, and that just made me feel more like shit.

I had been avoiding her, feeling awkward about our conversation and regretting my decision to keep things simple between us. I should have realized that simple was an illusion when you wanted to make out with someone.

"Yeah," I answered. "There's always a rush the week after the festival."

The conversation stayed stilted and stiff until Chloe and Jordan returned with popcorn, refills on cider, and the digital projector clicked on. The speakers they used for bands throughout the week amplified the opening soundtrack, and save for a few rambunctious children, everybody got quiet.

Bunching the flannel fabric beneath my head, I leaned back to watch the show. Becca reclined nearby, on top of the border of my spread sleeping bag and Jordan's. We were separated by a few inches, but awareness stole through me at the promise of accidental contact.

But it never came. Becca stayed contained, shifting carefully so that our bodies never so much as grazed. She sat up a few times to reposition or drink her cider, but each movement was mastered under her control.

I was so aware of her that I hadn't paid any attention to the show, and about thirty minutes in, I abruptly sat up to finish my drink. I stayed sitting, legs stretched out and arms braced behind me. But that was somehow worse because I didn't even need to tilt my head to see her spread out on the patterned flannel next to me. Her arms were behind her head, propping herself up so she could see the screen better. Her jean-clad legs were crossed at the ankle, and her blond hair fanned out in every direction. There was a strand about an inch away from my pinkie that was particularly distracting.

However, a short while later, Becca sat up, gaze fixed on the screen. She glanced over her shoulder and whispered, "This is my favorite part."

My eyes strayed to the film in time to see Harry and Ron celebrating Christmas at Hogwarts. Harry looked down into the common room to see Ron clad in his hand-knit Christmas sweater. "Looks like you've got one too," the red-haired boy said.

Becca grinned and turned back to me. "I love that Ron's mother knitted a sweater for Harry too. Like he's already part of the family."

She returned her attention to the screen, but I continued to look at her face for a long time. My throat got tight as I witnessed Becca's love for the moment when a fictional character felt like he belonged—like he'd been accepted.

Eventually, Becca reached up to wipe a tear from her cheek, and my gaze darted to the screen. She was watching the little boy stand before a mirror, looking at the people he'd lost. The tightness in my throat was growing, making it hard to swallow.

Becca huffed a little laugh at herself before whispering, "I could cry over anything, I swear. They could have played Ghostbusters tonight, and I probably would have shed a tear or two."

Grabbing the other sleeping bag I'd unzipped to use as a blanket for when the temperature dropped, I took it and spread it over Becca's legs. "Here you go. It's getting cold."

"Thank you, Will," she said quietly, the light reflecting the moisture lingering in her eyes. She lay back down again, snuggling beneath the warm bedding, and I had to take a long deep breath before I could manage the unspent energy coursing through me.

There was no one to blame and not a soul to punish. But I wanted to.

I thought about the old woman from her social media photo—Mrs. Walters. The gnarled hands separating puzzle pieces and the person beside Becca beneath a crocheted blanket watching Wheel of Fortune . I hated that Becca lost the one good person in her life. Someone who loved her.

My fingers flexed at the unfairness of it all.

Raising my gaze from where Becca lay, my attention snagged on Chloe. She was watching me, a sad, knowing look on her face as if she, too, knew of the unfortunate loss that Becca had suffered. After a moment Chloe gave me a weak smile and then lay back, cuddling into Jordan's side and reaching over to squeeze Becca's arm.

I didn't pretend to know what Becca's relationship was like with her sister or her parents, but I knew it wasn't healthy. They didn't appreciate her, and they made her unhappy. And at the very least, there was a long history of neglect and abuse.

I couldn't imagine a world where people had the chance to know Becca but rejected her instead.

I didn't want to be one more person in Becca's life who used her or took advantage. Her family had stolen from her. They'd manipulated her. Her sister punished her for things that were out of Becca's control. But I knew that the tender-hearted woman lying beside me would never voluntarily give up on anyone.

She deserved to have a person in her corner who wouldn't give up on her.

Shame drowned out the movie and the night sounds. All I could think about was how I'd avoided Becca all week in an attempt to, what, sidestep an awkward conversation? To save my pride after letting her down easy? No, I'd been a coward. I'd told her I wanted to be friends and then used that as an excuse to pull away.

I should be a man true to my word. I didn't want to hide from Becca. I wanted to absorb all the time I could. It was foolishness to avoid her and hold on to some wound caused by her impending departure. Becca was not to blame for circumstances beyond our control. Holding her responsible was weak of me.

Of course I wanted her to stay, but that wasn't up to me. From the outside looking in, her life in Detroit wasn't fulfilling, but I didn't know the whole story with her sister, and it sure as hell wasn't my place to tell Becca what to do .

I wasn't about to ask more from her than she was willing to give. I had my life, and she had hers too. If she thought Detroit was what was best for her, then I trusted her enough to know that.

"Are you cold?" Becca whispered suddenly, breaking me out of my thoughts.

She didn't wait for me to answer. Instead, she said, "Here you go," and tugged some of the makeshift blanket over to spread across my legs too.

"Thanks," I replied, voice rough as I settled beside her, careful to keep some distance between us. But it was hard. Beneath our sleeping bag cocoon, it smelled like her sweet honeysuckle scent, and it was warm from the heat of her body.

Every day, there was something new. Everything I learned about Becca just made me want a little more—to know her, to be near her, to touch her. She was kind and thoughtful. Helping Kirby Falls residents and touching lives in this small town. I thought of the way she regularly visited my great-grandfather, playing piano and reading to a man she didn't even know and had no connection to.

For the first time since I'd pushed her away, I was no longer concerned about breaking her heart. I was starting to worry about my own.