I refuse to say my parents are sleeping together.
“Yeah, and what about their mysterious past?” Campbell asks, putting on a spooky voice for that last word.
“My dad has not said a word about any of his big, dark, deep secrets. We’re just going to have to sit tight and wait.”
Campbell falls back in her chair, her arms dropping to her side with an exaggerated sigh. It’s adorable.
“Dad seems to like being retired,” I continue, and for the first time in my life, the words about my father don’t carry a single ounce of anger. “I mean, he’s not exactly sitting around and relaxing, of course. He’s actually helping Dale Blackwood with the fall instructional league at the high school. He spent ten minutes on the phone today complaining that kids these days don’t know the meaning of hustle. Oh, and he told me to tell the staff in Arlington that our bullpen catcher is drifting on his setups.”
Campbell laughs, the sound pouring from her lips and filling my ears with my favorite song.
“Some things never change. God, I miss Sweetwater sometimes. I miss the dust. I miss the smell of the grease at the ballpark. I miss Willie 2.0!”
“Me too,” I admit, looking over my shoulder again at the sprawling Texas metroplex. “It’s too clean down here.Too quiet. Way more people, yet the noise just sort of fades into the background of everything.”
“Speaking of Sweetwater,” Campbell segues, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper as she scoots her chair a few inches closer to mine. “Did Roddy mention Winnie?”
I burst out laughing, nearly choking on my bourbon.
“Oh, yeah. He mentioned her. He said a few of his neighbors called him to complain that Austin Summerhill’s private corporate jet keeps tying up the crop-dusting runway.”
Campbell’s eyes widen, a matching grin breaking across her face. “I knew it! I knew those two were still trading fire.”
“Dad says Winnie claims she’s only taking meetings with him to ‘properly monitor his compliance’ with the zoning restrictions we forced him to sign,” I say, shaking my head at the sheer absurdity of it. “But my mom swears she saw Austin’s McLaren parked behind Winnie’s ranch house past midnight last Thursday. The billionaire just cannot stay away from the small-town resistance.”
“Good,” Campbell murmurs, a deep sense of satisfaction settling into her voice. She loves being right.
We sit at our table for a long time, laughing over updates from Oklahoma, tracking the lives of the people who took us in when we were both broken, stranded pieces of a game that had chewed us up. The wind shifts, drifting in from the terrace, carrying the bite of the autumn night. The pianist begins to play a soft ballad, and it takes me a moment to know for certain, but by the time he hits the third bar, I’m sure. It’s the same song we danced to at Earl’s.
My chest tightens, bravery pooling in my belly. My hands tingle to the point I hardly feel them at all. It’s a sensation I haven’t felt since my major-league debut in June.
I set my glass down, wipe my palms against my trousers, and stand up from the table. I extend my left hand toward her.
“Dance with me.”
Campbell looks up, slightly startled, her eyes scanning the upscale dining room, the quiet couples at tables around us.
“Jake, there isn’t a dance floor out here. People are eating.”
“I don’t care about the people, Campbell,” I say, stepping closer and keeping my hand extended. “Dance with me.”
A subtle smile curves her lips. She slides her fingers into mine, the contrast of her warm skin against my cold hand making me fully aware of just how nervous I am. I pull her up from the velvet seat and lead her away from the tables, out to the very edge of the room where the open terrace reveals an expansive sky.
I wrap my left arm around her waist, pulling her flush against my chest. Her right hand comes up to rest against the back of my neck, her fingers tangling into the short hair at my collar. We sway, completely out of place among the high-society crowd surrounding us but entirely locked into each other. I rest my chin on the top of her head, breathing in the lilac scent of her perfume while finding solace in the rise and fall of her chest against mine.
Four months ago, she told me she was on my team. She packed her life into a single truck bed because she believed in the trajectory of mine. She tore down her own family legacy to help me rebuild what I’d lost.
I take a deep, shaky breath and step back just an inch.
“Jake?” she asks, her eyes blinking up at me, her browfurrowing slightly at the sudden shift in my energy. “What is it?”
I don’t answer. My pulse is racing a thousand beats per minute. I reach into the interior pocket of my wool blazer, my fingers clamping around the small, square velvet box I’ve been carrying around for three weeks.
I drop onto one knee on the polished stone floor, willing my mouth to form words. Apparently, though, I don’t have to.
Campbell gasps, her hands flying to her mouth as her eyes tear up, the flickering candlelight lighting up the ones that quickly build along her lashes.
I pop the velvet box open. Inside, a simple, flawless, emerald-cut diamond.
