Page 15

Chapter Fifteen

Tahlia

July 4th

J ake’s breathing is slow and even deeper than it was yesterday.

He’s curled toward me, one arm tucked under the pillow, the other resting loosely against the new wrap on his ribs.

He’s not groaning or twitching this time.

Just still.

Calm.

Which is more than I can say for myself.

Because the truth is, he makes me feel…

unsettled.

Not in a bad way.

Just in that I-see-you, I-hear-you, I-might-actually-want-you-around kind of way.

And I don’t know what to do with that.

Haven’t in a while.

I slip out of bed, grab my hoodie from the chair in my corner, and head to the bathroom.

Quick routine: brush, rinse, and tie up hair.

Done.

I don't linger.

A few minutes later, I ease out the front door and unlock the unit next to mine.

His place is cold and still smells like laundry detergent and air freshener, like it's not lived in.

Yet, I know who lives here.

He must have a cleaning service come by and take care of his place.

I grab one prepped meal and a protein shake from the fridge, relock the door, and head back to my condo.

Jake’s awake when I return, face relaxed but alert.

Moving more carefully than usual, but not sluggish.

"You know," he says, voice scratchy, "for someone with a law degree, you're really comfortable with breaking and entering." He points to the things I’ve grabbed from his refrigerator.

I set the bottle on the counter without looking at him. “Like I previously said, it’s not B&E if you have the key.”

“B&E with a loophole. Impressive.”

“Just say thank you, Reynolds,” I call from the kitchen.

“Thank you,” he echoes, sincere.

I warm up his food while I make my own breakfast. It's nothing fancy—just scrambled eggs and a slice of sourdough. He prefers clean macros, while I prefer flavor.

Setting the plate in front of him, I slide into the seat beside him, and we eat at the island—me leaning on one elbow, him sitting straight but favoring one side. “He doesn’t speak—just nods once in quiet approval before picking up his fork.

“You’re moving better,” I say.

He nods. “Slept like a rock.”

“You do look less like you got hit by a truck.”

“Progress.” He shrugs a little, wincing as he moves.

I smirk and sip from my mug.

“You okay?” he asks, his gaze trained on me.

“I’m trying not to stress.”

His brows lift slightly. “About today?”

I give him a knowing look.

He grins and nods his head. “You know I’m a delight, right?”

“I know you think that.”

He laughs and goes back to eating, and for a second, everything feels normal. Easy.

But deep down, I know it’s not.

Not really.

He's still chewing when I grab the plates and rinse them in the sink. The stool creaks behind me as he shifts, moving slowly but steadily. He's walking better this morning—no groaning or dramatic slouching like he's auditioning for sympathy. Still favoring his side, but he's alert. Present. Himself.

I glance back long enough to catch him stretching one arm behind his head, testing his range. He winces but doesn't complain. Instead, he leans his hip against the counter and drinks the rest of his shake like nothing hurts. Classic Jake.

I dry my hands, let the silence settle for another beat, then turn toward the hallway.

“I’m gonna get dressed,” I say without looking back.

He grunts in acknowledgment, and I don’t hear him follow. Good. I need a minute.

Inside my room, I crack open the closet door and thumb through a few half-decent options. Most of them scream try-hard. Others feel too casual. I land somewhere in the middle—wrap maxi skirt in navy, black tank top tucked in, hoop earrings, and a hint of gloss. Hair’s already up.

From the hallway, I catch the low hum of Jake’s voice. Muffled at first—until it sharpens into actual words.

“Yeah, slept through the night. Still tight, but better.” A short pause. "Doc said I can stretch today, but there is no load bearing yet.”

Another beat passes before he speaks again.

“No. I’m not rushing it.”

He says he's not rushing it but is already trying to walk as if nothing's wrong. I give it three hours before he regrets skipping the pain meds.

A grunt, followed by something sarcastic I can’t quite make out, is spoken before he ends the call.

I check the mirror and remind myself: it's a holiday with family. This is normal people stuff.

Except I have a pro baseball player tagging along to meet my parents. So… not that normal.

Still, my stomach flips once before I can talk it down.

When I step out, Jake is standing in the living room, holding onto the back of the couch for balance as he eases down to pull on his sneakers. He's dressed the same way he came—Terrors tee, loose athletic pants. There is no chain, no sudden fresh shave, just clean and careful.

He catches me watching.

“If you’re gonna keep looking at me like that, counselor… you better be ready to do something about it.”

He’s ridiculous. And unfortunately? It’s working. I swear, he could be bleeding out and still flirt like it’s foreplay.

I roll my eyes and mutter, “Asshole.”

“You’re not limping.”

He shifts —just enough for me to catch it.

He lifts an eyebrow. “Give me a minute. I probably will be.”

I walk past him and grab my bag from the hook near the door. He straightens up with a soft wince and watches me quietly.

“You sure you’re up for this?” I ask, pausing with my hand on the doorknob.

“I’m not gonna fall apart in front of your family, if that’s what you mean.”

I grab one of my throw pillows for him to use in the car and hold it out. "Don't make me carry you," I say.

He smirks, taking it. “If anyone asks, I insisted.”

I open the door and glance back. “You coming, or do I need to file a motion?”

He exhales a quiet laugh and follows.

The neighborhood hasn't changed since I was a kid—same even trimmed hedges, wraparound porches, overachieving mailboxes that probably hold alumni magazines and HOA newsletters. Even the wind feels a little more prestigious on this side of town.

Jake shifts in the passenger seat as we pull into the driveway, the throw pillow wedged under his arm as if it’s part of the seatbelt.

I put my car in park and shut off the engine.

“Nice house,” he says, looking out the window.

“Don’t let the brick fool you. It’s chaos inside.”

He smirks. “Then I’ll fit right in.”

I shake my head because he may think he’s joking, but he’s actually right.

Before I can respond, the front door swings open.

My mom steps out first, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She is followed by my dad, who is, I kid you not, wearing a Terrors hat and the 2023 postseason shirt with Jake's name on the back.

“Oh God,” I mutter. “He didn’t.”

Jake leans forward, squinting. “Wait… is that?—”

“Yep. That’s your name on his back.”

Jake grins. “I like him already.” He swings open the door, wincing as he climbs out of the car to meet my folks.

We barely make it up the walkway before my dad’s booming voice cuts through the hydrangeas.

“Reynolds! Frederick Carter. Nice to meet you.”

Jake braces as my dad pulls him into a hug that borders on bodily harm. There’s a sharp exhale from Jake’s chest that only I catch.

“Easy, Dad," I warn, like Jake’s my science project from school.

My dad lets go, claps him on the shoulder— right on the injured side —and turns to me. “T, why didn’t you tell me he was coming?”

"Sorry, Dad. I've been a bit preoccupied."

My mom gives me a quick kiss on the cheek. “Hi, my angel baby.”

"Hi, Mom. In case you missed Dad's roaring announcement, this is Jake Reynolds. Jake, this is my mother, Angela Carter."

"Pleasure to meet you, ma'am," He shakes her hand gently.

“Well, you’d think I’d know all about you the way Freddy watches every game, but I’m sorry, I don’t. So, nice to meet you as well.”

A few neighbors come out and start staring at us a little too long, giving me the impression they see Jake.

"I think we should move inside before the news crews end up on our front lawn."

Mom waves us inside. “Come on, come on. We’re finishing the sides anyway. T, I need your help with the dinner rolls.”

“I’ve never been one to turn down a home-cooked meal," Jake comments, wanting to score brownie points with my mom.

I roll my eyes while Jake holds open the door.

Inside, it smells like holidays with the Carters: baked mac and cheese and peach cobbler thickening in the oven. This is the kind of scent that says someone’s been cooking with real butter and real opinions.

Lauren is at the kitchen island chopping parsley like she’s on a cooking show. Marcus is off to the side playing catch in the hallway with Ellis, while Ari bounces around in a tutu and light-up sneakers.

Joi’s perched on a barstool, wine glass in hand, already mid-sentence.

"Well, look who finally showed up," she grins.

“I’m traveling with precious cargo, ma’am,” I say, pointing to Jake..

Lauren turns with a smile that’s way too eager. “So, this is the Jake Reynolds.”

Jake shakes her hand and gives her the smile that makes PR departments rich. “Guilty as charged.”

“You look better when you’re not in uniform,” she says. “How are you?”

“Other than this reminder to dodge balls that are coming at you a hundred miles an hour, I’m hanging in there,” he replies, nodding toward his side.

“Well, glad to see you up and about. Don’t overdo it.”

"Don't worry. Your sister has been an excellent caregiver." He hits me with that sinfully sexy smirk and wink combo.

Joi giggles. “Injured, and he still managed to catch your sister. That’s talent if you ask me.”

Jake raises an eyebrow. “Caught, huh?”

I shoot Joi a warning look. “Behave.”

My mom waves toward the backyard. “Frederick, go show him the grill before you break something in my kitchen.”

“Come on, Reynolds. Let’s go take a look at these ribs. Uh, Marcus, you and Ellis should come too.”

“Yes, sir,” he responds.

Jake follows my dad through the back door, careful but not fragile, with Ellis and Marcus following.

And I just… watch him for a second.

The way he walks, the way he blends in. Like he’s not trying too hard. Like he doesn’t need to.

It’s annoying how good he is at this.

And maybe—just maybe—it’s a little terrifying.

The air inside shifts the second the back door closes behind Jake and my dad.

Full-on interrogation mode activated.

Lauren’s already side-eying me from the cutting board like she’s waiting for opening arguments. Joi doesn’t even try to hide her smirk. And my mom? She’s pretending to stir the yams, but she’s absolutely listening.

I wash my hands and try to act unbothered. Key word: try.

“So,” Joi starts, the word drawn out like she’s easing into a courtroom cross. “Did you know Tahlia took off work to care for her not-my-boyfriend, boyfriend?”

I don’t even flinch. Just grab the ingredients for the rolls, like her words didn't land. "He got hurt. I had the time. Simple. No big deal.”

Lauren sets her knife down way too carefully. “Girl. You don’t even take time off when you’re sick. You took an antihistamine during midterms and still gave a mock trial closing that made people cry.”

“It was allergy season,” I mutter.

“And yet,” Joi adds, “you’re playing nurse to the centerfielder of the Terrors. Who, by the way, looks really comfortable in your kitchen." She shows me a picture Jake posted on his IG to let his fans know he’s okay.

“Y’all need hobbies.” I mix the ingredients aggressively as my best friend and sister ki-ki it up.

My mom turns around, eyebrow raised, wooden spoon in hand. "Tahlia Simone Carter."

Aw, shit. She’s using my full government, and I didn’t even do anything.

“Are you trying to convince us that Jake Reynolds, whose bobblehead lives in your father’s office and jersey is mounted on his wall, is not in a relationship with you, or are you trying to convince yourself?”

I sigh, allowing her words to meditate in my spirit.

“And he’s injured, and you’re caring for him, and now he’s here for Fourth of July dinner like it’s normal?”

“It is normal.”

“Tahlia, you like him, just admit it," Mom says, too calmly.

Joi sips. “I mean… if he starts fixing things around your condo, we’re skipping ahead to marriage.”

“I’m not doing this with y’all,” I say, reaching for the baking sheet.

“You already are,” Lauren singsongs. “And I’m loving it.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to,” Joi chimes.

My mom smiles, soft but smug. “’Bout time.”

They all laugh.

I try to stay focused on putting the rolls on the sheet, but the edges of my mouth betray me.

One thing about this family? They never miss the opening pitch.