Total pages in book: 44
Estimated words: 40927 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 136(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 40927 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 136(@300wpm)
And that does it. Something inside me snaps, the last thread of my self-doubt unraveling. I hurry across the distance, tears streaming, not caring that a hundred people might be watching. The moment I’m close enough, he drops the mic and wraps me in his arms. I cling to him, sobbing into his shoulder, feeling his warmth envelop me.
“I’m so sorry,” I manage between ragged breaths. “I was scared, I felt so guilty—”
“It’s okay,” he whispers, kissing my temple. “It’s okay, Kali. Accidents happen. I love you. I want you to stay.”
Juniper tugs at my sleeve, and I step back enough to see her big eyes shining with tears of her own. My heart splinters and reforms all at once. I carefully kneel, and cup her cheek. “I love you, Junebug,” I say, my voice thick. “I’m so sorry I left. I was afraid I couldn’t be what you needed. But I want to be. More than anything.”
She hugs me tight, her little sling brushing my shoulder, and I wince internally at the reminder of her injury. But she just sniffles, smiling. “Will you come home now? Please?”
I nod, tears still slipping down my cheeks. “Yes, baby. Of course.”
A cheer rises from the stands then, startling me. I’d almost forgotten we had an audience. Apparently, we do. Ripley glances around, sheepish, then helps me back to my feet. He wraps an arm around Juniper and an arm around me, pulling us both in. The crowd continues to clap and whistle, though some are wiping away tears themselves. I can’t help but laugh through my own tears, burying my face against his chest.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” I murmur, voice muffled. “But… thank you.”
He presses a kiss to my hair. “You’re worth every bit of it,” he says, voice low and certain. “Now, are we good? Because I’m thinking we should probably get you out of umpire mode for a while.”
A shaky laugh escapes me. “I still have a game to call,” I say, though it’s a halfhearted protest. My heart is too full, my mind too buoyed by the realization that we’re okay.
“Maybe they’ll find someone else for today,” Ripley suggests, smirking. “I think you’ve got more important business to handle.” He looks down at Juniper, who’s beaming up at us.
“You have to pitch,” I say with a laugh. My eyes dance between them, feeling the last vestiges of guilt fade away under their unwavering love. I grab Ripley’s hand, intertwining my fingers with his. Yeah, we’ll figure out the details later. Right now, I just want to soak in the moment: the three of us together on the field, a roaring crowd behind us, and the sure knowledge that I don’t have to walk away. I can stay, be part of this family. For real, for good.
“I love you,” I whisper to both of them, my voice trembling with happiness. Ripley and Juniper echo the words back, and the noise of the stadium swells in celebration. Suddenly, everything feels right, as if all the chaos and heartbreak led us exactly where we’re meant to be.
And that’s enough for me. It’s everything I’ve ever wanted and more.
Epilogue
RIPLEY
Saturday sunlight pours through the kitchen windows, turning Kali’s hair almost copper as she flits between the stove and the island, packing sandwiches into a cooler. Juniper sits on a stool in her brand-new rec-league uniform. A navy shirt, bright-white pants, ponytail poking through the back of her cap as she swings her legs while she wolfs down a bowl of cereal. Every few seconds she checks that her glove is still in her lap, like it might run away if she takes her eyes off it.
“Deep breaths, kiddo,” I tease, ruffling the bill of her cap. “First games are supposed to be fun, not nerve-wracking.”
“I’m not nervous,” she insists, except her voice squeaks and her spoon rattles against the bowl. “Okay… maybe a tiny bit. But Coach Kali says nerves mean you care.”
Across the counter Kali lifts an eyebrow and flashes us both a grin. “And caring means you’ll try your best,” she reminds Juniper. Then she glances at me, eyes soft. Even after three months of sharing a roof, that look still knocks the air out of my lungs.
The move-in process was chaotic—boxes everywhere, my pitching schedule, her umpiring assignments—but somehow it felt easy, too. Every time I found one of her hair ties on the bathroom sink or heard her laughing with Juniper down the hall, the house clicked a little more into place. Home isn’t just walls; it’s the people inside them, and I’ve never felt that more than I do now.
“Car’s loaded,” I announce, grabbing the cooler. “Bats, balls, water bottles. Check. Overly enthusiastic family. Double check.”
Juniper hops off the stool and does a quick spin, showing off the number 7 on her back. “Let’s go before the whole team gets there! I want to warm up my ‘heater.’” She practiced that pitch in the driveway yesterday which was thirty-five miles per hour of pure determination.