First Flight, Final Fall

by C.W. Farnsworth

“You could have told me you were coming.” “Would it have mattered?”

“Otto hung a sign that says, ‘Saylor Scott’s Inspiration’ above my locker.”

“She is a striker, Beck.” He shrugs. “I didn’t know that. Should tell you everything you need to know.”

“A thank you note would have sufficed. You didn’t need to fly across the Atlantic.” “If you’d answered any of my calls, I wouldn’t have had to fly across the Atlantic.”

I hope he remembered to lock my car.

“Yeah. He came up for a game, with his new wife.” “About damn time.” There’s bitterness in Beck’s voice—bitterness on my behalf—and it hits me square in the center of my chest.

“I do a lot of things with you that I don’t do with anyone else.”

Saylor Scott is it for me. No other woman will ever compare. She’s been in my life for almost exactly a year, and I can barely remember what it looked like before we met.