Page 43

CHAPTER 43

ROSE

“N gh.” The incoherent cavewoman sound comes from my throat, cheek smooshed over my purple keyboard at the office. The air conditioning feels extra cold so I’m hunched over, arms around my torso trying to preserve body heat.

Or I’m just hungover and unrested. Maybe staying all night drinking and snacking and talking crap about men wasn’t my brightest idea.

Hope and Audrey felt equally garbage-y this morning and we grabbed an Uber together, but I don’t know how they’re going to peel me off this desk to get me home again at the end of the day. Or how I’m going to muster the energy to be remotely productive until then. I wonder if it’s too late to call in sick, but that would require moving as well and I am so not looking forward to that.

“Rosalina, do you have the—whoa.” My boss stops just outside my cubicle and stares at me like I have transformed into a trashcan raccoon. “What the heck happened to you?”

“Men,” is all I respond.

“Ah.” He puts his hands in his pockets. “All men or a specific one?”

“A bit of all, a lot of one.”

“My sympathies. I still need the transcript from the behind the scenes interview yesterday after the game, sorry.” He’s trying hard not to grin, the jerk.

Groaning, I use all my willpower to tear myself away from my makeshift pillow. No doubt I have key marks on my cheek. “You’ll have it between one and ten million business days.”

“Great, thanks.” He palms the threshold of my cubicle and keeps it moving to go talk with someone else.

My only decent idea of the day so far has been pouring myself a gigantic mug of coffee. I cradle the monstrosity in my hands and breathe in the steam. I know that some of the emptiness I feel is due to the hangover and the lack of sleep, but most of it is the Logan Kim-sized hole in my chest. And dude is massive. It’s shocking how he was able to worm his way to my heart even without trying, and that doesn’t speak well about me. So much for steering clear of men, and particularly of baseball players.

“Bah.” I take a sip of coffee and frown at my screen. Somehow, I’ll have to find a way to move past this again. Except there’s a massive difference.

When Ben Williams cheated on me, I swore off men who appear to be nice guys but are actually slimy.

If Logan doesn’t give us a chance, that’s it for me. I’m staying single and heartbroken the rest of my life, because there’s no getting better than him. And the heartbreak wouldn’t be for me, but for him not realizing his own worth.

“I’m so d-damn c-cold here,” I mutter, my teeth clattering but it’s not because of the cold, it’s because my eyes are raining again.

Okay, maybe I’m a bit heartbroken for myself too.

“Rose?”

Quickly, I wipe my face with the back of my cardigan sleeves and swivel on the chair to face Hope. It’s not just her, though. Audrey’s also there. I only take a second to admire the deep dark circles under both of their eyes that match mine, until I realize that this gathering is weird.

Frowning, I ask, “What are y’all doing here together?”

They glance at each other. Audrey nods at Hope, and the latter puffs her chest and stands up straighter. “We have something for you.”

“Tell me it’s more caffeine or something greasy.”

“Um, this can’t be eaten,” Hope says with a tiny Mona Lisa smile. “Or I guess it could be, but it would probably upset your stomach and it wouldn’t taste very good. Besides, it might offend whoever is sending it and?—”

Audrey nudges her with an arm none too gently. “Stop babbling and just give it to her.”

“Okay, okay.” Hope reaches for the back pocket of her joggers, taking out whatever the mysterious item is, and offers it to me.

I stare at it. My brain is slow this morning and all I can discern for a hot second is that this thing is white and rectangular. But then I see some scribble at the top and something about it snags my attention. Squinting, I make out purple ink first. And then my name.

To Rosalina Mena .

Full name even. No nickname. And the handwriting…

“Hold on.” Saying those two words sends my pulse to uncharted territory. Where I was inert a moment ago, I’m now jittery as I open my drawer and rummage through the mess, until I find what I’m looking for.

A card, also in the purple ink I recognize from one of my gel pens. I open it and look at the handwriting—small, incredibly neat and even, and thick. Bold, like he is about everything but himself.

Which means this envelop comes from Logan.

Gasping, I swipe it from Hope’s hand as if she was about to take backsies, and hug it to my chest to prevent her from doing so.

She starts chuckling. “Sheesh, it’s all yours, woman.”

“Besides, it’s a federal crime to tamper with other people’s mail,” Audrey says dryly, even though that only applies to official correspondence in one’s mailbox. “Well, aren’t you gonna open it?”

“Right now?” I ask, breathless.

“Yeah, we’re dying with curiosity.”

“Okay. I will. One second.” I take a deep breath, my mind racing through the million possibilities printed on this note.

A cease and desist? A bill for all the emotional hardship I put him through? An invitation to screw off? Or… or…

My hands tremble when I turn over the envelop and open it. I extract a folded up piece of paper, my eyes widening the more of it is revealed. The paper is creamy in color and to the texture, except for watercolor-like borders in my favorite color. And it has a delicate scent, probably because there is a whole stalk of real lavender taped to it.

My roomies and I gasp, and they tumble into my tiny cubicle to take a closer look too.

“Wow,” Hope whispers.

“That’s unexpected.” Audrey blinks fast.

“Guys.” I look up at them, feeling hot tears trickle down my cold face. “I can’t stop shaking. What if I tear the paper?”

“Can we help?” Hope asks and I nod. She’s careful and a lot calmer as she takes the note from me and unfolds it, and the sheet is a lot longer than a normal letter sized one. The flower is stuck to the back of the paper, where there’s no writing, and she turns it over so that the writing faces out to me. She pins the top corners against her belly. “How’s this?”

“Perfect,” I respond with a shaky voice.

Audrey smiles at our roomie. “You’re the real MVP right now.”

Hope bows her head. “Thank you, far too kind.” She tips her chin at me. “Now read and tell us what it says.”

I nod and wipe at my eyes again, because the blurriness makes it impossible to focus. But then I do.

Dear Rose,

You’ve probably noticed but I’m not that great with words, especially not the important ones. And you have the curious power of making my tongue turn to lead more often than you realize.

So I… I asked for help. I’ve spent all night writing this letter with the help of my teammates, but I assure you all the words are mine. They just plied them with tweezers out of my brain. So… here we go.

I find it interesting that we all call you by the name of a flower you don’t seem to care about that much, at least if I go by the fact that you smell like lavender. I’ve never told you this but after I packed up the trinkets you left in my apartment to fool my parents, I started buying the same hand soap you use. I told myself that it was better quality than mine, when really I just wanted to feel your scent on my skin even if you weren’t around. Maybe that should’ve clued me in a little—or at least creeped me out, to be honest—but I admit I may not be as smart as I pride myself to be.

Do you know what the meaning of lavender is? There’s serenity, grace, calmness, but my favorite one is devotion. That one stuck to me because I could easily see myself being devoted to you. Just you. I can see us living under the same roof, making bulgogi stuffed arepas, fighting over the remote and giving up in favor of reading books and cuddling instead. I can see us driving to work together, your arms around my waist, my heart racing because you’re with me, riding along life together. And when I close my eyes I just see you, your smile, your bright eyes, those curls that make me unable to look anywhere else.

I don’t see the broken glass, the tears or the lies, the cruel laughter or the scars. I don’t see any of the things that have trapped me in a small box of my own making. I don’t see the pain I viscerally hate but can’t get rid of.

I just see love. I see you.

I don’t know what version of myself is there next to you. I doubt it’s the current me, the Logan Kim that is still broken and afraid. That’s not who I want you to be with, you deserve so much more—and not because I’m putting you on a pedestal. If I work on myself, if I get better, then maybe I could have a right to be with you. But you seem to want me as I am, and I also can’t deny you anything you want. That I definitely don’t have a right for, as you’ve taught me time and again.

Remember when I told you that you call the shots? I’m used to being the one who makes the calls, but not this time. You decide where you want to take us yesterday, today, and tomorrow. So if you still want me—if you can give me another opportunity, even after I made such an error that I should be sent back to the pee wees—then write me back. Please.

I’ll be the one waiting for you now.

Love,

Logan

An ugly sob tears from my throat. I try to stuff it with my hands against my mouth, but it’s too late. I’m pretty sure everyone in the office heard it, going by how quiet it is all of a sudden.

“What is it? Is it something bad?” Hope asks.

“Give that to me.” Audrey extends her hand out and since I’m a goner, Hope passes the letter along. The blonde is a lot faster taking in the words than I was, and the worry eases off her face. “Oh.”

“Gimme.” Hope opens and closes her hand until Audrey passes along the letter. The process repeats again and Hope lifts his eyes to mine when she’s done. “Are you going to respond?”

The lump in my throat doesn’t let me speak, and I nod frantically.

“Okay, paper.” Hope looks around my cubicle, spotting the million purple pens on the mug, along with my assorted junk. But no paper. “Shit, why did he have to do this in such an old fashioned way? Doesn’t he know we live on the digital era now?”

“I’ll get some paper from the copier,” Audrey says and slides through the small threshold out of the cubicle.

Hope folds her arms, smiling from ear to ear. “What are you going to reply?”

“I don’t know.” My chin trembles. “But I really need some tissues.”

“On it.” As she leaves for that new errand, Audrey returns with a whole stack of paper.

“Where did Hope go?” she asks.

“Tissues.”

“Ah, yes.” After a pause she also asks, “What are you going to write?”

I sniffle through a smile. “Words.”

“Hmph.”

Chuckling, I reach for my favorite pen and take the top sheet on the stack. I hunch over as I write my response, not letting them see. When I’m done, I fold it over until it’s a small square and I tuck it in the back of my jean pocket.

“Wait, we wanted to see.” Audrey’s expression turns grumpy.

I bite my lips. “I want him to be the first to see it. I’ll tell you later, okay?”

“Fine.”

“So you’ll deliver it yourself?” Hope asks as she hands over a wad of tissues from the restroom.

“Yes, where is he? Home? I need to get an Uber, I need to—” I blow my nose into a tissue and use two more to dry my face. Maybe I should stop to wash it, but I don’t want to waste a single second. “Where is he?”

Hope answers, “He’s here, he?—”

“But he’s hurt! He’s supposed to be resting,” I whisper-yell.

“Don’t worry, he just came by to the clinic.” Hope steps out of the cubicle, pulling at Audrey to clear the way for me.

I take a deep breath and go. They follow me, clearing our path every time someone wants to stop for a chat, fully understanding that I’m a woman on a mission.

And that the mission is getting her man.

Adrenaline courses through my veins as we make our way into the clubhouse. Instead of finding it empty like I expected, the whole freaking team is clustered here and in the way between me and my man.

“Attention,” I bark like I’m a drill sergeant, and it serves to freak out the nearest guys. I clear my throat and speak again even louder. “Make way right now.”

“Yes, before she barrels through you,” Hope adds from behind me in an equally booming noise. Meanwhile, Audrey snickers.

Josh Thomason, one of the relief pitchers, is the first one to deliberately move out of the way, and one by one the other guys fall in line until there’s almost a clear path to the clinic.

Except that there’s someone who is in the way and not moving. It’s Logan—he was the eye of the hurricane and the rest of the team was just congregated around him.

His eyes widen slightly at my approach. I keep my head high, my shoulders back and my step way firmer than I actually feel. Inside, I’m a roost of butterflies threatening to spill all around the clubhouse.

I stop close enough that if I stretch out a hand I could touch him, and I can see the muscle ticking in his jaw, the heavy swallow that makes his Adam’s apple bob, and the dark shadows around his eyes. Like maybe he also didn’t sleep a wink last night.

Without saying a word, I reach into my back pocket and produce my response. His eyes zero in on it right away. His arm muscles tighten like he’s preventing himself from reaching for it.

So I offer it to him. And I point at it with my lips for good measure.

Slowly, maybe because of the pain in his ribs, he takes the note and unfolds it. Unlike his very carefully redacted letter, mine is messy, quick, and ridiculous. It’s a final test to see if he’s willing to put the work, because saying it is not enough, and I won’t settle for empty promises ever again. Actions are what matter.

Lifting his eyes to mine, he folds the paper again and hides it in his pocket. Then he’s in motion, walking around me toward the door.

My heart thumps painfully. Maybe I took it too far. He’s a proud man after all.

But Logan stops at his locker and pulls it open. He braces against it with one arm, searching in the space with his free hand. I know what he’s looking for. He re-gifted it to me in a fit of annoyance that sent my pulse skyrocketing, and I returned it to his locker via a certain prankster.

“Ha!” Logan’s little victory travels to my ears in the intense silence in the clubhouse, and I’m aware of the eyes watching the show.

I grab my hands tight as I follow along as well. Logan sits down carefully, holding a small bundle in one hand, his face pinching a little as he tries to bend forward.

“Wait,” I exclaim, immediately getting his attention. “You’re hurt and I didn’t really think it through. That’s enough—I get the point.”

“No.” Logan narrows his eyes and cocks an eyebrow. “The instructions are clear. I must do this.”

I run a hand down my face. “Logan, I was kind of kidding.”

A corner of his lips lifts. “And kind of not, so just hold tight.”

“What’s happening?” one of the guys whispers far too loudly.

“I don’t know, but I guess we’re about to find out,” someone else responds.

And find out we do—at a snail pace. Logan toes off his sneakers and steels his expression to lift one foot over the opposite knee, removing his sock before unfurling the bundle in his hand.

Lucky gasps. “No way.”

I suck both of my lips in because I want to scream, cry, and laugh—especially the latter.

Logan stretches the extremely long sock—mostly white, except at the top where there’s a tiny alligator leg painted on it. The grand reveal sets off a wave of chuckles and murmurs while Logan works the sock up, pushing up his pant leg to his knee so the full practical joke is revealed, and then he starts the process with the other sock.

I cover my mouth but I’m sure it’s clear that I’m about to explode with joy. Logan works painstakingly with the other sock until he’s fully decked, and he stands up in his full tiny-gator-legged glory to face me.

“Well?” He places his hands on his hips.

I let out a gurgling laughter and take off, slowing down at the last minute so I don’t crash against him. Instead, I wrap him in a gentle embrace, resting my cheek against his heart that’s beating wildly.

And then his arms come around me and the place erupts in deafening cheering.

I cringe a little at the explosive noise, but Logan buries his face in my hair and molds himself around me, and I forget the rest.

“Is that a yes?” he murmurs in my ear.

I rub my face against his chest while I lift it. Our noses brush and I grin. “It’s a hell freaking yes, babe.”

“Babe?” His right hand comes up to make a screen for the side of my face that the crowd can see, and his lips touch mine if only to speak softly. “I could get used to that.”

Impatient, I stand on my tiptoes and kiss him, finally— finally —making the great Logan Kim mine.

And the response letter that did it?

Dear Logan,

You know I’ve been burned by guys who speak a pretty game. So show me, please. Show me that you’ll do what it takes for yourself and for us.

Wear the socks that Lucky gave you for a whole day, and then I’ll know your fears aren’t bigger than us.

Waiting to be yours,

Rose who smells like lavender

I grin into his lips.