Unforgettable: A Small Town Second Chance Sports Romance

by Melanie Harlow

  “No,” I lied, praying that this one time she wouldn’t see through it. “I said yes because I wanted to.”

  My sister sighed with relief. “Oh, good. So tell me what you’ve been up to.”

  “’Scuse me.” A kid maybe ten years old stood at the end of our table holding a pen and a scrap of paper in his hands. He was looking at me. “Are you Tyler Shaw?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can I please have your autograph?”

  “Sure.” I took the kid’s pen and paper and scribbled my name on it. “You a ball player?”

  The kid nodded. “I’m a pitcher, too. My dad says you were the best there was around here.”

  “It’s true,” said Sadie proudly.

  “He says you’re a bum now,” the kid went on, scratching his head, “but he said back in the day, no one could touch you.”

  Scowling, I handed him the autograph. “Well, here you go.”

  “Thanks,” he said and wandered off.

  “What a little shit.” Josh stared after the kid.

  I grabbed my beer and took another long drink. “I’m used to it.”

  “Well, we’re going to raise our children with better manners,” Sadie said defiantly.

  “It’s fine.” I tipped up my amber ale again, nearly finishing it. “Josh, what is it you do? Sadie said something about boats?”

  “I’m the head mechanic at Miller Boat Works.”

  “Must be getting busy this time of year. Summer right around the corner and all.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, we’re swamped.”

  I looked at Sadie, who taught fifth grade at our old elementary school. “And how about you? School’s almost out, right?”

  “I’ve got one month left. I just hope I can keep the belly hidden until then.” She glanced down and shook her head. “I’m wearing looser and looser clothing, but I feel like the kids are starting to look at me funny.”

  “So tell me about the wedding.” I finished my beer and looked around for the server so I could order another. “Since you dragged me all the way back here for it, I should probably know when and where to show up.”

  Sadie sat up tall and pouted. “It’s Saturday night at Cloverleigh Farms, you big jerk, which you should know, because I sent every single detail to you already in an email.”

  “Sorry. I’m avoiding my inbox.”

  “You also got an invitation in the mail.”

  “I’m avoiding my mailbox too.”

  She sighed heavily. “I’ll text you.”

  “Perfect.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You brought a suit, right?”

  “You mean I can’t wear jeans?”

  “No. A dark suit.” Clearly not in the mood for jokes, she frowned, studying my head. “And could you get a haircut?”

  “Is that really necessary?”

  “Yes, please. And maybe a little closer on the shave?”

  I looked at Josh. “This is why I’m never getting married.”

  “Who’d marry you anyway, you grumpy old man?” Sadie nudged my foot beneath the table. “Oh, by the way, April Sawyer said to say hello.”

  My fist tightened around my empty beer glass. My stomach flipped over. “You saw April Sawyer?”

  “Yes. She’s the event planner at Cloverleigh Farms, so she’s doing our wedding.”

  “I didn’t realize she still lived here.”

  “She was in New York City for a while, but she moved back home a few years ago.” She looked at Josh. “If he came home more often, he’d know these things.”

  I swallowed hard. April Sawyer . . . I hadn’t heard that name in years.

  “Old friend?” Josh wondered.

  “April was the best babysitter ever,” Sadie told him. “She and Ty went to high school together.” Then she looked at me. “And didn’t she help you with math or something?”

  “English.” Which I never would have passed if she hadn’t written half my papers. School had never been my thing, especially writing, but somehow April could ask me a few questions and turn my sparse, fumbling answers into sentences that made sense but still sounded like I’d written them. She always said I was smarter than I thought, and if I put half the effort into my homework that I put into my biceps, I’d be a straight-A student.

  I’d dumped an entire bag of microwave popcorn over her head for that one.

  And she was so good with my sister. Our dad worked long hours at multiple jobs—roofer, truck driver, handyman—to support us, and I was too busy with baseball to look after Sadie, so April was a godsend. She’d pick Sadie up after school and help her with homework. She’d make dinner on school nights. She’d get Sadie to bed. Then she’d stick around if I needed help with an assignment, or sometimes we’d just hang out and talk. I could make her laugh so hard she’d cry, and she had this way of rolling her eyes at my egotistical crap when any other girl would—and did—fall at my feet.

  It was easy with us. No pressure. No bullshit. No games. It wasn’t always easy to keep my hands to myself, but I did.

  Right up until I didn’t.

  “So she’s a wedding planner now?” I asked.

  “Yes, and she’s amazing. She’s working her ass off for me. She looked at all my dream ideas and came up with ways to make them work on a smaller scale. And she called in favors from a bunch of vendors to get everything done fast, because of course, I’m doing everything last minute.” Sadie laughed. “You’re not really supposed to plan a wedding in three weeks.”

  “Do you need money?” I asked, still distracted by the thought of seeing April Sawyer after so many years. What did she look like now? Did she still have that cool red hair?

  Sadie shook her head. “We’re okay. It’s a small wedding, less than a hundred guests, and Josh and I want to pay for it ourselves. But thanks for offering.”

  “Just let me know,” I said, finally flagging down the waitress and ordering another beer.

  When it arrived, something about the amber ale’s rich auburn color reminded me of April Sawyer’s hair. While we waited for our food, I found myself glancing at the door every time it opened, wondering if by chance she’d walk in and what I’d do if she did.

  I couldn’t get her out of my head.

  On the drive back to my hotel, I wondered if she was married. If she had a family. If she was happy.

  While I undressed and turned back the covers, I wondered if she ever thought about me.

  As I lay on my back in the middle of the king-sized bed, I recalled little things about her I’d liked—the sound of her laugh, the dimples when she smiled, the sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose, the surprisingly loud way she could whistle with her fingers, the smell of this lotion she used to wear that reminded me of birthday cake.

  Was it that scent that had finally gotten the better of me that night? Was it the long red hair? The way she’d listened to me ramble on about my major league dreams while we sat in the back of my truck under the stars? Was it the fact that I was leaving the next day, and we had to say goodbye?

  Or was I just a typical eighteen-year-old kid, fueled by a couple of beers and a fuck ton of testosterone?

  Even now, I wasn’t sure.

  What I’d told my sister and Josh was true—I didn’t know the first fucking thing about babies.

  But I knew that eighteen years ago, April Sawyer had given birth to one.

  And it had been mine.

  Two

  April

  “I did it. I wrote the letter.”

  Without even a hello, I dropped breathlessly onto the couch in my therapist’s office and made the announcement.

  Prisha Dar, LMSW, smiled at me and lowered herself into her chair. Crossing her legs, she nodded encouragingly. “Go on.”

  “I did what you said. I went home and listed all the reasons I want to meet my birth son after eighteen years, and all the reasons I don’t.”

  “And what did your lists tell you?”

  “Well, the list of reasons f
or was much longer. It included things like wanting to see what he looks like, wanting to know he’s happy, wanting to hear about his college plans.” I paused, picturing the lists I’d written out on two separate notebook pages. “It also included things like wanting confirmation once and for all that I made the right decision for him all those years ago . . . and wanting closure on that chapter of my life.”

  She nodded. “And the list against?”

  “It only had one word on it,” I admitted. “Fear.”

  Prisha smiled sympathetically.

  “And I’m still afraid. But I’m tired of letting that fear keep me from moving on. I always thought keeping my secret and burying all the painful feelings I associated with it—the guilt and the shame and the grief—was the best way to get over it. But maybe I was wrong.”

  “We often try to protect ourselves that way,” Prisha said. “But it doesn’t work, does it? Those feelings become anchors that tether us silently to the very pain we need to work through and let go. And even if you make the decision not to meet your birth son, which is perfectly okay, you still need to address those feelings. When you first came in here, I could tell you weren’t quite ready.” Her lips curved into a gentle smile. “But now I think you are.”

  I nodded. “I think so too. And last night, I wrote the letter to his parents. I even sealed it and addressed it and stamped it, but . . .” Ashamed, I reached into my shoulder bag and pulled out an envelope. “This morning, I couldn’t bring myself to put it in the mailbox.”

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself, April. You’ve come a long way in just a few months.”

  My throat caught, and I swallowed hard. “Thank you.”

  She set her iPad aside and crossed her arms. “Do you remember what you told me the first time you came in? The reason why you were seeking therapy?”

  I thought for a moment, looking out the window of her office at a magnolia tree bursting with spring blooms. Back in February, when I’d first sat on this couch, the tree had been stark and barren, its branches lined with snow. “I wanted to be happier. I wanted to feel less alone.”

  “You wanted to be in a relationship. It’s okay to say it out loud—we all want to feel loved and accepted.”

  I wondered what that would be like—to feel loved and accepted, deep dark secrets and all. I only knew what it looked like from the outside. Over the last year I’d watched all four of my sisters find their soul mates. “Yes. I would like that.”

  “But we have to start by loving and accepting ourselves. When we began, you were frustrated because you’d thought hiring someone at work was going to help. You thought less time on the job and more down time would help. You thought taking a vacation would help.”

  “Right. And then I did all those things—hired a second event planner, joined a gym, took a beach vacation, and I still felt . . .” I threw up my hands and looked at her again. “Stuck in this lonely, unhappy place. Like I’m on an island by myself watching everyone else on the mainland being happy.”

  Prisha regarded me silently for a moment. “April, it was clear to me very quickly that you weren’t going to become happier just by working less. Once we explored your past, I felt certain that the isolation you were experiencing, and that sense of feeling stuck, was not because of your job, but because of this secret you’ve kept for eighteen years—this unfinished chapter in your life. You never wanted to tell anyone about the baby you gave up because you were scared they’d judge you the way you judge yourself, so you never let anyone get close to you. It was a protective measure.”

  I nodded, the lump forming in my throat again.

  “Putting that letter in the mailbox—when you’re ready—is a step toward writing the end of that chapter, but talking out loud about what you went through will be just as important. I want to encourage you to open up about this to someone in your life that you trust. You’ve said only your mother and grandmother knew about the baby, is that correct?”

  “And my older sister, Sylvia. But I have three more sisters I never told.”

  She met my eyes. “Is there one of them you can trust?”

  “I trust all of them,” I said honestly.

  “Good. Your homework is to tell one—or all—of them about this time in your life. As scared as you are, as uncomfortable as it makes you, I believe it’s necessary for you to heal. Once that’s done, see how you feel about sending that letter.”

  I nodded, knowing she was right. If I really wanted to get unstuck, I’d have to be brave.

  “There’s something else,” I blurted.

  “Oh?”

  I looked down at the letter in my hands. “The baby’s father—there’s a good chance I might see him for the first time since . . . since then. His sister is getting married a week from tonight, and I’m the wedding planner.”

  “I see.” She reached for her iPad. “How does that make you feel?”

  “Nervous, I guess.” I played with one corner of the envelope. “I’m afraid I won’t know how to act. Once upon a time, we were really close friends. But then afterward . . . we never spoke again.”

  “You’ve said you’re not angry with him.”

  “I’m not. He felt just as terrible about what happened as I did. He apologized over and over again.”

  “Have you forgiven him?”

  I looked up at her. “Of course. We were both at fault.”

  She nodded slowly and asked the question I was dreading. “Have you forgiven yourself?”

  Two months ago, I probably would have lied and said yes. I might have even believed the lie. But I was trying harder to find the truth these days.

  “I’m working on it,” I told her.

  “Good.” She smiled softly. “And perhaps the timing of this reunion isn’t ideal from one perspective, but may I suggest another way to look at it?”

  “Of course.”

  “The universe works in mysterious ways, April. Perhaps this timing is meant to nudge you in the right direction. To help you let go of regret and embrace change.”

  “Like a sign?”

  She lifted her shoulders. “Call it anything you like. Just don’t be afraid of it. Only you have the power to hold yourself back or push yourself forward. Decide for yourself which one it will be.”

  Later that evening, I pulled a bottle of wine from my fridge.

  After leaving the therapist’s office, I’d texted my sisters and asked if they could come over to my place around eight. I was afraid if I waited any longer to confide in them, I’d lose my nerve.

  I heard the front door of my condo open and shut. “Hello?”

  “In the kitchen,” I called, uncorking the bottle.

  My sister Meg walked in, dressed in a skirt, blouse, and heels, as if she’d just come from the office. “Hey,” she said, hanging her purse on the back of a kitchen chair. “How are you?”

  “Good,” I said, taking four glasses down from a cupboard. There were five Sawyer sisters, and we all loved wine, but our oldest sister Sylvia was pregnant. “How’s the new job?”

  Meg, the middle sister, had recently moved back from D.C. and taken a position as an attorney at a regional branch of the American Association for People with Disabilities. “I love it,” she enthused, rolling up the sleeves of her blouse. “It’s long hours, and I wish I saw Noah more, but the job is perfect for me. Want me to pour this?”

  “Sure.”

  Noah was Meg’s boyfriend and the reason she’d moved home. He was a K-9 cop with the local sheriff’s department, and they’d always been the best of friends, but last fall while she was home for our youngest sister Frannie’s wedding, they’d finally admitted to themselves what the rest of us had seen all along—they were perfect for each other.

  Chloe, the second youngest, arrived as I was putting a platter of cheese and crackers on the table, and she was bubbling over with excitement because our father was finally going to retire for good this month, which meant she’d really get to take over as CEO of Cloverleigh
Farms. My parents started the business as a small sustainable farm but it had grown to encompass an inn, a farm-to-table restaurant, a winery, and a brand new small-batch distillery that Chloe and her fiancé Oliver were opening. It was also one of the top wedding venues in the state.

  “Dad actually cleaned out his office,” Chloe said, kicking off her heels and dropping into the chair next to Meg. “Maybe he wasn’t lying when he said the job was mine.”

  Meg laughed. “Now you don’t have to change the lock.”

  Sylvia arrived next, looking a little windblown but otherwise—as usual—radiantly beautiful. The oldest among us, Sylvia had returned to our childhood home over the winter in order to make a fresh start with her two children after being abandoned by her asshole ex-husband. Henry DeSantis, the vineyard manager and winemaker at Cloverleigh Farms, had taken one look at her and fallen head over heels. They were newly engaged and expecting a baby this fall.

  “Hey, Syl. How are you feeling?” I asked.

  Smiling brightly, Sylvia took the seat between Meg and me. “Pretty good, thanks. Growing out of my pants quicker than I’d like, but that’s okay.”

  A moment later, our youngest sister Frannie came bustling in. “Sorry,” she said breathlessly. “Mack was late getting home from work, and I don’t like leaving the girls alone at night.” Frannie was married to Declan MacAllister, the CFO at Cloverleigh Farms, who had three daughters from a previous marriage.

  “No worries,” I said as she scooted around the table and sat in the chair to my left.

  For a few minutes, I was silent, trying to work up my nerve to tell them my secret. Around me, my sisters jabbered a mile a minute about Meg’s new job and Chloe’s fall wedding and Sylvia’s new house and Frannie’s pastry shop and our dad’s big retirement party at the end of the month, which was also a fortieth anniversary party for Cloverleigh Farms . . . the chatter never seemed to die down.

  Eventually, it was Sylvia who noticed I hadn’t said anything. “April, are you okay?” she asked, looking at me with concern.