Chloe rubbed my arm. “I’m sorry, honey. Relationships are so hard.”

“You know, Noah and I went through this,” Meg said softly. “When I first mentioned moving back from D.C., he freaked out. He tried to pretend it was because he didn’t want to be in a serious relationship, but really, it was just fear.”

“That’s right,” said Chloe. “Wasn’t he worried about his brother?”

“Yes. He’d always felt guilty because Asher had cerebral palsy, and he didn’t. They were twins, and he knew Asher’s CP was likely caused by a lack of oxygen to the brain during birth. So anything that Asher struggled with that came easy to Noah—from walking to talking to girls—he felt guilty about. From a young age, he had it in his head that he didn’t deserve things like becoming a husband and father. As if denying himself the things he wanted deep down was the right punishment for being born without CP.”

“God, that’s so sad,” I said, picking up my head and grabbing another tissue.

“It was sad,” Meg agreed. “He needed to work through it, and I had to give him the time and space to do it. Maybe Tyler just needs time to work through this.”

“I don’t know,” I said miserably. “He seemed pretty determined when he left here last night. I got the feeling it was goodbye for good.”

Sylvia showed up a little while later, and I went through it all again, complete with more tears and soggy tissues.

After two pots of coffee, my sisters said they had to get going, but each of them hugged me tightly before they left. “Don’t give up,” Sylvia whispered fiercely in my ear. “If you love him, don’t give up.”

Frannie called and said she was so sorry she’d been unable to get away, but she was dying to talk to me. “Can you meet up later?”

“Maybe,” I said. “I do have tonight off.”

“Then come over,” she pleaded. “You shouldn’t be alone.”

“Okay,” I said. “Thanks.”

I spent the rest of the day doing laundry, cleaning my condo, and trying not to think about Tyler. But it was impossible—everything reminded me of him, from the scent of his cologne clinging to my sheets to the bottle of whiskey he’d left on my kitchen counter. The toothpaste tube. The Netflix remote. The stairs. The couch. The bathtub.

I racked my brain, wondering what, if anything, I could have done differently yesterday to prevent Tyler from leaving.

But no matter which way I pulled at the threads, the end result was always a knot I couldn’t untangle. People would talk—it was a fact. And Tyler was still a hot news commodity. If people did figure it out, my life would be affected—and possibly Chip’s too . . . I could see the headline now. Baseball’s Hottest Head Case Has Secret Son.

We’d face social media blow-ups and news media scrutiny and judgment from people around town about the “scandal.” People would stare. They would gossip. They might say ugly, hurtful things that made me feel bad about myself.

Had Tyler been right to leave?

At one point, I sat down at the kitchen table to work on the toast I had to give at the retirement party, but I ended up reading the letter from Robin Carswell over and over again. Staring at Chip’s picture.

That grin of his took the edge off some of my sadness. If there was a silver lining in all this, it was that I’d still get to meet my son. I’d focus on that.

I opened my laptop and composed an email to Robin.

Dear Robin,

Thank you so much for writing me back. What a shock to realize we all live so close! I am very excited about meeting Chip, and I loved seeing his photograph and hearing about his interests. He’s so handsome, and it sounds like he’s also smart and kind and talented. You must be very proud.

I was so sorry to learn of Chuck’s passing, and I’m sure the last year has been difficult. If this feels like the wrong time to add to your emotional burden by introducing me to your son, please let me know. I do not want to make things harder for you.

If you would like to discuss things over the phone, my number is below.

Sincerely,

April Sawyer

I hit send and closed my laptop.

Twenty-Four

Tyler

As soon as I got back to my house in San Diego, I took a sleeping pill, crashed into bed, and slept hard. When I woke up, it was already getting dark outside. I dug one of Anna’s meal containers out of the freezer, microwaved it according to her instructions, and ate it sitting alone at my kitchen island.

When I was done, I took a shower, threw on some clean sweats, and fell onto my couch. I knew I should call my sister, and David Dean had been trying to get ahold of me too, but I couldn’t handle talking to either one of them yet. They’d only make me feel worse.

I sent Sadie a text saying I was sorry for leaving so fast and telling her I’d call her in a day or so. I sent one to David Dean apologizing again for the incident at the Jolly Pumpkin and saying I’d decided to return to California after all, so the school didn’t have to worry about their offer. I wished him well for the rest of the season and asked him to please tell the team how much I’d enjoyed working with them.

Every time I thought about Chip Carswell, I felt sick.

It wasn’t that I didn’t have, deep down, a kind of pride that he was my biological son. I did. I couldn’t help it. He was a great kid—smart, talented, strong, respectful, popular. What more could any father ask for in a son? But I wasn’t his father, and it felt wrong to think of myself that way. I’d forfeited that privilege when I’d walked away from him. From April. From the whole situation. I’d justified it the way I always justified everything back then—what mattered was my baseball career, and anything that threatened it had to be cut off at the source.

Including my feelings.

That wasn’t being a coward, was it? That was being a man. At least, that’s what I’d been raised to believe.

But what about now?

I reached for the remote and turned on the television. I needed a distraction. I’d go crazy if I let myself start rethinking everything. The bottom line was, they were better off without me.

Without even thinking about it, I searched for Kids Baking Championship and binged an entire season.

I missed April so much it hurt.

I stayed that way for eight straight days.

Alone. Miserable. Depressed.

I ignored my phone and never once checked email. I even told Anna not to come. I didn’t want to see anyone, talk to anyone, or answer any questions. When I ran out of meals in the freezer, I had my groceries delivered, cooked my own food (okay, I mostly microwaved shitty frozen entrees), and did my own laundry. Of course, I turned a load of whites pink because I didn’t realize a new red T-shirt had gotten in the washer with them, and I remembered the night April had scolded me about separating my colors. My first instinct was to take a picture of my new pink socks and undershirts and tell her she was right, but of course, I couldn’t do that.

And I couldn’t call her and tell her that the spaghetti sauce I made from a jar didn’t taste right. And that my bed felt too big without her next to me. And that I’d heard that Stevie Wonder song and—swear to God—started air-dancing with an imaginary partner, turning her out and bringing her back in just like she’d taught me.