Bottom of the Ninth

The papaya margarita sat sweating on the coaster before me, an absurd choice for this moment. Marcus had always ordered them—tropical, cloying, pretending to be something sweeter than we were. That was before he'd slept with my fiancée and moved to Seattle.

I checked my watch. He was eight minutes late.

The sports bar was clotted with post-work crowds, faces upturned to the dozen screens broadcasting the baseball game. Bottom of the seventh, Yankees down by three. I hated baseball. Hated the slow torture of it, how it could break your heart over three hours instead of three seconds.

"Long time."

Marcus slid into the booth across from me. Gray at his temples now. Lines I didn't remember mapping his face. He looked at the papaya margarita and something flickered behind his eyes—guilt, maybe, or just recognition.

"You still drink these," I said.

"You still wait for people who aren't coming."

A waiter dropped a glass nearby. The shatter made me jump. Marcus didn't flinch. His hands were scarred—construction work, or something else that wore you down.

"I'm getting married next month," he said.

"Congratulations."

"She's pregnant."

I traced the rim of my glass. "That's fast."

"Life happens fast when you're not looking."

The television roared. Home run. The bar erupted. I watched Marcus watching the screen, remembering how we'd sit on his fire escape at eighteen, sharing a six-dollar bottle of vodka, talking about the women we'd marry, the lives we'd build. We'd been so sure the world would make space for us.

"Remember that goldfish we won at the carnival?" he asked suddenly. "The one that lived for four years in that cracked bowl?"

"We named it Lucky."

"It died the day before you left for college."

"I know."

"I didn't tell you. I threw it out before you came over. I couldn't—" He stopped, throat working. "I couldn't watch you say goodbye to one more thing."

The waiter came. Marcus ordered whiskey. I realized he wasn't drinking papaya anymore either.

"I asked you to meet because I wanted to forgive you," I said. "But I don't think I know how."

He nodded, like he'd expected this. "The therapist says forgiveness is a process."

"The therapist says a lot of things."

On screen, the pitcher walked a batter. The manager walked to the mound. The whole stadium held its breath.

"I'm sorry about Sarah," Marcus said, and it sounded like the first true thing he'd spoken all night. "I'm sorry about the baby."

I'd never told him she was pregnant. I'd never told anyone.

The papaya margarita had melted into a watery mess. I pushed it away.

"You're right," I said. "I do wait for people who aren't coming."

The baseball game rolled on. Someone somewhere would win, someone would lose, and tomorrow they'd do it all again. Marcus paid for his drink and stood up.

"Same time next year?" he asked, not quite meeting my eyes.

"Yeah," I lied. "Same time."

I watched him walk out, the door swinging shut behind him, and ordered another drink I had no intention of finishing.