Chapter 24

twenty-four

WILL

"Dammit," I muttered, fumbling the paintbrush as the door to the garage opened and then slammed shut.

I caught the bristly end fully loaded with Whisper White in my right hand and cursed again.

I'd just steadied myself on the fourth rung of the ladder and finished wiping what I could of the white paint off my hand when Jordan strolled in.

"Wow!" he said, eyes wide as he turned in a circle, taking in the room—what would be the office on the second floor. "It looks great in here."

When I kept right on painting the trim and ignoring the trespasser, he spoke up again. "I love the built-in bookshelves and how you lined the backs with wallpaper. Really complements the rest of the house."

I focused on my task, making sure my lines were straight.

"Actually, the whole house looks amazing," Jordan continued. "I noticed the fresh paint on the siding and the navy shutters outside. And the kitchen and the dining room look like they could be in a magazine. What do you have left to do since this is apparently where you've been spending all your time?"

"Here we go," I grumbled .

"What? Just wondering where you've been hiding out for the last month since I can't seem to catch you at the farm, and you haven't been to Firefly or Trivia Night or softball or conditioning practice or any-fucking-where, William."

I finished the section I was painting and then stepped down from the ladder, not particularly in the mood to have this conversation. I hadn't done all the renovation work myself. Crews had been in and out, but I had been keeping busy with most of it.

As I shifted the ladder over another few feet, I noticed the tightness in my shoulder from having my arm raised all afternoon. I hadn't stretched it out in a while. And, of course, there hadn't been any more massages. Not since Becca left last month anyway.

I didn't really want to think about that either. But I figured it was the real reason Jordan was seeking me out.

But I wasn't about to rehash Becca's departure from Kirby Falls. The thing with her sister was private, and I didn't feel comfortable sharing. And I really didn't want to talk about the fight we'd had that day. Or how I'd come back after work to try to catch her before she left, only to find a key and a note for my mother waiting on the countertop in the kitchen. I hadn't even been able to bring myself to read it. All her stuff had been gone, and I'd been a fucking idiot.

I was pretty sure Jordan didn't want to hear about how Mom had stomped up to me the following day with the key and note in hand, demanding to know what had happened and why Becca had paid Merry Maids to do a move-out clean on the tiny house and deliver those items to Maggie's doorstep.

"I've been busy," I said instead as I climbed the ladder to repeat the process all over again with the trim.

"What's going on, Will?" Jordan's voice was soft, and I hated that even more than the bossy demands. The disappointment I heard was somehow worse. "You've had this house for six years. Yet you just decided in the last month to bust your ass every free moment you had to fix it up. The remodeled guest bathroom?"

"There was a leak," I argued.

"Yeah, and you needed to put in a fancy bathtub with jets and a huge shower with double showerheads? "

"It'll increase the value of the house."

"And all the new furniture that's actually from this century?" he questioned.

"It's comfortable," I replied, exasperated. Why the hell couldn't I buy a nice couch or chairs for the dining room?

"This place has been like a museum since you've moved in, but now you decide to remodel. Don't you see any sort of"—he motioned around with big, annoying hand movements—"correlation? That maybe you're doing this all for a reason?"

I sighed, placed the paintbrush on the tray, and turned to face Jordan.

I didn't have to wait long.

"You're doing all this for her!" he practically exploded and flung his arms out wide.

Gripping the edge of the ladder, I felt the metal bite into my palm. "I don't know what you're talking about, man."

Jordan dropped his head back to stare at the ceiling. "Becca. It's for Becca."

I forced myself to take a breath. "Even if I did remodel this house to make it more of a home. And even if I had done all this work for Becca . . . she's not fucking here, Jordan."

"Well, maybe she should be. Did you ever think of that?"

I fought the urge to roll my eyes and scream into the void.

Did I want the woman I loved to be in my life? Was he insane?

Of course I'd thought about calling her and apologizing every damn day. Of course I missed her. It was why I'd thrown myself into work on the house in the past month. Thinking about her had been too hard. When I dropped into bed at night, I wanted to be so exhausted that I couldn't remember the feel of her skin. When I closed my eyes, I didn't want to be reminded of her smile. Wishing for another outcome just made me angry and frustrated.

But Becca had her life, and I had mine. She'd made her choices, and it clearly wasn't my place to insert myself. Look where saying my piece about her sister had gotten me .

The way things had ended . . . hadn't been good. I'd said things I could never take back. And she'd thrown my whole life back in my face. I never should have forced my opinion on her. She hadn't been ready to face the truth about Heather. And she never would have been happy abandoning her for a life here, with me.

So, no, I hadn't really pushed her away. Not when she was never going to stay in the first place.

"She was a tourist," I finally said, keeping my voice even. "I should have remembered that."

I knew how to move on from disappointment. I'd done that for years. I would be okay. Baseball didn't break me, and I wasn't going to let losing Becca shatter me either.

"Did you ever ask her to stay?" Jordan asked.

"I can't make that decision for her. No one should be manipulated or forced into a situation like that. Not like I?—"

Jordan's face went slack. "Shit, Will. I know—I know coming back here wasn't in your five-year plan. I hate that you feel trapped."

"I don't feel trapped," I said automatically.

But my friend kept right on talking as if I hadn't even spoken. "But you never looked for another way. You acted like there was only one path available to you and that was to come back home. You're my best friend. Of course I want you here, but I would have understood if you'd needed to find a job somewhere else. If you needed space. You never grieved for what you lost."

I frowned. "You make it sound like somebody died instead of just my career."

"Part of you did die. The part that dreamed and hoped and worked your ass off your whole life. You took baseball and all your memories and accomplishments and lumped them in with your injury. And then you shoved everything in a box and hid it away. You stood over it, snarling at anyone who got too close."

I looked away, unwilling to acknowledge how painfully accurate that description was.

Jordan continued. "You can't just shut off parts of yourself. You did it with baseball. Are you going to do that with Becca too? That's not how feelings work, Will. What if I died tomorrow? We had twenty-five years of friendship. Would you shut it all down? Never think of me. Never let anyone talk about me ever again. Would you avoid Seth and Chloe so you wouldn't have to think about me? You'd throw away all the good just because you got hurt in the process?"

It sounded dramatic, but I could see the parallels. When I could meet his eyes again, I admitted, "That part of who I am is over and done with. I can't be Will, the ball player, anymore. And I was short-sighted enough that that was all I ever was. It's easier to just forget about it."

Jordan's words were imploring. "You're not just Will, the baseball player. You never have been. You're Will, the son, the nephew, the friend, the cousin, the partner, the coach."

Realistically, I knew my family was a big part of my life. But I knew how they saw me too. I harped and nagged my cousins about their work ethic. I was too intense, a perfectionist. I worked too hard. Things had to be my way. And so much of that was the truth.

While I did love the farm—its history and legacy—I didn't want the position I had there. I didn't want to be Will, the person who put out the fires and handled anything thrown his way.

Maybe I had grown because I didn't want to put everything about Becca in a box and hide it away. It was because of Becca that I could see the good in my hometown again. In showing her all the places I'd loved growing up, I'd relived them myself. I didn't want to forget it all. And I didn't want to leave. I couldn't imagine living somewhere else. Kirby Falls may have been my fallback plan, but it was also my home.

"All I want," Jordan said, drawing my attention away from my spiraling internal thoughts, "is for you to be happy, Will. You're my best friend. I've known you my whole life. You stood beside me on the hardest day of my life. You helped me bury my dad."

Jordan sniffed loudly, and I swallowed several times to keep my emotions in check. I'd remember that day, our sophomore year of high school, for the rest of my life. The unexpected death of a man I'd grown up with and respected and loved. And my best friend, who'd been lost and adrift in grief .

When Jordan could speak again, he managed with a tight voice, "You helped my mom. You helped me with Seth. When kids our age were out partying and having fun—being stupid kids—you were helping me change diapers and make bottles and rocking a baby to sleep. I know you won't say it, and that's fine. But I love you, Will. I love you."

"I do," I interrupted quickly. "You're my brother, Jordan. Of course I do."

My friend nodded, looking like he might tear up again, but finally said, "I want you to have something for yourself. That's why I pushed you to date and coach and live a little. And maybe I pushed too hard. I always thought baseball was the thing that made you happy, but I think it just made you determined. It gave you a goal, something to work toward. But it never loved you back."

I thought about how true that was. All the blood, sweat, and tears that I'd put into the sport. All the sacrifices. And it carried on without me. I had been driven. I'd pursued baseball relentlessly, but Jordan was right. I didn't know if that was really love.

It was easier to spot the differences now. Becca and her unexpected presence in my life was a big part of that awareness—as was her departure.

"As someone who knows you better than anyone," Jordan went on, "I'm telling you that girl makes you happy. I've never seen you how you were with Becca. I'm not saying rely on a woman as your only source of happiness. I just mean she's changed you. I was terrified before. Really worried about you. Working yourself to the bone, avoiding everyone in town in case they brought up that no-hitter you pitched in college. But something changed with Kernsy. She brought you back to life—this life, here in Kirby Falls."

I nearly smiled at the nickname, knowing how much it meant to her. Something so small but important. It meant she was included. It meant she belonged.

My eyes drifted closed as shame swelled within. All the things I'd said to her. The way I'd hurt her. Telling her it had all been a waste had been cruel—especially for someone like Becca who treasured and valued every relationship.

Jordan's voice was quiet. "But more than anything, you need to be happy with yourself. Baseball didn't do it. And I know you love your family, man, but the farm doesn't make you happy either. At least not with the way things are currently. You need to figure out how you can make yourself happy and then work your ass off achieving it, the way only Will Clark can, and then you can work on making Becca happy too."

I met my friend's gaze. It was full-on conviction, like he had complete faith in me. I didn't know that I deserved Jordan's confidence, but I could work to earn it.

"I think . . . " I began, the admission taking shape from all the times it had kept me up at night. "I think I need a change."

"Do you know what you want to do?" Jordan asked.

Slowly, I nodded. "Yeah. I think so."

"Well, good." He slapped a hand down on my good shoulder. "I want you to be happy. And maybe if you figure out how to ask for what you want, you will be."

To Jordan's obvious surprise, I pulled him in for a hug.

While my life hadn't turned out the way I'd envisioned, I could have ended up in worse places. I had a family who loved and supported me. I had friends and neighbors who braved my moods and attitudes. I had a home that meant something to me. And I still had time to course correct. I could change the things about my life I didn't like. Thirty wasn't dead.

Maybe my happiness looked different than it did a decade ago. Maybe now it was a house on a mountain, overlooking a farm and a legacy. It could be coaching baseball instead of playing it. It was definitely a dog who was just as grumpy as his owner. And hopefully it would be a tourist who belonged in Kirby Falls just as much as I did.

After a couple of manly slaps to the back, I pulled away from Jordan. He was grinning at me until he looked down at my shirt.

Then his gaze bounced back to his own shirt, frowning. "Did you just get white paint on me, you asshole?"

I took in the pale streak on his dark hoodie. "It's called Whisper White and it's very popular."

And then I laughed—for maybe the first time in nearly a month.