Chapter 3

three

WILL

Seth Rockford was the real deal.

The kid was seventeen years old and just starting his senior year at Kirby Falls High School. He could stand to put a little weight on his tall beanpole frame, but he had an arm—one you didn't see very often at the high school level.

I'd known him since he was born. Seth was the surprise baby brother of my best friend, Jordan, and the Rockford boys had been in my life for a long time. Jordan and I had played catch with Seth when he was growing up, not to mention all the T-ball and Little League games we'd watched from the stands. Seth didn't call me Uncle Will that much anymore since he was a too cool teenager. But my role in his life was one of the few things I was proud of.

Seth and I had bonded over our shared love of baseball. The kid still looked up to me despite my well-known status as a has-been and a pro athlete never-was.

But Seth had a real chance. And despite my complicated relationship status with the sport nowadays, I wanted Seth to achieve his major league dreams.

I watched another fastball go right over the middle of the plate. The teenage catcher pulled off his mitt and shook out his hand.

"How fast do you think that was?" Jordan asked from his place beside me on the uncomfortable metal bleachers .

I thought about the sound the ball had made against the leather at impact. Then memories intruded on that remembered knowledge. The sharp, bright smell of grass. The tackiness of a rosin bag in my sweaty hand. The heat of the sun beating down on the back of my neck during a summer day long since gone.

I cleared my throat and estimated, "It probably hit eighty-five."

Jordan gave a low whistle. "Damn."

An assistant coach—some asshat who didn't know a pitcher's mound from a hole in the ground—approached Seth and showed him the way he gripped the baseball in his hand. Seth was a good kid, so he nodded along to whatever Coach Asshat was saying. Then he threw another strike that blew right by the batter, and the idiot coach nodded like he'd revolutionized the sport with his stellar advice.

"I can hear you grinding your teeth. You should just volunteer to coach him yourself."

"I am not grinding my teeth," I argued, sure as shit not acknowledging the coaching part of his comment. If you gave Jordan an inch, he'd take you down the street to the Winn-Dixie and back.

But I did loosen my jaw a little and heard a traitorous crack.

From beneath a Kirby Falls Bobcats ball cap, Jordan said affably, "I heard that." While I considered the benefits of ending our decades-long friendship, he said, "And they say if you're grinding your teeth during the daylight hours, you're probably grinding them while you're asleep too."

I slid him a look. "Are you a dentist now?"

"It would actually be a sleep medicine specialist."

I rolled my eyes.

Jordan's bright white smile widened. "What? I heard it in a podcast. Chloe is very into them. Usually, the murdery ones, but every now and then, she finds one on history or stuff you should know. Like healthy sleep habits."

Chloe was our former high school classmate and Jordan's one who got away until she got divorced earlier in the year from her cheating asshole of a husband, and Jordan managed to hold on to her this time. They were newly cohabitating, which apparently made Jordan the expert on everything, including my teeth.

Unbothered by my lack of response, most likely because he'd known me my whole life and was used to my moods, Jordan continued, "You know, I would say you could just ask your bedtime partner about whether or not you're grinding your teeth at night, but I'm guessing the only one sharing your bed is Carl." Jordan paired this snipe with an exaggerated sad face. The laugh lines on his permanently cheerful face revolted, and he looked fucking ridiculous.

"You know, it's not like you had a string of one-night stands before Chloe came along. I'm not sure why you're giving me shit for not looking for an easy hookup," I accused with a narrowed gaze.

The thought of going to Magnolia bar and picking up a tourist for a quick lay sounded exhausting. It was honestly more trouble than it was worth. Maybe I was getting old. But my hand worked just fine, and I wouldn't have to deal with the leafer hotspot.

Jordan dropped the puppy-dog face. "That was never my thing. And I'm not saying it should be yours either. There are other options. You could ask someone out. You know, go on a date."

I sighed. I lived in the town I was born in. The women I knew, I went to grade school with.

Case in point, Jordan murmured quietly so he wouldn't be overheard by the few parents hanging around baseball practice on their phones, "I heard Janna Lewis broke up with the guy she was seeing long-distance."

Turning to glare, I hissed, "I went to prom with her my junior year. Why in the hell would I want to date her now? We're thirty years old, for Christ's sake."

Jordan looked affronted. "Well, you liked her then. Maybe you'll like her now."

I resisted the urge to sigh again. Like it wasn't bad enough that I was back in Kirby Falls—hell, still in Kirby Falls—after my career-ending injury a decade ago, working on my family's farm. My best friend really thought I needed to be dating someone I'd already dated back in high school, too? I hoped I wasn't that much of a damn cliché .

"Or," Jordan kept right on going with zero encouragement, "you could try online dating."

The beleaguered sigh did escape at that. "What are you doing? Trying to marry me off? Just because you and Chloe are happy and in love and all that shit does not mean that we need to have couples night and double-date down at the drive-in."

"Man, I wish the drive-in was still open."

"Oh my God," I muttered, lifting my hat in frustration and tugging it back down even lower as if I could block out the world and the idiot next to me.

He whacked me on the shoulder. "That is not what I'm doing, okay? I want you to be happy. I'm your best friend."

Jordan and Chloe were happy. I was honestly thrilled for them. Chloe got out of a horrible situation with her terrible ex-husband, who manipulated and mistreated her. And Jordan got the girl he'd always loved. I didn't begrudge them anything.

"I don't need a soulmate to be happy," I said.

Jordan crossed his arms, as exasperated as he ever got. "Well, it couldn't hurt your attitude to get laid."

I felt my jaw clench again and worked to loosen it as baseball practice finished up and the players went into the dugout to grab their gear and bags.

Seth made his way over to us, for once not already on his phone. "Pizza at Apollo's?"

Jordan feigned shock. "What? With us old people? You don't have youngsters your age to run off with?"

The nearly six-feet-tall baby brother rolled his eyes and grabbed Jordan's hand to pull him to standing. "Come on, old man. You too, Will. I'm broke and hungry."

I huffed a laugh at the kid.

Jordan kept up the act. "Oh, I see how it is. Fine. I'll buy you some pizza. Chloe's in Asheville anyway. "

The truth was, Jordan would have done anything for Seth—had done everything for him. Their father had died unexpectedly when Jordan and I were sophomores in high school, and Mrs. Rockford had a newborn at home. My best friend had helped raise Seth. He'd done the daycare run as a teenager. Played babysitter more times than I could count. When other kids our age were out partying or getting up to no good, Jordan was home every night helping his mother get dinner on the table and reading Seth bedtime stories. He came home from college nearly every weekend to make sure Seth always had a supportive figure in his life. And a lot of that support came in the form of nurturing Seth's love and talent for baseball.

He would have done a lot more than take Seth out for pizza. And I knew, inside that big heart of his, he was probably grateful that his little brother picked him over his friends tonight. Jordan would probably slip him a couple of twenties later to get the kid through to payday from his part-time job at the coffee shop downtown. Jordan took care of the people in his life. He made his loved ones priorities and wanted nothing more than their happiness.

As I took in the two brothers and their good-natured bickering through the high school parking lot, I couldn't help but think back to Jordan's nagging earlier about teeth-grinding and dating. That was probably his roundabout way of taking care of me too.

Jordan slung an arm around his brother's shoulders as they walked. A moment later, he reached his arm back and pulled me to his other side. I didn't grumble the way I should have, letting my friend have his moment.

We took three separate cars down six blocks and across 3 rd Street before finding parking spots on Main.

Apollo's was pretty busy for a Thursday night. Leafers were in town, and a steady stream of autumn-loving tourists would be around for at least the next two months. And even some of those out-of-towners were smart enough to realize what excellent food Apollo's had. Plus, it was right smack in the middle of Main Street. You couldn't miss it among the popular storefronts, local hangouts, art galleries, and antique shops.

But Seth wanted pizza, so here we were, surrounded by people.

Magdaline Kouides, the daughter of the owners and a former high school classmate, ignored the quartet of dude bros in their ironic flannels milling over the menu and led the three of us to a booth in the back.

"Thanks, Mags," Jordan called with a grin as she sped off in her black sneakers to return to the kitchen.

"I hate when it gets like this," I said, tugging down the brim of my cap, practically able to feel the din of unfamiliar voices in the busy restaurant.

"Well, tourism is kind of our thing," Jordan said easily, scanning the menu.

I knew that. Hell, tourism was my family's business. I saw more than my fair share of strangers every day for nine months out of the year. But sometimes I just needed a damn break.

My mind strayed to Becca, the long-term tourist. I'd seen her working in front of the Bake Shop again today—once in the morning when she'd waved at me and again in the afternoon when she'd been so focused on her laptop screen that she hadn't noticed Carl drooling like a lovesick fool at her feet.

She'd been in Kirby Falls for weeks now. It made me curious about what she did for work. How could she just pick up and leave her life in Detroit? Did she travel a lot and work from wherever she wanted? After the tree incident, I was pretty sure she worked with kids. With her child-friendly vocabulary and her bouncy personality, she looked and sounded like a preschool teacher. To me, at least.

But it was September, and most school systems were back in session. Unless she taught at some sort of weird private school that did online classes or maybe had a year-round schedule with different breaks.

"Will?"

My attention snapped up to Jordan, only to see Seth and Magdaline staring at me too. I guess I'd been lost in thought.

"Sorry, what was that?"

"What can I get you, Will?" Magdaline was obviously repeating herself, but she didn't look put out as she held her pen poised over her notepad.

I cleared my throat and quickly rattled off a beer I knew was on tap and the toppings I wanted in my calzone .

"You okay?" Jordan asked, his dark brows furrowed in concern. Seth was back on his phone, ignoring us.

"Yeah. Fine. Just distracted."

Jordan's brows rose a little at that, and I inwardly cursed myself for making him curious. I wasn't about to tell him I'd been thinking about a tourist. And I definitely wasn't telling him about the tree incident.

So I was infinitely grateful when Seth said without glancing up from his screen, "That was the last practice until February. But I'm organizing conditioning for anybody on varsity and junior varsity who wants to come out." His thumbs stopped moving, and he looked back and forth between his brother and me. "Might be nice to have a little help with that."

I nearly groaned. Picking up the standup dessert menu that stayed on the table, I kept my eyes glued to the surface. I could feel the Rockfords staring at me, waiting for me to answer.

"Yeah, we can probably come out and get our asses kicked by much younger bodies. Sure, why not?"

I glared at Jordan, who'd answered as if my participation was a foregone conclusion. He shrugged and grinned, unrepentant.

"Great," Seth replied and went back to typing.

The drinks arrived, and Seth talked some more about how the team was shaping up for the spring. He mentioned a few notable juniors and even a sophomore who'd made the varsity team. He admitted he was a little nervous since some scouts might be at tournaments and games.

"You're doing good out there," I said as the food arrived, and we scooted cups and silverware around to make room for their extra-large pizza and my meatball, mushroom, and roasted red pepper calzone. "Don't listen to whatever those idiot assistant coaches are telling you."

Seth took a bite of too hot pizza and sucked in a breath as he spoke, "Well, I wouldn't have to listen to Butler's car salesman dad try to coach me if you came out there and helped."

I paused with my knife and fork in hand. "Jesus. Not you too. "

Then I stared at my best friend, who simply feigned confusion and defended, "Why, whatever could you mean?"

I pointed first at Seth and then at Jordan. "I know what you're doing. Don't try the meddling-Southern-belle routine with me. Or guilting me with children."

"I'll be eighteen in two months," Seth said with an eye roll.

But I ignored him. "Or reverse psychology or whatever this is."

Jordan had been dropping little nudges and comments about coaching for the past year. Always small things while we'd been in the stands for Seth's games or practices. I mostly tuned him out because coaching had never been my plan. Playing had been my plan. And look how well that turned out.

Seth smiled in a way that was a fucking carbon copy of Jordan's despite the fourteen-year age gap. "Come on, Uncle Will."

I shook my head and went back to cutting into my dinner. "Oh, don't ‘Uncle Will' me. You're as shameless as your brother."

Both Rockfords said "thank you" in unison.

Even as I glared, I could feel my lips struggling against the urge to grin at these two boneheads.

But the idea of being a hometown cliché had the reluctant amusement sliding right off my face. Of course they thought I should just go down to Kirby Falls High and ask for a coaching job. I couldn't hack it in the real world as a player, so I should come back home to coach my own high school—where my records were still up in the gymnasium rafters and my picture collected dust in the trophy case in the front hallway.

No fucking thanks.

"I didn't realize this dinner was a setup," I groused. "I thought I'd be able to eat in peace."

Jordan sighed, but I didn't glance away from my plate as I heard him say with quiet resignation, "Forget we said anything."

I snorted. Right .

"It's just something I thought you'd be good at," my friend went on. "Something that might make you happy."

My head did snap up at that. "First, Janna Lewis, and now this coaching thing. Just how fucking unhappy do you think I am, Jordan?"

He looked instantly chagrinned. "Will—I—it's not like that. I'm sorry if I was pushy. I just know how busy you are at the farm this time of year—well, most of the year, really—and I thought you might want something just for you."

"How would asking out Janna Lewis be for me?"

Jordan huffed like I was missing the point. "Forget Janna. I'm sorry I brought her up. But coaching . . . that could be a way for you to be involved. You still love the sport. And we have the rec softball league. But I just thought you'd be great working with the kids. You've always been so patient and knowledgeable with Seth."

I didn't want to fight about this, so I just nodded and went back to eating. I heard Jordan sigh again, but I didn't acknowledge it. I got in crabby moods sometimes, and it never fazed him. He'd text me a dumb meme later tonight and harass me at the farm this weekend, I was sure of it.

We'd been friends for a long time and knew how to navigate each other.

And right now, I didn't want to think about his insistence that I'd be good at working with the kids on the baseball team. I didn't want to hear Jordan's big ideas for keeping me connected to the sport I'd loved since before I could walk.

Right now, I just wanted to finish this meal, escape my crowded hometown, and go home to my dog. Thinking about baseball made me bitter and angry. And I didn't want to ruin Jordan's time with his brother.

What my best friend couldn't understand was just how much I felt like a damn failure. He didn't know what it was like to have your body turn on you, to throw your last decent pitch at twenty years old, to go through rotator cuff surgery and physical therapy, and to never get your full range of motion back. As a well-respected and successful business owner, Jordan had no idea what it was like to have a dream that died before it even got off the ground.

It was humbling and humiliating. And I felt it every time a neighbor or acquaintance wanted to bring up the good ole days: how I'd led my team to the Little League World Series when I was twelve or those damn records up at the high school or my no-hitter in college. They meant well when they slapped me on the back and said what a talent I was before my body had betrayed me. What a shame, they'd said with pity. Too bad about all that .

So, no. I didn't want to revive my love for the sport by begging for some pity placement on the coaching staff at my old high school. The only thing worse might be asking out my prom date from a decade ago.

I was finishing off my beer when I felt my phone buzz in my pocket. I ignored it and paid the check. We were leaving the restaurant, Jordan leading the way through the crowd lingering by the door for a table, when I felt my phone vibrate again.

Pulling it out on the sidewalk, I saw a text from my mother. Check your voicemail .

I groaned.

"What's wrong?" Jordan asked.

"Mom refuses to text. She leaves a voicemail every time and then texts me to tell me to check my voicemail."

"Maybe she thinks her texts are going to be hacked," Jordan joked.

"Maybe she's old and stuck in her ways."

"Don't talk about Maggie like that. Maybe you should just answer your phone."

I gave my friend a horrified look as I typed in my passcode and held the phone to my ear.

"Maybe," Seth piped up, his face still focused on his own device, "someone should teach her how to VM."

I told the Rockfords I'd see them later and listened to my mother's message as I waited for traffic to pass and then hopped in my truck.

"I forgot about the brunch ladies' meeting at the gazebo in the morning. They have a book club starting around ten a.m. for seventeen. Can you take the round tables over and set them up for me? I'll be in early to handle the refreshments. I just forgot to have someone help me with the tables and chairs. Thanks, honey. Love you. "

I disconnected and sent my mother a text to confirm I'd handle setting up the white event tables and chairs we used. I sighed and dropped my head. I'd need to head back out to the farm, move the stuff out of storage, and set it up before I'd be done for the night.

As the head baker, my mother would be in very early to get to work on the pastries and bake the bread for the day. If she saw that the gazebo wasn't prepped for the brunch ladies' meeting, she'd try to do it all herself. I couldn't wait until I got to the farm in the morning because she'd take it upon herself to haul and unload it all on her own to make sure everything was perfect. And my mom didn't need to be lifting and moving all that furniture.

So, it would have to be tonight. And Carl had been cooped up in my house for too long. I'd swing by my place, grab the dog, and go prep the gazebo.

I checked the clock on my dashboard. 8:38 p.m.

Well, there was nothing for it. I shifted the truck into drive and turned back toward Clark lands.

I probably could have gotten set up and ready to go for the brunch ladies tomorrow in under an hour. But when I'd opened the storage room inside the barn, everything had been in complete disarray. Mac had covered the last event while my aunt Patty had been under the weather. And my cousin had apparently learned how to straighten up from a toddler.

It was nearly midnight when I'd gotten the storage room in better shape, checked on the apple stock for tomorrow, and then hauled the tables and chairs over to the gazebo.

My great-grandfather's house—my house—was up the mountain on the back side of the property. My grandparents had a home that overlooked the pond at Grandpappy's, but, as retirees, they spent half the year in Florida. My mother and father lived on the four acres beyond the cornfields. My aunt and uncle—Patty and Robert—had built their home twenty years ago on the Clark lands neighboring my parents' place. My other uncle, James, had a plot of land but hadn't done anything with it. He preferred living in his townhouse and distancing himself from anything that involved Grandpappy's Farm .

I'd moved into my great-grandfather, William Sr.'s, home six years ago when he'd gone to live at Legacy Hills, the assisted living facility just outside of town. The Clark homestead was the farthest from the farm and would mean going back out onto the main highway until I reached the private access road that wound up the side of the mountain.

But I was tired and would be right back here in the morning. If I could skip the half hour it would take to get home in the dark, I would. I had a duffel bag in my car with clothes and a toothbrush. I used to crash at the tiny house all the time, back before Chloe moved in this past spring. But Chloe was living with Jordan now, as of this very week. The lovebirds were together, and the tiny house was free.

I took out my keys and found the one I needed before glancing at my dog flopped over in the cool grass. "You ready, Carl?"

His dark head lifted. Yeah, he was ready to call it a night, too.

Decision made, I locked up the barn and grabbed my bag from the truck. Carl and I made our way in the dark around the barn to the front door of the tiny house.

Originally, my parents had it built as a rental for the farm. Something cutesy for the tourists to shell out money for and to fawn over. A few renters had treated the place poorly—some drywall issues here, some water damage there. A couple of drunk bachelorettes had thought that renting the tiny house meant they had the run of the farm in the middle of the night. The whole endeavor became more trouble than it was worth.

Eventually, I started using the tiny house more than any out-of-towners, so my mother had lost interest in renting it out. But it seemed like the perfect fit when Chloe had started working at the bakery and needed a place to stay after leaving her ex.

I attempted to slide the key in the lock and wished for the hundredth time that I'd left those solar pathway lights out here.

"Dammit." I fumbled the key once more before finally getting the door unlocked. I'd had a long-ass day, and all I wanted to do was climb in bed.

But before I'd made it past the unfamiliar welcome mat that read "Hope you like Taylor Swift," the light in the hallway clicked on, and a woman screamed. Carl barked, and I froze as a bag of . . . something smacked against my face, releasing a tiny cloud of sweet-scented powder into the air.

The bag of—I looked down—mini marshmallows fell limply to the floor as roughly one hundred of them escaped their confines and rolled in every direction. I stood unmoving as a blond woman in avocado pajamas relaxed from her crouched position behind the couch, met my eyes, and said, "Oh shoot."