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Chapter Thirteen

Sam

The last two weeks without Hope had been absolute hell. Not the dramatic, fiery kind of hell you see in movies, but the slow, suffocating kind that creeps into every quiet moment and reminds you what's missing.

I missed everything about her—the way she'd scrunch her nose when she concentrated, her bright smile, and the gentle warmth of her hands during our Reiki sessions when the whole world seemed to fade away except for the two of us.

After zipping my duffel bag closed, I gave the room a final once-over.

I have enough clothes that I don’t have to worry if I forget to pack something, but I don’t want to leave without my electronics and chargers.

All the surfaces were empty, so I stepped out of my room, closed the door behind me, and headed downstairs.

Mom sat on the couch, not even pretending she wasn’t just waiting for me.

“So,” she said, the single word dripping with accusation. “You're really leaving without seeing Hope?”

I set my duffel on the floor and sat on the chair across from her.

“I left the ball in her court, Mom,” I said. “Maybe we just need some time apart.”

“You haven’t seen each other in two weeks,” she pointed out. Then she sighed and added, “I’ve stayed out of it, hoping you two would come to your senses on your own.”

“And I appreciate that.”

“But maybe I should talk to her.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

I didn’t have a good answer, so I didn’t give one at all.

What I do have is a letter. An honest-to-goodness handwritten letter on looseleaf paper I found in my desk.

I’d poured everything into it—how much she meant to me, how sorry I was for pushing too hard, how willing I was to wait while she figured things out.

And tucked in with those words was an open-ended ticket to Tampa with her name on it.

No pressure, no timeline—just an invitation to take a chance.

The envelope weighed down the front pocket of my hoodie, sealed with more hope than I cared to admit.

I didn’t know if it would change anything, but I had to try.

I stood, walked across the room, and stopped in front of Mom.

“Would you give this to Hope for me?” I pulled out the letter, trying to keep my voice casual.

Mom took it, studying my face with those sharp eyes that missed nothing.

“Of course, honey.”

“Thanks.”

She stood and followed me toward the door.

“You know you two are perfect for each other."

“I do.” I picked up my duffel. “Now I just need Hope to know it too.”

“She does, she’s just scared.” She patted my back. “You’ll figure it out.”

We headed out to the truck and I opened the door and tossed my bag into the passenger seat. When I turned to say goodbye, Mom pulled me into one of her fierce hugs that reminded me I'd always be her little boy, no matter how tall I'd grown or how old I am.

“Call me when you get to Myrtle Beach,” she said, pressing a kiss to my cheek.

“I will.”

I should have taken the direct route to the highway and left the past two weeks behind me. Instead, I found myself driving past Hope's studio.

The lights were off, the front windows dark, and there wasn’t a single car in the lot. I lingered in the street, staring at the reflection of my truck in the glass, until a car appeared behind me.

I pulled away telling myself I wasn’t being a total weirdo. I just wanted to see her face before I leave, even if it’s from a distance. My pulse picked up as her house came into view, but the driveway was empty.

Frustration twisted my gut and I gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white. I eased back onto the road and headed toward the highway.

Mom has the letter, and I know she’ll get it to Hope as soon as she can. If that doesn’t do the trick, I’ll come up with a Plan B. Maybe even a Plan C. Because walking away? That’s not in my playbook. Not now, not ever.

Hope

I moved the yoga mats and blocks around for the third time, trying to find some configuration that felt right. But nothing did.

The space looked fine. It was clean, organized, and even peaceful I suppose, but something about it was off. Like the energy didn’t know where to land, like the air was holding its breath no matter where I stood.

I’d even smudged the room, but it still felt off. Not wrong, exactly—just not mine. Or maybe not mine today.

I paused, barefoot on the hardwood, and let my arms fall to my sides. The diffuser puffed quietly in the corner, the scent of lavender and rosemary curled through the stillness. Everything was exactly where it should be.

And yet nothing was right.

I couldn’t shake the sense that something inside me had shifted, just a little. Just enough to make everything familiar feel unfamiliar. A half-step out of sync.

No amount of rearranging could fix it.

Taking in a deep breath, I let it out slowly, hoping it would calm my thoughts.

Two weeks. I haven’t seen him in two weeks, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t felt him everywhere.

He left town yesterday. Not that knowing he’s not here helped anything. The only thin sliver of relief was knowing I wouldn’t bump into him now. No unexpected heart punches. No faking a smile I didn’t have.

A knock on the front door snapped me out of my mental spiral. I turned just in time to see it creak open. Liz stepped inside, her eyes soft and familiar. She didn’t say a word, just walked straight over and pulled me into her arms.

Without hesitation I held on and buried my face in her shoulder. It was stupid, how much it helped. How badly I needed someone to say, Yeah, this hurts. Especially when that someone was his mother.

When I finally let go, I wiped the corner of my eyes with the sleeve of my shirt. Liz pulled back and gave me a look that said she saw right through me.

“You don’t need to tell me how you’re doing,” she said gently. “It’s written all over you.”

I nodded, my throat too tight to form words.

“If it helps,” she added, “he’s looked just as wrecked these past couple of weeks.”

It didn’t help. Not really. Misery doesn’t cancel misery.

Liz lifted her hand, revealing an envelope I hadn’t noticed she was holding. She held it out to me.

“It’s from Sam.”

I took it carefully, like it might burn me. My name was written across the front in bold, script. I stared at it like it might tell me what was inside if I looked long enough.

Liz touched my arm.

“If you want to talk after you read it, you know where to find me.”

And just like that, she slipped out, leaving me alone with the echo of her words and a letter that felt too heavy in my hands.

I locked the studio door, switched off the main lights, and made my way back to the office. The comfy chair in the corner called to me, and I sank into it with a slow exhale.

My hands trembled as I opened the envelope and carefully unfolded a sheet of loose-leaf paper.

Hope,

I’ve started and stopped this letter a dozen times. Maybe a hundred. Nothing I say feels big enough. Not for this. Not for you.

I love you. So much. I’m not sure I ever understood what love could feel like until you cracked my heart open. You see me—like, really see me. Not just the pitcher or the rehab story or the guy trying to keep his shit together. You see the whole mess and somehow, you still love me.

It killed me to leave without talking to you again, but I thought it was best. I’ve had a lot of time to think in the last two weeks, and I know that I want you, I want this, I want us.

I know it won’t be easy. You’ve got roots in Starlight Shores, deep ones.

The community is part of you and I’d never ask you to rip them out for me.

But I also know baseball won’t last forever.

Ten years, maybe, if I’m lucky. And after that, we’d have the rest of our lives to build something together anywhere you want.

I don’t need an answer right away. I just needed you to know I’m not giving up. Not on you. Not on us.

There’s an open-ended ticket to Tampa in the envelope. You can use it on any flight whenever you can make it. If you can make it.

I hope you can make it.

Because I can’t imagine going through all of spring training without seeing you.

I love you.

Sam

I read it again.

And again.

And again, until the paper was soft from my fingers and my tears had blurred the ink in one corner.

When I finally slid the letter back into its envelope, the ache lingered, stubborn and raw, but underneath it, something new was taking shape. A quiet clarity, steady and sure, pushing past the uncertainty.