“Then maybe you should come.”
At Franklin Field, a groundskeeper directed us toward a sealed box Mr. Vance had arranged to leave there.
Inside was a letter.
Aaron read it.
His father admitted that he should have come to Ben’s games.
But after Margaret died, sitting in those bleachers had become unbearable because they reminded him of everything they had once done together.
Still, he had secretly attended three games.
He parked beyond the outfield fence where nobody could see him.
He remembered Ben hitting a double.
He remembered Ben striking out and angrily throwing his helmet.
And he remembered regretting that he never walked closer.
“I didn’t know how,” Mr. Vance had written.
“I’m sorry.”
Aaron sat staring across the empty baseball field.
“He was here?”
Claire nodded through tears.
Aaron lowered his head.
“All those years, I thought he chose everybody else over us.”
Noah sat beside him.
“Maybe he didn’t know how to come back.”
Aaron looked at the glove.
“That’s not the same as trying.”
“No,” Noah said. “But maybe this was him admitting it.”
Aaron slowly nodded.
Saturday Three belonged to Noah.
The note contained only four words:
My house. Porch chair.
We crossed the street and entered Mr. Vance’s empty home.
Noah sat in the familiar wooden chair.
Nothing happened.
Then I suggested he check underneath.
Taped beneath the seat was a small black notebook.
Almost every page contained a Saturday date.
Noah began reading.
“Boy came at 8:10. Too hot today. Told him to stop early. He ignored me.”
Another entry:
“Rain. Thought he wouldn’t come. He came.”
Then:
“Exams this week. Looks tired.”
“Graduation next month. Hope he gets where he’s going.”
