Page 130 of The Fall Classic

I think of Jane’s business card tucked away with my laptop and homework, and then I look around my apartment, scanning rows of mugs and mountains of crocheted blankets, the memorabilia covering every counter, surface, and inch of wall space.

If I’m not supposed to wish, hope, or dream—if I’m supposed to accept and move forward, how do I move forward from all of this?

Being the keeper of my mother’s memory isn’t a cage, but it’s come with strings attached.

The thing is, I’m not sure she’s the one who attached them.

***

Logan and I are at Sugar Maple Farms for their Food Truck Friday, a place I’m itching to put my coffee truck, but I haven’t had the nerve to add my name to the vendor waitlist without talking to Marlowe.

My schedule has also been way too backbreaking to add one more shift, at least until recently.

The more time I have, though, the more time I find myself looking at the back of my notebook, where I’ve written down dreams I haven’t let myself think about. For years, I’ve sketched them there so I wouldn’t have to keep them in my head or my heart.

I kind of want them back.

We’re sitting across from each other at a picnic table amid the hay bales and pumpkins the farm put out at the first of September. A cool wind whips past us, and I huddle into the navy Firebirds hoodie Logan peeled off his own body the second we got out of my Sentra.

“When are we getting a Meant to Bean truck here?” Logan asks before taking a bite of his brisket-and-cheese french fries.

“I was thinking the same thing,” I say, stabbing a fork into my pecan pie. I take a bite and then hold back a moan. “I need to make a pecan-pie-and-maple latte. This is heavenly.”

“Can I try?”

“No way,” I say, smiling as I scoop up a forkful for him.

He grins. “I like Nasty Georgie.”

“Maybe this is just Georgie now.” I hold the fork out to him, and he watches me with his piercing blue eyes as his lips part and he takes a bite, and, wow, that’s attractive.

“Whoa. Yes, make that into a drink. But can you make a Whip Smart out of it, too? I’d have one every day.”

“You already do,” I say, and he smiles and steals more of my pie. “What is it about that drink you love so much? I know athletes need protein, but is something different?”

“I don’t know. It just feels like a post-workout drink. I wonder if it’s the macros or your protein blend. What’s in it?”

“Whey, sea salt, collagen, and tart cherry powder, but that’s because I like how it balances the sweetness of the syrups.”

He laughs. “Do you have any idea what you stumbled onto with that mix?”

“I know it’s all good for you and it makes the drinks taste richer. Does that count?”

“You created a recovery blend that you could bottle up and sell to athletes everywhere.”

My wheels start turning. “So if I took them—hot or cold—and put them in your training room or lunchroom, would athletes like that?”

“Yes! And if you gave options with caffeine for a pre-workout version or if you had sugar-free syrup options, even better.” His fork is resting in his fries, like he’s too busy dreaming with me to eat. “This could be huge, G.”

Excitement flutters in my chest. “You think so, 49?”

“I know so.”

It’s so much easier to believe in myself when Logan’s next to me. Dreaming doesn’t feel dangerous with him.

It feels inevitable.

We’re smiling and holding hands across the table and sharing food, and everything feels right. Yet in only a week, he’ll be back in Chicago.