Page 85 of The Fall Classic

“Logan?”

“Yes, Georgie?”

“Did you sleep in that chair?”

“I cleared it with Alma first,” he says. “And don’t worry: She only texted a half dozen times to make sure you were breathing.”

“That sounds right.” I take a sip. “She pretends she’s an action hero, but she’s actually a big softie.”

“Action hero?”

“She learned how to speak English from ’80s action movies. I’m not kidding.”

“I knew it!” He laughs and pulls out his phone. “Sorry, I have to tell Lucas. That was our honest-to-goodness working theory all last year.”

“All last year?”

He shoots off a text and then looks up, his face suddenly red. “Uh, yeah, Lucas’s girlfriend, Scottie, is a coffee-holic, and we came every day when we were in town to get her a new cup of coffee. Lucas was trying to win her over and guess her order, and Alma was usually the one working the outside counter.”

A rush of understanding hits me—understanding overwhelmed by profound cosmic regret.

All last year.

All season long⁠—

“That was you guys?”

He looks up from texting his brother. “Sorry?”

I can’t explain why my throat tightens or my chest feels ragged. Can’t figure out why I’m almost crying. “Logan, Alma took those orders, but I made those drinks. Not just whipped them up. I created them. I must have made up twenty new drinks for Lucas. To Bean or Not To Bean. The Could’ve Bean. The Should’ve Bean! Alma told me Lucas’s story, and I”—why are tears springing to my eyes?—“I made them. You were at the window with Alma while I was inside behind the counter.”

Logan’s eyes are looking glossy, which makes me feel at least fifty percent less crazy. “You were the one she was speaking to in Spanish,” he says, breathing too hard for someone just sitting. But I get it. I feel it. He lets out a tortured laugh that’s anything but funny. “How did you know what to make her?”

“It was the story,” I tell him weakly, so much regret gnawing at the edges of my heart. “Whatever Lucas was telling Alma, she passed along to me, and whatever she reported—smirks or eyebrow twitches or Scottie even talking to him longer one day than the next, it all told a story of a woman who didn’t know what she wanted.”

He gives another mirthless laugh. “She didn’t know what she wanted. Turns out she likes everything but she drinks ‘vibes.’” He pauses, and we’re both staring. The yearning on his face tugs on my aching heart. “Georgie, how did we miss each other?” His voice cracks, but he doesn’t clear it. “How did you never know it was me?”

“How would we know each other until we knew each other?” I whisper, not even sure it makes sense.

But he nods like I’ve spoken wisdom for the ages. “What would you call this drink? If you were to give this … whatever the opposite of serendipity is a name. What would you call it?”

I don’t know why my whole chest feels like a throbbing cavity, sending pulses of pain through me with each heartbeat. He’s here! Why do I feel like I’m halfway mourning?

His question hovers between us, and because it’s what I do, flavors start presenting themselves to me—the bitterness of dark chocolate rounded out with a splash of vanilla and cinnamon, but with a kick of cayenne pepper that leaves a lingering ache long after the last sip is gone.

“The Would’ve Bean.”

He hangs his head, scratching his hair. “Yeah. I can taste it already.” He sniffs. “I would’ve asked you out the first time I saw you.”

“No you wouldn’t,” I say, forcing a smile.

“No, I wouldn’t. I’d have been terrified you’d turn me down. But I would’ve worked up the nerve eventually. At least by the sixth or eighth time.”

“I would have told you I heard you were reading in the bullpen.”

“I would have asked you what you thought about that.”

“I would have told you I had a crush on you before I ever met you.”