Page 83 of Rival Summer

"I know," I nodded. "The Cubs are flying me out this weekend. They want to get to know me, see if I might be a good fit for them."

"That's so exciting! Oh, Boston, they will love you," she said with unwavering confidence. "Everyone who meets you falls in love with you."

I cleared my throat, steering the conversation away from me. "So, he never shows, huh?"

Her expression faltered slightly. "No, but it's okay. I understand. All I can do is keep letting him know I'm here." She sighed, picking at the edge of a napkin.

I swirled the straw in my water, ice clinking against the glass, and let out a slow breath. "He may never be ready. This is a lot for anyone to process."

"Sweetheart, it's just..." she trailed off, her eyes searching mine.

The neon lights from outside flickered, pulling my attention away. I leaned back against the red vinyl seat, lost in thought about what family gatherings would look like—holidays, birthdays. The thought twisted like a knife. Holidays growing up were usually just my mom and me. She did her best to make up for the father-shaped void in my life, unspoken yet ever-present. Luckily, he left when she was pregnant, so I never had a chance to miss him.

How could Chandler ever fit into this broken picture? It was sad and pathetic. If Reese ever entered it, that would be an even worse shit show.

"What are you going to order, Boston?," she asked, nose in her menu.

Before I could respond, an unexpected voice interrupted me. "You gonna scoot over? Or you want me to sit at my own booth?"

I turned to see Reese standing there, hands tucked in the pockets of his leather jacket. We still hadn’t talked since our last argument, and things were still rocky and unsettled. But at that moment, none of that mattered. Him showing up was far more important.

My mom's mouth fell open, a tear escaping the corner of her eye and falling down her cheek. Without hesitation, I slid closer to the window, making room for him in our booth. He slid in opposite of my mom, his presence filling the entire restaurant with an undeniable energy. The waitresses all paused, turning their attention to us, as if they knew my mom had been sitting alone here for weeks. But not tonight—tonight was different.

"So what's good at this place?" Reese asked, picking up a laminated menu and glancing over it, casually.

"Try the apple pie," my mom could hardly say, her voice quivering slightly as if the simple act of speaking to him held a crushing weight she'd carried for too long.

TWENTY-SEVEN

chandler

"Willow,have you ever done one of these overnight decoration things?" I hollered as I stuffed a pair of socks into my duffle bag.

"Yep!" Her reply floated in from the living room. "Not last year. No championship win, no parade. But the year before… oh, it was a blast!"

I paused, a t-shirt half-rolled in my hands. "What's it like?"

"Imagine this," she began, animatedly as she painted the picture, "the whole gym is ours, right? We're decking out the float, munching on everything in sight, sipping whatever we sneak in, and just chillin'. And when our eyelids get heavy, bam! We pass out whenever we want."

I sighed. "A sleepover with Caroline, her crew, and the entire Blue Devils’ team—minus Boston of course—doesn’t sound like a party to me."

"Do we need an escape plan?" Willow's lips curved into a grin, knowing all too well my history with Caroline.

"Absolutely." I nodded firmly. "A quick getaway could be essential for survival."

Willow snickered. "I got your back, girl," she called out, rifling through her closet with purpose. "Besides, I'm throwing a bottle of wine for each of us in my bag."

"Perfect," I yelled, tossing my striped pink pajamas into the mix of essentials spread across my bed.

As I zipped up my bag, sadness struck me knowing I wouldn’t get to see Boston. He was getting on a flight, and things were still a mess with us. I shook my head, trying to dislodge the unsettling thoughts. What did it even matter? That night at karaoke, he had basically said this—we—would go nowhere. And the last few weeks he had been sending an obvious message, making it evident where we stood. Boston had never been an open book—he was more like trying to read a book with most of the pages torn out. I sighed and glanced at the mirror, catching a glimpse of my own anxious eyes staring back.

When we arrived, the auditorium doors swung open with a creak, revealing a crafter's dream. Cots were stacked up against the walls, and the barely started float sat in the center, begging for decoration. Surrounding it were tables cluttered with ribbons, paper flowers, and glue guns.

"Looks like Caroline's been busy," I said, nodding towards the organized chaos.

"Or she's just good at delegating," Willow quipped from beside me, her eyes scanning the room.

I weaved through the room to claim a cot, draping my overnight bag over its metal frame. It was then that Parker strolled in.

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