“Enough to keep me from heading down there to see you guys.” He laughs. “I woke up this morning to water pouring into my kitchen from the apartment above me. You could’ve floated around if you had a raft.”

“Doesn’t sound good.”

“Been waiting around on building maintenance all day. They got the water stopped upstairs and most of the standing water down here sopped up, but they’re sending some professional crew to come dry it out or something. I don’t fucking know.”

“That sucks.” I mosey around the lawn, tilting my face toward the sky. The final rays of the sun stream through the tree branches and warm my skin. “When are you heading back to San Diego?”

“Supposed to be going back on Tuesday, but now I don’t know. I’m getting sick of having three homes to take care of—I’m telling you that. If it’s not the plumbing here, it’s the lawn care at the Columbus house. And if it’s not that, it’s the fucking homeowner’s association in San Diego. Why do I even have three places? Who let me make that decision?”

We laugh. First world problems.

“Speaking of places in different spaces, are you liking it up there? Haven’t heard too much out of ya lately,” he says.

I look at the darkening sky and laugh.

“What?” Fish asks.

It’s a hard-and-fast rule that I never say too much to anyone—especially things that are personal. I tell Fish more than anyone else, but I still don’t open up a lot to him. It’s a lesson I learned early on. Everyone wants a piece of the most talked about man in baseball. Me.

So why do I have Palmer’s name on the tip of my tongue? Why do I almost need to talk about her, as if getting her existence known will somehow relieve me of this pressure building in my throat?

“I don’t hate it here,” I say, wading tentatively into the unknown. “It’s different from what I’m used to, but it’s kind of nice.”

“I’ve told you before that you’d like small-town America. It has its shitty parts, sure, but there’s something to be said for knowing everyone in your zip code.”

I chuckle. “Yeah, well, I think I’ve met half the people in this zip code already.”

“You probably have. Hey, what about that woman from the restaurant? What was her name? Palmer? Have you seen much of her?”

My feet stop next to the driveway. I look up to see that I’m halfway to the road.

Our conversations since Fish went to Cincinnati have been quick and infrequent. Palmer hasn’t come up. I wouldn’t have had a ton to say about her anyway . . . until tonight.

I force a swallow down my throat. “I just saw her tonight, actually.”