Page 3

I shrug. “Same as always.” But not completely. I bought her breakfast this morning. I looked at her, deliberately, and she looked back. But I can’t form words that express what happened without sounding pathetic.

Fran wraps a hand around my shoulder and pats me lightly. It’s somehow awkward and sweet all at once. “Come sit.”

I let Fran lead me into the house, missing the warmth of the sun the minute it’s out of sight.

It reminds me of her. It warms me the same way she once did.

“Cal’s out back,” Fran says. “Let me grab him.”

“Nah. I’ll go to him. I could use the fresh air.” Sure, I just spent an entire hour outside on the café patio. But moving is good. Motion for my body and my brain. Though with the simple thought, my right leg stings with an aches.

Fran’s brow wrinkles—it does that a lot these days. “Okay. Iced tea? Lemonade?”

My brain flits back to the glass on her table, back at the café. What was she drinking? It didn’t look like lemonade.

“Tea,” I say, my response on autopilot. I rub my hand over the back of my neck, standing between the back door that leads to Callum and the kitchen that leads to Fran. “Did you happen to invite her?” I ask—as if it hasn’t been on my mind all week.

Fran pulls in a breath, her hand around an empty glass.

I shrug like my world isn’t depending on it. “It’s okay if not. You’re busy⁠—”

“No.” That forehead crease is back. Fran shakes her head. “I asked her.”

“Ah.” I grit my teeth. She asked. But she isn’t giving me an answer, which means⁠—

“She just isn’t ready for big crowds. You get it.”

I nod. “I do.” And yet my already broken heart breaks a little bit more.

What an unfair thought on my part. A selfish thought.

I step out into the sunshine where Callum’s on the ground in front of a massively long box. It’s only as tall as a couple of two-by-fours, but the thing is as wide and long as a king-sized bed. He’s hammering together more two-by-fours as if this structure isn’t wide enough.

“Hey,” he says. “How’d it go?”

“Good.” I tilt my head. “Same.”

His lips, turned up at the corners, falter just a little. “Baby steps,” he says. “We’ll get there.”

“That’s the goal.”

“Hand me that level,” Callum says as he sets the open box he’s constructing on the ground. It’s massive—Callum may be constructing a wall for a small backyard house.

“What are you doing?” I say, an edge to my tone.

“Planter boxes.” He stares at the King Kong-sized box.

“That’s a planter box? What will Fran be growing? Banana trees? Is she feeding the team?”

Callum snuffs out a laugh. “You know Fran. Go big or go home.”

“You went big.” I look at the thing taking up half of Callum’s backyard. “When did Fran get you working on this? You could always try to get away with telling her you aren’t allowed odd jobs while we’re in season.” There’s a small stab of guilt and pain with that sentence. Cal is in season. There’s nothing “we” about it.

My best friend doesn’t miss a beat. “She’d know that was bogus. We’ve got work to do on and off the field, I suppose.”

I scoff, but it’s a weak noise. “I’m not much help on the field right now.”

Callum sets the level onto his giant-sized box, pausing his work. “Maybe there’s a reason for that. Maybe you aren’t supposed to split your focus.”