“Now, that—a good hair pull? That’s why I love you,” I joke.
His laugh comes out fast and light, and he pushes his other hand into my hair, tenderly tilting my head back more before dropping a long, chaste kiss on my lips.
“I love you, too,” he says, not an ounce of fear or reservation evident in his tone.
His forehead comes back to rest on mine, I think the reality of the last several minutes is finally landing in his chest. His thumb traces the line of my jaw, slow and grounding, pulling me back into the quiet space of his chest. When he steps back, he doesn’t let go of my hand, his fingers locking between mine as he reaches down to scoop up his dropped duffel bag with his left hand. The stadium behind us is completely silent, but the open pavement of the parking lot feels like the first swath of paint on a brand-new canvas. I hook my arm through his, resting my head on his bicep as we pivot toward his truck.
The viral warfare, the near demise of Sweetwater, and the shadow of Nashville fade into absolute nothingness at our backs, while our life ahead—together—is an unknown adventure waiting to be lived.
EPILOGUE
JAKE
FOUR MONTHS LATER
From thirty stories up, the headlights on the interstate below look like tiny, slow-moving tracers cutting through the Texas dark. The late October air in Dallas carries a welcome chill that makes me grateful for the heavy wool blazer I’m wearing. It’s a custom piece from a tailor in Fort Worth, but it still feels a little too stiff compared to the corduroy jacket that’s served me well for years.
It’s hard to believe it’s only been four months since we loaded down the bed of my truck and watched the stadium lights disappear in the rearview mirror. I spent that first week in a hotel, and the following one on the road. But by the time I got back, Campbell had everything packed and ready to travel. Not that we own much between us. Her biggest asset is a three-year-old Mercedes, and mine is acustom Wilson catcher’s mitt my dad had made for me in honor of getting called up.
I take a long sip of my bourbon, the ice clinking against the crystal glass, then turn from the open terrace to look across the small, candlelit table just inside. Campbell is furiously tapping away on her phone, her nimble thumbs moving at an athletic speed. If she keeps this up, her nails are sure to break the glass.
She’s wearing a deep emerald silk dress that makes her eyes look like jewels in the low light, her long hair pinned up to reveal the elegant slope of her neck. It’s killing me not to trace that line with my tongue right now.
Later.
Her phone buzzes as she’s texting.
“If that’s your father calling to beg for a truce, I’m going to have the waiter confiscate your device,” I mumble, a slow smirk cutting across my face.
Campbell snorts, not looking up from the screen for another three seconds before she hits send with a definitive, satisfying tap and silences whatever call is incoming. She drops the phone into her leather clutch and slides it under her napkin. I return to my seat, nervous energy still buzzing through my legs.
“Not my father,” she says, leaning back in her velvet chair and flashing me a triumphant grin. “That was a prominent sports agency in Houston. Their star shortstop just had a very public, very stupid meltdown outside a nightclub, and they want my mobile firm to handle the fallout before the morning sports radio cycle kicks off.”
“Mobile operation,” I echo, shaking my head with genuine admiration.
“I am a specialized crisis specialist,” she adds, reaching across the white tablecloth to wrap her fingers around myleft hand. “And business is booming. It turns out, professional athletes get into just as much trouble as corporate developers, but they pay their retainers much faster. Sarah and I are already looking at bringing on a junior analyst by the first of the year. Sarah wants to keep her focus on non-profits and the towns. She’s protective of her time with her family, too. I admire it.”
“But you . . . you’re full rockstar,” I tease.
“You know it,” she says with a wink.
I squeeze her hand, my thumb tracing the soft skin of her wrist. Over the last four months, while I was adjusting to the blistering speed of major-league fastballs and the echoing roar of forty thousand fans ready to call you out for any and all mistakes, Campbell was building an empire from laptop screens and airport lounges. She spent half the summer traveling with me on road trips, managing PR accounts from hotel desks while I logged a .282 rookie average and threw out twenty-two runners attempting to steal second. We built a strange yet wonderful new normal out of suitcases and room service.
But the season is over, and while it’s only a few months of the slow life, it’s here. We’re present. And I refuse to waste it.
The waiter arrives, quietly clearing away the remnants of our steaks and leaving a fresh bottle of sparkling water on the table.
“So,” Campbell says, leaning her chin on her hand, her eyes glittering with her love of gossip. “Did you talk to your dad today before we left the apartment?”
“I did,” I say, letting out a rough chuckle. “He called right around noon. He and Mom just finished remodeling the back storeroom at Earl’s into a private dining area. Apparently, the Tuesday night steak crowds have gotten sorowdy they needed the extra square footage just to keep the mechanics down the road from fighting the college kids over the pool tables.”
She laughs.
“And how are they doing?” she continues, a nostalgic and rather nosy expression wrinkling her nose. “Really?”
I shake my head.
“I’m telling you all I know. If something is going on, they’re keeping it close. I mean, it’s pretty obvious every time we’re around them that . . . you know . . .”
