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I stared at the last message “Tyler” had sent me. “See you then.” Except he’d added a kissy face emoji at the end of it.
Jack would probably have died before he would use an emoji. But I told myself not to be judgy. Maybe his finger had slipped. Or maybe that was just how people texted these days.
I sighed.
Starting this restaurant had been the dream I was too scared to hope for ever since I’d lost my parents. It was the thing that was supposed to give all the hard work and struggle meaning—because some day it might be possible.
So why did it feel more like those days with Nick had been the dream and this was the nightmare I’d woken up in?38JackI arrived in Florida Monday morning and got a rental car. The plan had originally been to leave Ben with Damon and Chelsea, but he’d caught wind of where I was going and who I planned to see. Convincing him not to come became hopeless, so I’d relented and brought him along.
The little guy was so excited he wasn’t even drawing or doing anything in the backseat. I glanced in the rearview and saw him just sitting, eagerly tapping his fingers on his knees and watching out the window.
“Does Miss Nola know we’re coming?”
“Not exactly,” I said slowly.
“Is it a surprise?”
“Yes. Sort of.”
“Why? Is it her birthday?”
“No. I just wanted to come make sure Miss Nola is doing okay with her new job. Owning a restaurant is a big deal. Maybe we could help.”
There was a long pause. “Do you two still not like each other?”
“It wasn’t that we didn’t like each other,” I said. “Sometimes adults have to go different directions for complicated reasons.”
Another long pause. “But you’re going to be together again after this?”
“No. I don’t think so. I just would feel better if I knew she was happy here. But we have our own lives back in New York.”
“Florida has baseball teams. I looked. Miami Marlins and Tampa Bay Rays. You could play for them and then our lives would be here.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“You’re the best pitcher in the league. I’ve heard Mr. Damon say it. When I’m at school, kids always pick the best player first when we’re making teams. That’s you, daddy. If you want to play for them, just ask.”
I grinned. Childhood innocence was quite the thing. Kids had a way of asking the obvious questions adults were too jaded to even consider. It didn’t matter to Ben that I’d take a pay cut because both teams didn’t have the same type of ownership as the ones Damon usually targeted for me. They weren’t in a playoff window looking to take the next step, and they weren’t going to pay out the ass for someone like me because of it.
But on the other hand, he was right. If I wanted it badly enough, I could make it happen. I’d still be earning millions, and the only other price would be the sour looks Damon would give me. I’d personally never cared who I played for, either. All I cared about was that feeling of being in the zone that came when I was on the mound. I wasn’t great at talking to people or making them smile. I wasn’t great at a lot of things, but I could throw a fucking ball hard as hell, and I could make people miss.
It was brutally simple, but that’s what drew me to it again and again. The repetition. The certainty of it.
So what would it matter if I played in Florida, instead of New York?
I spent far longer mulling the possibilities over as I drove toward the restaurant. I’d played in front of tens of thousands of people and never felt nervous. But I did now. I thought about seeing her and about how much willpower it was going to take to stop from throwing all my convictions out the window.
Nola’s restaurant was in a nice little shopping center by the beach. Palm trees lined the road and the air smelled like salt. It was pretty, and I could see why her parents had zeroed in on this place to dream about.
The shop on the end had a little, cheap looking paper sign strung up that read “Castillo’s Bakery and Sandwiches.”
I pulled up out front and noticed that there was almost nobody in the store. Actually, the open sign wasn’t even on and the lights were dimmed. Fuck. I hadn’t thought to even check the store hours.
I was about to explain to Ben that we might need to wait just a little longer when I saw a guy dressed in a button down and jeans get out of his car a few spaces over. He bent down and checked his hair in the window, pulling an actual comb from his pocket and making a few sweeps with it.
