Page 72 of The Fall Classic

I put the phone face down on my knee and watch South Carolina fill up the window—the rhythm of the road, the exit signs I know, the slight haze in the light from the farms, and the sensation of warmth low in my stomach as I get closer and closer to Georgie.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Georgie

The coffee truck smells like the end of a long day—steamed milk, dark roast, and a hint of cardamom from about five million It’s Bean Reals, thanks to the sweet woman from the reunion who told the entire incoming reunion group to try it. Now I’m standing in the truck in the factory lot trying to remember if I’ve eaten anything since Alma’s breakfast burrito at four thirty AM.

Wait, did I eat a breakfast burrito?

No problem. Logan is taking me out for dinner in an hour, so I have ten minutes left to clean the truck, ten minutes to get home, and forty minutes to get ready. I don’t need to wash my hair, do I?

Doesn’t matter. That’s what dry shampoo was made for.

All I have left to clean is the portafilter, drip tray, and steam wand, which typically takes ten minutes. I run through the motions easily until I’m left with only the steam wand. I could do this one in my sleep. Purge, wipe, purge, wipe. The rhythm of it is almost meditative, with the warm steam against my hand, the damp cloth moving in the same small arc over and over. My eyelids softly close. The rhythm continues. Purge, wipe, purge⁠—

My forehead smacks the machine.

I jerk back, heart slamming, the shock of it crackling through my every nerve. My hands are shaking and my eyes are wide open now, the adrenaline doing in two seconds what eleven hours of coffee couldn’t.

I stand in the truck cab breathing hard and staring at the steam wand. There’s going to be a mark right in the center of my forehead. I press my fingers to it. Yep. That’s a bump.

Okay.

So maybe it’s time to talk to Marlowe about getting more help.

I drive home on high alert, my mind turning again to Logan and the Tree. What was it he said? I don’t think she knew she could say no.

I click my turn signal.

This isn’t the time to ruminate on deep discussions. If I start thinking, I’m going to stop paying attention to the road, and I can’t risk that.

The seat is warm at my back, and the wheel is warm in my hands. The angle of the sun makes the landscape amber and sweet. It would be so easy to fall asleep watching the last of the peach orchards blur past the window, the trees heavy and drowsy in the hottest part of the day, the air coming through the vents carrying something sweet and almost overripe, completely unlike the dark, heavy scents of the truck. My lungs almost don’t know what to do with it.

But it’s peaceful.

So very, very peaceful …

“No!” I yell, pinching my thigh as hard as I can, the pain jolting me awake. “Stay awake, Georgie,” I tell myself out loud. And then I start singing to the tune of “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,” making up terrible rhymes that are dumb enough to make me giggle.

“Stay awake Geor-gi-an-a! You cannot sleep, you ba-na-na. Sleeping is for night, not day, if you sleep, you’ll go away. Stay awake, oh, Georgie Girl. You will make your family hurl.”

The second verse is even more hideous. I can only imagine what Logan would think if he could see me now, but something tells me he’d be chuckling, at least. And maybe checking my head for a concussion.

I pull into the Meant to Bean parking lot at four twenty-one and grab my bag and the day’s supply log from the passenger seat so I can restock tomorrow.

At four thirty in the morning.

I whimper.

The shop is bustling, and I just want to swing through and give Alma a quick hug before I go upstairs.

With Logan’s hat on my head, the supply log in my arm, and my bag over one shoulder, I come through the back, already calculating: hug, shower, hair, the white sundress I laid out this morning at four thirty. Although on second thought, it’ll probably wash me out, considering the sun and I only know each other through the coffee truck window these days …

Alma’s at the espresso machine, and I snake around another barista to give her a quick one-armed hug.

“Ay, you look awful.” She grabs my face in her hands and squeezes my cheeks, pushing my face left then right to better examine the bags under my eyes.

“It’s just from being in the truck,” I say, pulling my face from her grip, though the movement makes me feel like my brain is bumping around. “I need to go get ready.”