Rounding Third - Michelle Lynn Page 0,98

Noah’s longing and hurt from not having a father to play catch with or practice ball. It’s not like my dad was very involved either. Thanks go to Mr. Keaton for taking us both on as foster sons. He’s the one who taught me about playing ball and who set up the back of his land by the run-down barn for Noah and I to practice. I guess that’s why when he agreed that Ella and I should separate for the sake of ourselves, I purposely shredded my heart into pieces. I owed him.

I squat down in front of Noah’s headstone, the baseball bobbling between my hands.

“I’m back, but I guess you already know that.”

My throat chokes up, and I push the tears away.

“God, I miss you. I’m not going to rehash what you already know from looking down at us. I envision you and Kedsey sometimes in the stands, and I’d appreciate if you guys were there with me today because I need the strength of Paul Konerko, A.J. Pierzynski, and Joe Crede.” I name the first baseman, catcher, and third baseman from the 2005 World Series Champs, the Chicago White Sox. Names we’d call one another during that summer.

I place the baseball in the flower plant between the two graves.

“Thanks for being the kind of best friend people wish for.” I take my two fingers, kiss them, and place them on the headstone. “Don’t worry about your mom. I’ll make sure she’s safe.”

My footsteps are heavy, as though I’m wearing cement shoes, on my trek back down the hill.

Will I ever be able to visit this grave and not feel as though I’m abandoning him? Will the knot in my stomach disappear when memories flood my head? Will the happy times ever win out against the nightmares?

As the questions rack my brain, the weight of the charity game sits in my stomach, like a boulder on the edge of a mountain. Me showing up could be the boulder that falls and blocks the road. Doubt rises to the surface with the grief, as I think that everything I’m doing is selfish and undeserving.

When I climb into my truck, I pluck my phone out of the cup holder, finding a text that reminds me of who I am.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Ella

“Stop.” Ariel’s hand lands on my bouncing leg. “He’ll come.”

Brax has peered up to me no less than ten times since the team rushed out for practice. I have no answers for him. Crosby’s phone went right to voice mail, a full voice mail box. My texts have gone unanswered.

Mayor Beachman walks toward the mound, and Brax’s fear-filled eyes look my way again before he lines up by the dugout.

“He’ll be here,” Spencer says next to me.

I nod, not entirely convinced. Crosby’s cockiness was slipping this week, fading into the spiral I saw years ago. The one where he shut everyone out.

He didn’t let me know he was coming down here by himself. Xavier could murder him as payback for Kedsey. Sheriff Greg could have arrested him for something stupid.

“Your mind is going crazy. Stop,” Jen says next to me.

I look over to her. She knows me.

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. He’ll be here. He just got delayed somewhere.” She smiles.

I take her words more seriously than Spencer’s. Maybe it’s because she’s usually as pessimistic as I am.

“I see your mind swirling.” She taps my head.

I lean my head on her shoulder, and she wraps her arm around me.

“Thank you.”

“For what? Telling you that you’re a loon? Anytime.” She rolls her eyes, but we both know what I’m thanking her for.

I’ve never fully let her in, but that is going to change. I’ll always love Kedsey, but I will use our friendship to transpire more. Jen and I both need someone we can depend on.

The mayor stands at the microphone, and my mom taps my shoulder and leans in.

“Ella?” she questions.

But my dad pulls her back before I answer.

“He’ll be here,” he whispers.

I want to believe all of them, but the longer the time goes by, the more I’m skeptical, which I chastise myself for because Crosby promised me that he’d never leave me.

“Good evening, everyone,” the mayor begins his speech.

I glance at my phone. Crosby has fifteen minutes, tops.

The Weathers come out to the pitching mound, and everyone stands and claps. The speeches are finished, and the young high school student picked to sing the national anthem takes the microphone.

Crosby emerges from the dugout.

My stiff body relaxes, like I’m under a