Page 116 of The Fall Classic

And I won’t blame him for it.

Years ago, when Alma’s family first moved to South Carolina, I met Alma’s abuela, a ninety-year-old woman who spoke almost no English but who was vibrant and full of life and opinions. Through Alma, she told my mom and me the story of the first time she tried chocolate in her poor village.

“It was the worst thing that ever happened to me,” Alma translated, and my mom and I both gasped at each other.

“How could you say that?” I asked. “Chocolate is the best food in the world!”

Alma asked this of her abuela, and a moment later, the old woman smiled and gave a short answer, which Alma translated.

“That was the problem,” Alma said. “After knowing something so wonderful was in the world, how could I ever go back?”

I think of this now, as I make drink after drink for customers, as I watch them sigh over such a simple pleasure, curling into their drink as if the seventy-degree high for the day is somehow a full chill.

The weeks I’ve had with Logan are so wonderful, I don’t know how I’ll ever go back.

No matter how hard I tried to keep my heart from throwing itself at him, it didn’t listen.

“Tough news about your boyfriend,” my next customer says.

“Beg your pardon?” I ask, although my cheeks are flushing stupidly. Did Logan announce he was breaking up with me online, or something? Were we even technically dating?

“What’s an”—he looks down at his phone—“extensor digitorum strain, anyway?”

I can’t be relieved he’s not talking about us, because what he’s talking about is even worse. Logan’s injury.

“What does it say?” I ask, leaning down for him to show me his phone. He angles it toward me, and I read “Fischer twin on the IL, no news on how long he’ll be out.” And then beneath that are the barest of details, including only his injury: an extensor digitorum strain.

“So what’s the story?” my regular asks.

“You’re looking at it,” I say simply.

Logan is injured and he didn’t think to tell me.

And this is why hope is for suckers.

“So what’ll it be today?” I ask.

“Surprise me,” he says.

My shoulders almost slump. I don’t want to surprise him. I want to pull up my phone and call Logan. I want to see if he’s texted me, see if I matter enough for him to let me know what’s really going on in his life. And barring any of that, I want to read everything I can about his injury and make sure he’ll be okay to go on.

I’m a pit stop on his journey.

Baseball is the journey.

A minute later, I’m handling my regular a seasonal caramel-and-pecan-flavored light roast, and he gives me a five-dollar tip for “guessing right.”

There are no customers for a minute, so I turn and start busying myself with cleaning the steam wand when Liv’s hand closes around my elbow.

“Hey, are you all right?” she asks softly.

“Of course. He doesn’t owe me an explanation. There are a hundred people more important he needs to talk to after finding out something like this.”

“No, there aren’t,” she says. “He should have told you. And he better have a really good reason for not doing it.”

The back of my eyes throb, and I shake my head. I will not cry.

I never expected to be his top priority, but I thought I was on the list.