by Grace Palmer
Her beauty hasn’t changed, though. Even under the flickering fluorescent lights and the frigid buzz of beer coolers, Ashley has the same delicate features, the same teasing smile. She looks effortlessly cool, despite the bag of Nacho Cheese Doritos tucked under her arm like a football.
Drew feels stupid and oafish in front of her. The beer dangles in his grip uselessly, and his shirt reeks of cigarettes from the guy who sat next to him at the Lobster Trap smelling like he bathed in tobacco juice.
“What are you doing here?” Drew stammers. He winces as soon as the words are out of his mouth. She’s buying chips, obviously, you moron.
Ashley waggles an eyebrow. “Robbing the place,” she jokes. “Really, though, I’m the one who should be asking you that question. Are you stalking me?”
“Well, slow down. The stalking could be going in either direction.”
She smiles sardonically. “You’re right. I was so thoroughly swept away by our last meeting that I hijacked my family vacation to follow you and your exploits around the country.”
“The truth will set you free, Ashley.”
“You remember my name,” she comments, cocking a brow.
“No one has ever called me a donkey before.”
“Touché,” she laughs. “I don’t suppose I’d forget that, either.” She glances around the empty gas station. “What are you doing here, then? I don’t see the rest of your boy band with you.”
Drew swallows hard. “I, uh, decided to play lone wolf for the weekend. My folks do a big Memorial Day bash, so I came home to, you know … party on, Garth. That kind of thing.”
She gives him a blank face, and he regrets the dumb joke immediately. God, he feels like such a fool. How can someone eight inches and a hundred pounds less than him boss him around so easily?
The silence is killing him, too. Between the cashier’s tinny radio and the fluorescents buzzing like cicadas overhead, Drew’s starting to get a headache.
“What about you?” he asks.
“What about me?”
“What brings you to Willow Beach?”
Ashley glances over her shoulder, then returns her gaze to his. Drew feels her slipping away from him, and—weirdly enough—he finds himself wanting her to stay, very badly indeed. “My parents,” she says. “They decided to take my sister and me away on vacation to celebrate me graduating.”
“I see. Well, Willow Beach is the perfect place for that.”
“You’re from here?”
“Yeah.”
“Small-town kid, big-town dreams.”
Drew grins sheepishly. “Something like that.”
“When am I gonna start seeing you on TV then, Babe Ruth?”
He can’t help but look down at his sneakers, like a little kid getting called into the principal’s office. His face is burning with embarrassment. “Uh, soon,” he says. “Just got called up to AA, you know, so I, um, came back to spend some time with my family before heading out on the road.” The lie slips off Drew’s tongue and he immediately wishes he could take it back. Why would he say that? It’s a weird mix of shame and denial and the stubborn insistence of his brain that he do whatever he can to impress this girl. She’s a stranger, though, right? What does she mean to him?
The answer pops into his head unbidden: nothing and everything.
“So it’s the universe that brought us together,” she says. “And here I was hoping that the story of my life had just taken an uncharacteristically interesting turn.”
“That’s a way to put it.”
Ashley squints at him.
“Do I have something on my face?” he asks her.
“There’s something different about you,” she says finally.
“Salt air does wonders for the skin,” Drew jokes.
She shakes her head. “I think it’s just that you were a complete donkey the last time I met you,” she says after a moment. “Now you’re only half of one. Well, maybe three quarters.”
Drew opens up his mouth to fire back something smart-alecky, something cocky. It’s his default reaction.
But he stops himself in his tracks. Old Drew wouldn’t have hesitated. More of a thoroughbred than a donkey, or something equally dumb and arrogant. He wouldn’t have thought twice about it.
But there’s a few days—a few big days—separating this moment from the last time he and Ashley crossed paths. Not just any days, but days straight out of a dumpster fire, days constructed by the devil. Cut from the team, family broken, life in shambles.
So what is New Drew to do? Does he turn his back on who he’s been for twenty-seven years? Or does he keep faking it—the bravado, the swagger—and hope it magically comes back?
In the end, it’s an impossible choice. He’s not who he once was; that much is obvious. But he doesn’t know what’s next for him, either.
“Only half a donkey,” he says, forcing a grin. “Such high praise.”
“I call ’em like I see ’em, Babe Ruth.” Her tone is as feisty as it’s been since they first met, but Drew convinces himself that there’s a fresh undercurrent to it. More teasing than accusatory. Maybe even a little flirtatious? He doesn’t want to get ahead of himself—that didn’t work out so well in Rock Hill—but there’s a tone nestled in there that cannot be denied.
The conversation hits an unexpected lull. Drew glances up nervously at Ashley. She’s still eyeing him with her head tilted to the side, in an I-can’t-quite-figure-you-out kind of way. He wants to say, Yeah, well, that makes two of us. Those gray eyes, framed by blonde side bangs, haven’t left his face.
“What are you doing?” Drew blurts suddenly.
Ashley blinks and straightens up, a little surprised. “Uh, last I checked, I was chatting with Babe Ruth in the beer aisle. Why do you ask?”
“I meant tonight,” he clarifies.
“Oh. Well, my sister is eagerly awaiting these chips, and my parents are probably halfway into their second REM cycle by now. They’re not exactly night owls.”
“Can I show you something?”
She cocks her head to the side once more. “That depends. Are you a serial killer?”
“Is there a correct answer to that question?”
Ashley laughs. “If there is, I think I just heard it.” She squints at him once more, then nods her head just slightly, as if she’s seen what she wants to see. “All righty, Mr. Mysterious. I’ll bite. Let’s go see this ‘something.’”
Drew sets the beer back down on the shelf. He suddenly doesn’t feel so much like drinking anymore.
Ashley has a small rental car parked out front of the gas station. They get in and Drew directs her down the road. It’s not long to where he wants to take her.
“Left here,” he says. “You can park under the big tree right there.” It’s dark, so neither of them can see very far, but that doesn’t matter. Drew knows this place like the back of his hand.
They get out of the car, neither of them looking at each other. The heat of Drew’s shame at his stupid lie about getting promoted to AA is still lingering a little bit, although the slight chill in the air bites into that somewhat. He mostly just tries to keep his head up and eyes forward.
Ashley’s voice floats over out of the dark. “You know, I believed you about the serial killer thing back at the gas station. But I’m starting to have my doubts.”
“Just a little farther,” he says. “I promise.”
“Famous last words.” To his surprise, she punctuates her sentence by grabbing his hand. He’s startled and freezes for a second. Then he relaxes.
When was the last time he just held a girl’s hand like this? He’s had girlfriends on and off throughout the years, though all the travel required for minor league baseball players made it hard to try anything serious. But something about this moment feels just that—serious. Meaningful, like, weighty somehow. He tries not to overthink it. He’s been doing too much of that lately. Instead, Drew takes a deep breath, savors the salt and pine mixing in the air, an
d keeps trudging forward into the darkness.
He opens a chain-link fence and helps Ashley through. “Careful. There’s a little ledge here.” When she’s passed through, he follows her. Then, feeling his way along the wall, he finds what he’s looking for—a small metallic box. Push up on the bottom left corner a little bit and it should—yep, it pops right open. From there, it’s easy to find the switches he’s looking for.
Boom.
Boom.
Boom.
One by one, the huge stadium lights on the far side of the outfield wall click on and start to power up to full strength. They reveal a massive baseball diamond. It’s a little raggedy, a little short of professional, but it gets the job done. It did for him, at least.
“Home sweet home,” he murmurs under his breath. Like always, something about the sight gets him. There’s just a magic embedded in the green outfield, the way it juts right up against the red dirt, the cleanliness of the white lines slicing from base to base. Things make sense here. He gets it. He knows how to be himself. Just Drew Baldwin, ballplayer.
He does his darndest not to think about the question prodding urgently at the back of his head—what if that’s not who he is anymore?
“Your high school?” she asks quietly. He glances over at Ashley. He can tell that she, too, is a little touched by the beauty of it all.
“Mhmm. It feels good to be back,” he says by way of explanation.
She nods, closing her eyes and sucking in a big breath. “Aaah,” she says, exhaling. “That’s the good stuff.”
“You’re mocking me.”
“On the contrary,” Ashley says. “I think you’ve got the right idea. It’s nice out here.”
Drew smiles at her. “It is.” He squeezes her hand. “Come on.” They walk out of the dugout and into the middle of the diamond, pausing on top of the pitcher’s mound.
Ashley has her head tipped back, staring at the blanket of stars above them. Drew, for his part, is staring at her. He’s seen those stars a thousand times. But her cupid’s bow mouth is curved into a wondrous smile, and that sight is a first for him. Drew has never seen anyone more beautiful.
They do a slow pirouette, still holding hands, so she can look at the bleachers, the scoreboard, the signs everywhere.
“Jackson Field,” Drew explains. “Home of the Willow Beach Bulldogs.”
“Bulldogs? I bet you guys used to do that thing where you barked at each other to get pumped for big games.” Ashley says.
“No comment.”
She whirls on him. “You did, didn’t you? No, never mind, don’t tell me.”
“Fair enough,” Drew chuckles. “I won’t tell you.”
They fall quiet again for a minute. This time, though, it’s not awkward. It feels comfortable and easy to inhabit the space between words with her. What changed, he’s still not sure, but something is shifting—subtly and yet irrevocably—between them. It gives him the kind of chills that he wants more of.
“So this is where the legend was born,” Ashley remarks, toeing the dirt beneath their feet.
“This is it.” Drew glances over inside the dugout and spies a bucket with a couple old bats and some balls in it. “Stay right there,” he says. He releases Ashley’s hand reluctantly and jogs over to grab it, hoisting the bucket into his arms.
“Check it out,” he says when he returns. “How would you like to become an honorary Bulldog?”
Ashley shakes her head. “I’m afraid you’re out of luck, cowboy. I’m horrible at sports, especially baseball.”
Drew steers her over to home plate and sets the bucket down against the fence. “Don’t be silly. You just haven’t had the right coach before.”
He pulls a bat from the bucket and beckons Ashley over. She approaches hesitantly, narrowing her eyes at him.
“You’re running the risk of bringing up some bad PE memories right now,” she warns.
Drew laughs. “I’ll take my chances. Come here and show me what you can do.” He extends the bat to her and she takes it, squaring up to the plate. Drew grabs a ball and heads towards the pitcher’s mound, stopping a few yards shy. Turning back, he faces her.
The sight brings a smile to his face. Ashley isn’t returning it, though. She’s hunched over and wearing a fierce scowl. She’s holding the bat about eight inches too high and waggling it around like a sword, but he has to give her credit—the grit is there in spades.
“Ready?” Drew asks, biting back a wry smile.
Ashley nods, wiggling the bat a little. “Gimme your best.”
“All right,” he cautions, “but I’m coming with heat. You’ve been warned.”
Ashley spits in the dirt in response. Drew grins. Then he tosses the ball over to her, nice and slow. Ashley swings, eyes closed. It’s a sloppy swing but she still manages to clip it, sending the ball careening into the back cage. The plink of the metal bat on the ball echoes throughout the stadium.
She drops the bat and opens her eyes in amazement. “Where’d it go? Was it a home run?”
“Just a little bit short,” he teases, right as Ashley finishes her survey of the quiet field and realizes that the ball went in the exact wrong direction.
She groans. “I told you! I’m no good!”
“Can I offer a couple pointers?” Drew asks.
Ashley chews her lip but nods. “Fine. But if you make fun of me, I reserve the right to hit you with this bat.”
Drew laughs as he walks over. “That’s fair.”
Ashley goes to hand him the bat, but he shakes his head. “Hold it the way you were before.”
She does, and Drew walks behind her, reaching around to correct her form. “Hands closer together,” he says, covering her hands with his and sliding them down the bat. He pulls her body up a little. “Straighter back.” Then he taps her elbows up until she’s holding them parallel to the ground. “A little higher with the arms.”
Ashley smells flowery and sweet. Drew has to stop himself from leaning down to bury his nose in her hair—that’d be some serial killer behavior if ever there was some. She fits so neatly against his body. He wants to wrap his arms around her and hold her there, feeling her warmth.
“Okay,” Drew murmurs, running his fingers along Ashley’s arms. He can feel her shiver. “Are you ready?”
Ashley nods. For a change, she doesn’t say anything. He wonders idly if she’s feeling what he is feeling.
Drew grabs another ball from the bucket and walks back to the pitcher’s mound. Ashley’s determined expression is much more convincing when she’s holding the bat properly. He throws the ball again, just like before. This time, she swings so hard she staggers to the left, but she’s about a foot too high to make contact.
“You were close!” Drew calls. “Throw me the ball back and we’ll try again.”
Ashley grimaces once more but grabs the ball, tossing it to him. She takes up the stance again, and Drew gestures for her to lift her arms higher. She does.
“Ready?” he asks.
“As I’ll ever be.” The grumpy expression on her face is so cute that Drew can’t help grinning. He tosses the ball and Ashley swings. Her eyes are still closed, like before.
But this time, it connects with a crack and soars over Drew’s head.
“I did it!” Ashley squeals, jumping up and down.
“What are you waiting for?” Drew hollers. “Run! See if you can make it around the bases before I catch you!”
With that, he takes off at a sprint toward center field. He spots the ball not too far away and glances behind him to see Ashley sailing around first base, arms pinwheeling wildly, laughter bouncing off the bleachers.
Drew grabs the ball and books it back toward home plate. Ashley is nearly at third and squeals when she sees him running back.
“I don’t know how to do that slidey thing!” she screams as she keeps going.
Drew laughs and runs harder, determined to catch her. It is going to be close. Her legs are going as fast as they
can, but he bounds in front of her a second before she makes it home. He wraps his arms around her, laughing triumphantly as he lifts Ashley’s feet from the ground and spins her.
“You jerk!” Ashley cries amid giggles. “I nearly made it.”
“Nearly.” Drew sets her down on her feet but keeps a light grip around her waist. Her eyes twinkle and her hair is tousled around her face. She smiles up at him.
Drew stands stock-still, inhaling her scent. It feels so intoxicating to be close to her. But, unlike the beer he’d been planning on drinking all by his lonesome, this intoxication doesn’t make him feel cloudy or sleepy. He feels vibrant. Completely and utterly here. Like this is the only place in the world that matters right now.
“I’d really like to kiss you right now,” he whispers.
Her face takes up his whole field of vision. “You know,” she answers, matching his hushed tone, “that’s the second real thing you’ve said to me.”
Drew grins. It’s not an Old Drew grin—cocky, all-knowing. It’s a New Drew grin—tentative, maybe a little reluctant, but so raw and real that it almost hurts. Then he leans the rest of the way down and presses his lips against hers.
16
Georgia
Georgia wakes up in a pool of sunshine with waves sashaying onto shore in the distance. A breeze floats through her open bedroom window, and she smiles as she stretches to reach her alarm.
Then she remembers that her life is in tattered pieces and the smile promptly melts from her cheeks.
Memories swoop down at her like seagulls at the beach diving for scraps of food.
Richard holding Drew on the day they brought him home.
Richard on one knee, proposing to her in an Italian vineyard with a brass ring he bought from a local vendor. “I’ll put a jewel in it one day,” he promised.
Richard’s face the first time they fought about his gambling. Red and blotchy in a way she’d never seen before.
Georgia knows she should get up. This isn’t productive. It’s not healing; it’s only hurting more.