Page 158 of Hiding in the Outfield

I’ve known I’m in love with Jackson for a while, but after what we shared that night, he doesn’t just own my heart; he holds it. He took it right out of my chest and placed it next to his.

And what did my heart do? That little bitch cozied right up to Jackson’s heart and settled in like it’d found its forever home. Said arrivederci to me as I boarded my plane and flew back to Providence. So, while I miss Jackson terribly, my heart is still happily with him, and I can’t help but feel like we are going to figure this out.

Optimism is a heady thing.

As Shaney-babe would say: Manifest.

As soon as my computer finishes booting up, I tap my chat and scan my contacts looking for a familiar name with a green circle next to it. I grin and open an IM window.

Me: Guess where I was this weekend?

Gen: Where? And good morning to you too.

Me: San Francisco.

I sit back with a smile and wait.

Gen: You BITCH

I cackle softly. Knew she’d be rage-y that I didn’t reach out. There was no way I could fit in seeing her, though. Nor was I mentally in a place where I could people—even with someone as understanding as Gen.

I scooch forward and tap away at my keyboard.

Me: You know that guy I told you about?

Gen: The man you refused to name.

I bite my lip. I can practically hear her frustrated huff.

Me: Yeah, him. He moved to San Francisco last week. Well, Berkeley, to be exact.

Gen: …

Gen: I need more. What’s going on here? The guy you were casually fucking moves away and you…fly out with him?

Gen: You want to know what. No. Fuck this.

My phone rings.

I shake my head and hurry toward the stairs. I pop my phone to my ear as I turn into the stairwell. “Well, hello there, beautiful.”

“You have some serious explaining to do, babe.”

“I will. In a second. I need to get out of earshot.”

She makes a soft screeching sound. “Out of earshot? Why so stealthy?” She sucks in a breath. “No. Frankie. This isn’t another situation like with McAsshole, is it?”

I make a disgusted sound in the back of my throat. “God, no.” I step out onto the sidewalk and do a cursory look around before heading toward a coffee shop I frequent on Brewster Street.

“So, first you have to promise you’ll keep this to yourself. But this guy I’ve been seeing—Jackson.”

“Oooh. Jackson. I like it. Sexy. Let me guess. Dark hair. Tall. Broody. Hmm. A bit pouty.”

I halt. “How the fuck did you get that from his name? And yes. You’re right, you witch.”

“I just have a gift for these things. So, tell me more about this Jackson who now lives in California.”

I spot a bench and flop onto it. It’s eighty-five degrees, and I’m already sweating.