“Right. Well, they ran into one of the go-to girls at Sally’s. Some girl we met when he came down here early with me for summer ball. And, well, you know Cass. She called him on it, pretty much right in front of the girl, and he ended up getting slapped by them both. Of course, now he’s all mopey and shit and refuses to go talk to her,” I say, glancing at Rowe to see her genuinely interested in Ty and Cass’s break up.

“We have to fix things,” she says, and I can tell she means it.

“I’m not sure it’s ours to fix,” I start to say, but I can feel her eyes snap to me quickly, so I stop. “But maybe we can somehow get them to talk?”

“Yes. They just need to talk,” she says, pulling her phone from her purse and sending a text that seems to take her minutes to complete. “There. Phase one—done. Now, give me your phone.”

For some reason, I willingly go along with whatever she wants, and reach into my pocket and hand her my phone. I’m not a meddler by nature, but for some reason, Ty and Cass being together seems important to Rowe, and maybe her reasons are as selfish as mine—wanting time for us to be alone. But I feel like there’s something more to it, and if it’s important to her, then it’s damn important to me, too.

“There. I texted your brother, too. We’re having a little goodbye picnic for Paige, and they’ll both be there. Paige has a lot of alcohol, so that got them both to say yes.”

Of course it did. My brother has endured far worse for cheap drinks. You make them free? There’s no keeping him away. “Okay, so where is this picnic taking place?”

“Yeah, about that…” she has a tone in her voice that tells me I’m going to be sorry I asked. “You think you can sneak us onto the outfield, just one last time?”

She’s literally pouting with puffy, full lips and sad eyes, inches away from my face while I cruise at eighty along a two-lane highway. I’m at her mercy. I think I was at her mercy the first time I scared her in the hallway. I nod yes, and she squeals—one of those girly noises I didn’t think she was capable of—she scoots closely to me and kisses my cheek. That makes four.

“So, how did Josh ask you out?” I was feeling brave, all that confidence from her small kiss pumping courage through my veins. But the way she sinks back down into her seat zaps it all away. “Sorry. Should I…not go there?”

She’s quiet for a few seconds, and I feel like an ass for pushing her. But I know Josh is the big elephant in the room. No matter what she said in her message to him, I know it takes more than just saying you’re done with someone to be done with them totally. I even thought about Sadie from time to time—granted, it was usually when I was drunk and trying out the Ty Preeter brand of post-break-up therapy.

“No, it’s okay. It’s funny, actually. I asked Josh out, ultimately. He sent me a note once, in class, saying he liked me. I had liked him for a while, and I used to pretend to wait for my dad after practice just so I could watch him pitch. He was pretty good. I mean, I don’t think he would have played college or anything, but you never know.”

I can see the pain flash over her face, but she pushes through it, so I don’t stop her.

“Well, the note came and went, but he never really did anything about it. He never asked me out. There was this other girl that liked him. Trisha Harvest, I mean, her name sounds like a town festival, right?” She scrunches up her nose from the memory, and I can’t help but laugh at seeing this catty side to her. It’s not annoying. It’s honest and real—and I adore it.

“Anyway, Trisha was sitting on the bleachers next to me one day, and I knew it was, like, do-or-die time. When he walked off the field, I pretty much boxed her out, like old-school Celtics basketball, and just blurted out asking him to the Spring Fling dance. And he said yes. And we were together for more than a year.”

When she’s done, she just smiles, but there’s an edge to it, like the memory of it hurts. I want to ask if she thinks they’d still be together. But I already know the answer to that. So I don’t bother causing her any more pain. Instead, I dwell on the fact that she just told a love story like an ESPN commentator.

“I cannot believe you just referenced—and accurately, I might add—both the NBA and the fundamentals of basketball in that story,” I say, putting the palm of my hand over my heart and sparing a quick glance at her. “God, I love you.”

Oh. Shit! I don’t know where those words came from. They weren’t even in my mental queue, but damn if they didn’t just roll off my tongue. I look back to the road quickly, then I glance down to the radio to start flipping through channels, doing my best to play it off like what I just said was the same as the rest of our normal banter. I didn’t see her face for long, but I was on her long enough to notice her eyebrows shoot up to her forehead.