Page 87 of The Fall Classic

“I don’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s—” I think of what my grandmother would say. “Nasty.”

“Nasty? No way. It’s barely sassy.” He’s half smiling now. “Try it.”

“I’m not going to⁠—”

“I dare you.”

Logan says I dare you with total calm, like he already knows I’m going to chicken out, because it’s so out of character.

Except … I kind of want to.

And before I know it, I’m making a face at him—squinting, wrinkling my nose, my tongue out in all its rudeness.

I hate it.

I retract my tongue faster than a vacuum cord and throw one hand over my face.

And Logan laughs way too hard. “Wow. That was legitimately hard for you, wasn’t it?” He’s still laughing, his smile so big, I could melt. “If you think that’s nasty,” he says when he recovers, “wait until you meet my siblings.”

The image arrives before I can stop it. The three of them—Logan, Lucas, and Liesel—around a table somewhere, all loud and impossibly close, their teasing the easy, comfortable kind of people who were a we before the word even had meaning.

And suddenly, I’m imagining being there with them, and I feel a foreign ache at how much I want it.

I feel a pang in my stomach at the realization.

I don’t dream. I don’t let myself want things. I don’t let myself miss anyone but my own mother.

And I definitely don’t let myself pine for a belonging that’s never been mine.

I look outside, frustrated by the sight of the little library that usually makes me so happy. Why have my only efforts to grow and do something new come from a place of total anonymity?

“Georgie,” he says, pulling my attention, but not my eyes. I can’t look at him right now. I can’t let myself want him. “I’m sorry, but I have to go pack. Will you come to the game tonight?”

I blink, scooping up my emotions and shoving them back into a box inside. I look at him and smile. “I have three friends who would love to go to the game with me,” I say. “They usually sit in the outfield, by the bullpen.”

“I can get more tickets.”

I meet his eye, nodding and cupping my mug. “Okay. Then I’ll see you tonight.”

He looks relieved, more settled, even as he’s shifting forward in his seat, getting ready to leave. “What are you going to do this afternoon? Apart from rest?”

“Homework,” I admit. “I missed an assignment last night.”

His lips stretch into a grimace, and he holds my hands between his. “I’m sorry. Burnout has a way of burning other things along with it. It’s not your fault. You can’t hold all of this alone.”

I always have, but after last night, he has a point. “Thanks, Logan.”

He frowns, his brow knitting together like he doesn’t like my answer. “I wish I could help you carry it all. But I will. When I’m back,” he says, sitting on the edge of the coffee table so we’re only six inches apart, our knees overlapping space, but not quite touching. He’s not hiding anything in his strong, steady gaze, and he isn’t taking his eyes off of me. “As long as you want me to.”

I almost choke on my last sip of hot cocoa.

As long as I want him to?

The feeling of the room spinning returns.