Page 119 of The Fall Classic

A laugh bubbles out of my lips. “Believe me, neither do I.” I sniff. “So what’s the right question?”

“Girl, what do I know? I spent twelve years in foster care before I aged out. But that wasn’t my fault. So if your dad or Logan or Marlowe aren’t treating you right, that’s not your fault, either. And you forgetting today’s the anniversary of your mom’s death—isn’t that a good thing? Doesn’t it mean that you’re moving forward? Do you think, wherever she is, she wants you dwelling on her death or living your life?”

“Huh.”

“Sorry, I suck at this.”

“Don’t say that,” I say, still reeling over her twelve years in foster care and the truth she dropped so casually about my mom. My mom wouldn’t want me dwelling on how much I miss her, even if I can’t help it. She made me promise I would never go to her gravesite to remember her. She told me I needed to remember her by doing the things we loved.

Apart from the shop, books, and baseball, what have I let myself love?

Blond hair, blue eyes, and the number 49 flash into my mind, but I blink them away.

The truck hits the pothole on Sycamore that I forgot to avoid. We both fly up at the impact.

“You’re a big book person,” Liv says, “So let me put it this way: You’re like an open book, but it’s a book of poetry. So, yeah, you have this … inviting kind of vibe from the outside, but you know deep down that no one will be able to really get in, anyway, so you’re happy to smile and talk and guess their drink order. In turn, they get to draw their easy conclusions about you being this happy-go-lucky type with your Disney Princess vibe, forgetting that Disney Princesses usually have a horrifying back story to go with the birds and mice braiding their hair. There’s safety in knowing others without ever being known. No fulfillment, but there is safety.”

My throat bobs as I try to swallow, but nothing goes down. “I’m scared he’s going to forget about me.”

“Does he know that?”

“I don’t let myself want things, Liv. If I tell him how much I care about him, I may as well write it in the stars so the heavens can hold it over me. It’s hard for me to believe anyone can care about me, but he’s almost made me believe it.”

Liv is silent as we pull into the parking lot. We get out together and walk toward her car. With every step, I feel a crack creeping through my chest the way it sometimes does in a mug after it falls. It’s not the crash of shattered pieces, but a hairline fracture no one notices until it suddenly splits in two.

Liv rummages in her bag for her keys. “I don’t think Logan’s going to forget about you.”

“What if he does?”

“It’ll hurt. You’ll probably retreat into yourself. Maybe you’ll have a harder time trusting that anyone is who they say they are.”

“But I won’t die?” I give a weak laugh.

“Not of a broken heart, you won’t. You’ll have to live with it, and that’s bad enough.”

We both stand there, holding our bags over our shoulders, sharing a sad smile. “Thanks, Liv.”

“I’m great for a pep talk, aren’t I?”

I laugh. “A pep talk doesn’t erase pain. Real talk at least makes you feel less alone.”

“I was hoping you’d see it that way. See you tomorrow, Georgie.”

I wave and watch Liv drive off, and then I glance around the parking lot. My eyes catch on my lending library in the far corner of the lot. Last I checked, it was looking sparse. I should probably go upstairs and grab more books to replenish it, but I’m not ready to go inside yet. If I go inside, I’ll beat myself up for forgetting my mom and wonder if I’m living up to the dreams she had for me.

And I’ll beat myself up for aching over Logan as much as I ache missing her.

I’m not ready to turn the page on either of these aches, so I adjust Logan’s hat on my head and make my way slowly over to the little library. My feet crunch on the gravel in the parking lot, and then I step up onto the sidewalk and into the grass, and my feet pad softly, silently across the lawn to the library.

I open it up and a small sound escapes my lips.

The library is stacked. There are at least a dozen new books, and all of them are …

Michael Crichton?

I give a small shocked laugh and take one of the books out to look at the back. I don’t read the blurb but rather the sticker that says where it was from.

Augusta Fields Regional Airport.