“I’m scared of walking out of this room and never feeling the rest of my whole life the way I feel when I’m with you.”
—Dirty Dancing
Wes
“I don’t know what you’re so nervous about.”
“I don’t either, to be honest.” I probably looked like I was talking to myself as I jogged down the hill, talking to Sarah on the phone as she jogged with me from Stanford. Running together had become a thing with us over the past couple of years, so even though we were at diPerent schools, we still ran together a few times a week.
She said, “I think it’s probably because aside from Dr. Allison, you’ve never really talked about the speci1cs of that era with anyone but me.”
“That’s true,” I said. Not even Noah had known what things were really like,
and I’d talked to him all the time back then. And Michael found out eventually, but even he didn’t know everything. I squinted into the bright sunrise and said, “I guess I just feel… unprepared to talk about it.”
“But maybe look at it this way,” she said. “It felt good to discuss in therapy, right?”
I went right at the bottom of the hill. “It did, but this isn’t private, and oh, yeah—Liz will be the one asking the questions.”
“Because you requested that, dipshit,” she said, and I knew if she were here, she’d be giving me her patented you’re-an-idiot look. “But for real, there’s
nothing to be afraid of. They want to know how you came back to baseball, so you just tell them about how it happened.”
“But Mom—”
“Mom is 1ne,” she interrupted. “Mom has overshared her side of this to anyone who’ll listen. Mom tells strangers at the grocery store about how it all shook out. Mom would be disappointed if you failed to mention her issues, and you know I’m right.”
She was right.
Our mom entered therapy as a broken woman and came out… well, less broken and 1lled with the unstoppable urge to tell everyone she met about her experiences.
Even the experiences that didn’t paint her in the best light.
“Just treat this as free therapy, stop overthinking, and talk to Liz like you’re telling her the story. Do it and be done.”
Do it and be done.
That was a good way to think of it—I was going to do it and be done. “Speaking of Mother Dearest, has she con1rmed that she’s picking us up
from the airport?”
“Yeah, she 1nally got back to me yesterday,” I said.
The house had 1nally sold, so Sarah and I were going home next week to help my mom with the closing. Neither of us were looking forward to it, but we couldn’t expect her to do everything herself.
I also kind of wanted to say goodbye to the house.
Even as I absolutely didn’t want to say goodbye to the house.
I went back to my dorm and showered, and by the time I was walking into Acosta for the team lift, my hesitancy about the interview was gone. Or minimized, at least. I was going to do it and be done, check that box, and then hopefully never be asked about it again.
After jumping on the force plate and going through dynamic warm-ups on the turf, I headed back to the weight-lifting racks.
“Where’s your boyfriend, Lizzie?” I heard Eli say as I turned the corner.
And I froze in my tracks when I saw her, even though Liz 1lming workouts shouldn’t have been a surprise.
There was Eli, doing medicine ball two-way dribbles against the wall while Liz 1lmed him.
“He has a name,” she said, her attention on her work. “And he wanted to get 1lm of the strong guys today. So that’s why I’m on you.”
“Hey—why so mean?” he asked, smiling.
“You called me ‘Lizzie,’ so you’re asking for it, aren’t you?” Neither of them noticed me, so I took a second to drink her in.
She was wearing jeans and a black T-shirt, but the Docs she had on and the black bow in the back of her curls made it more than just a T-shirt and jeans.
They made it Liz, even without the Aowers and pastels.
I watched her record him, and there was something about seeing her work that fascinated me. She obviously knew what she was doing, but it was also obvious that she was enjoying herself. Her body—and her camera—were in constant motion while she 1lmed, and her focus reminded me of the way she focused on music when she was working on a playlist.
The rest of the world existed, but she was uninterested in anything other than what she was working on.
God, I love that about her.
“Good to see you made it home okay last night, Buxbaum,” I said, needing to see those green eyes on me.
As expected, she whipped around like I’d startled her.
But just as quickly as she’d looked shocked, she covered it up. Liz swallowed and said, “Of course I did. I trust you had no problems getting back to your dorm?”
“I love when you worry about me, Libby,” I said, eating up that frustrated fast-blink, hell yes.
She rolled her eyes, raised her chin, and I wanted to drop to my knees.
“I just need you alive for the interview this morning.” She tilted her head and said, “After that, feel free to fall oP a cliP.”
Eli started laughing, and so did I. Liz’s mouth softened, like she wanted to smile with us but wouldn’t allow herself the luxury, and I was taking that as a win.
“Now you seem like exes,” Eli said. “Also. Liz. Am I allowed to call you ‘Libby’?”
“Not if you want me to answer,” she said, borrowing the line from Pretty Woman. Her lips lost any idea of a smile, and she said, “I hate that nickname.”
“Oh, you do not,” I said quietly, teasingly, wishing I could step closer and lower my face to the spot on the side of her neck that always smelled ridiculously good. “Lib.”
I walked away because there were some dead lifts with my name on them, but the casual run-in with Liz had me anticipating our meeting. Not the interview itself, but because Liz and I in a room together, even if there was a camera and a boyfriend, was still better than not being with her.
And I was starting to suspect she didn’t like Clark that much.
I mean, they seemed happy enough when I saw them together, but I’d spent a lifetime watching her crush on guys. Wide eyes, pink cheeks, knowing smiles— those were her symptoms. I’d witnessed them time and again, hating them at the very same time they charmed the hell out of me.
No one wore lovesick like my Libby.
Maybe it was wishful thinking, but I’d never seen her look at Clark that way.
I showered after lifting, putting on a decent shirt and jeans instead of my usual shorts/T-shirt combo. I didn’t know what was expected of me, clothing- wise, but I didn’t want to disappoint Liz, so I was erring on the side of caution.
The sun was bright when I exited the building and walked toward Morgan, and for the 1rst time, I wondered what my dad would think of this. I’d avoided thinking about him lately because I didn’t want to regress on the 1eld, but I couldn’t help it now, as I prepared to talk on camera about his death.
Part of me thought he wouldn’t like anyone knowing anything about our life, but I also knew he’d relish any opportunity for my game to be under the spotlight.
Hell, if he were here, he probably would’ve already called Lilith to see why they weren’t doing a bigger piece on my pitching. He’d say something like Why would you waste time talking to every mediocre player—some of them won’t ever see the field—when you can showcase a future star? I kind of wanted to laugh at the realization and call Sarah, because it was 1,000 percent what he would’ve done.
That realization actually made me feel better about the whole thing.
When I got to Morgan, I went straight to MC491, even though I was a little early. I raised my hand to knock on the office door, which was cracked, but then I stopped myself when I saw Liz sitting behind the desk.
My breath kind of got trapped in my lungs for a second, to be honest. Because I’d never met this version of her before.
She’d changed since lifting, switching out the casual T-shirt for a black blazer, a crisp white shirt, and a tangled mass of pearly necklaces wrapped around her neck. Her eyes were lined, her lips red, and her hair was all pulled back into a tortoiseshell clip.
She looked like a force, like she could head a boardroom without a single nerve, and I was hungry to know this person.
“Hey,” I said, my voice cracking like I was a middle schooler talking to his crush for the very 1rst time.
She looked up, and the power of those eyes almost dropped me.
God, I love her.
“Hey.” She turned her Retrograde Red lips into a polite smile. “You’re early.” “Is that okay?” I asked.
Her eyebrows went up. “Did Wes Bennett just ask permission? I feel like I should check your forehead for a fever or something.”
“I feel like you should do that too.” I pushed open the door and walked into the office, pulled to be closer to her. Needing less space between us. “Where do you want me?”
“We’re going to do the interview over there,” she said, pointing to a small conference table to the right of the desk. “But Clark isn’t even here yet.”
“So we’re oP on the right foot, then,” I teased, smelling her perfume and feeling like a bloodhound who’d been given the scent. I had it, and now it was all I could focus on. “Which chair?”
She got up and came around the desk, and sweet holy foxhunt God save me,
she was wearing tall black pumps. I was intimidated by Liz as she said, “The one with the picture behind it.”
“Okay,” I said, pulling out the chair and sitting.
Until now, I’d never given any thought to the two years between us, educationally speaking. But as I watched her move ePortlessly around expensive 1lm equipment in stilettos, she very much seemed like a junior who knew a hell of a lot more than this nervous freshman.
And those heels. I couldn’t stop looking at them. She moved like she’d been born to wear them, looking a million light-years away from the Little Liz who’d wobbled around in toy princess shoes.
“Please don’t be pissed at me for saying this, Liz,” I said quietly, very aware that this was her world. “But I’m kind of intimidated by how cool you are now.”
