Page 93 of The Fall Classic

I stand up, and he follows, shaking my hand. “Thanks, Doc.”

“You’re doing better than you think you are, Logan. Once you learn to trust yourself, something tells me you’ll be unstoppable.”

“On the mound or in life?”

“I only get paid to worry about the mound, but I think you know the answer to that.”

***

I drive to Georgie’s with the windows down, the spot where Dr. Chang’s pen was still in my field of vision like an afterimage I can’t blink away.

It’s probably ten degrees cooler than it was a week ago, and the air holds that promise of autumn that my mom always loved. Growing up in Edmonton, she hated winter, but man, she loved fall. She would start watching Gilmore Girls every year the second September hit. Can’t say I understand, but mostly because Lorelai drove me nuts. Rory, too. Richard and Luke were all right, except for that whole kid thing. Mrs. Kim was the GOAT.

Is this the kind of conversation that would win me points with Georgie or obliterate them all?

When I get to the shop, I take the metal stairs two at a time. I stopped and grabbed us brunch on the way, hoping she’s as hungry as I am. I can never eat before a session with Dr. Chang. The first few months, I had a stomachache going in every time. The last month hasn’t been as bad, but I’m still waiting to eat until after I leave his office.

I’m about to knock on her door when I notice the white paint is chipped and peeling in places. And by places, I mean all over.

If I were going to be here for the rest of the season, I’d talk Alma into letting me scrape it and fix it one day while Georgie’s at work.

Man, it’s getting harder and harder to want to leave.

I shake away the thought and knock, to which Georgie calls, “It’s open!”

I open the door with my free hand and see her, cross-legged in jeans and a white T-shirt at her tiny kitchen table, doing homework.

True to her word, she hasn’t put up a single book on her shelf.

The window above the sink is open an inch, and the air coming through it carries the scent of last night’s rain.

“You brought food? You are an angel!”

“Oh, these are for me,” I say, taking out both to-go meals.

Her eyes widen. “I’m sorry, that was so presumptuous⁠—”

“Georgie, I was teasing.” I laugh, bending down and kissing her cheek. It’s warm and soft and I could keep my lips here forever.

She grabs the top meal from the bag. “Gotcha.”

“Georgiana Ashman! You were messing with me?” She opens her crepes with Nutella and strawberries, and then she hands me my huevos rancheros omelet.

Her cheeks are red, but she’s laughing. “You asked me what my favorite thing at Toasty Biscuits is. It was a safe assumption.”

“Yeah, and I’d have to be the biggest jerk in the world to bring in boxes of food and none of it for you.”

She shrugs, unwrapping a plastic knife and fork and handing them to me. “There’s that, too.”

I unwrap her plastic knife and fork and pass them to her. Her brown eyes seem to dance.

This table’s so small, we’d only have to tip forward to kiss.

My eyes drop to her lips—pink, full, and smiling. And kissable—I cannot adequately explain how kissable they are—full and pouty, if it were possible to imagine her ever pouting. Pulling my eyes back up is an act of superhuman strength.

“So, how did your professor handle your apology?” I ask, putting hot sauce on my food.

She cuts a bite of crepe with her knife. “He said that in business, a missed deadline can mean an inability to make payroll, so getting a failing grade will serve as an important reminder for me.”