Bottom of the Ninth

The stadium lights hummed above us, drowning out the awkward silence between me and Sarah. Three years of not speaking, and here we were, pressed together in the company box seats because our bosses decided forced camaraderie was good for morale.

"You look tired," she said, not meeting my eyes.

"Well-deserved," I said. "Been working sixty-hour weeks since you took over the Morrison account."

"You were never going to close it, Rachel."

"And you were never going to wait."

The baseball game drifted on below—tiny men in white uniforms swinging at nothing. I remembered sitting on Sarah's balcony ten years ago, cheap wine in plastic cups, promising we'd never become those women who stepped on each other for a promotion. We'd been each other's person through divorces and deaths and career changes. A real friend.

Now her hand brushed mine reaching for the same pretzel. Our palms touched for half a second—warm, soft, familiar. I pulled away like she'd burned me.

"I heard you're seeing someone," she said.

"Does it matter?"

"No. Just wanted to know if you're happy."

"Are you?"

She didn't answer. The crowd roared as someone hit a home run, but neither of us stood up. We watched the ball arc into the night, already knowing how it would land. Some trajectories you can see from the beginning.

"I still love you," she said finally. "You know that, right?"

"Love doesn't fix what you did."

"I know. But I'm sorry."

I watched her wipe something from her cheek. The scoreboard clock ticked on. I thought about all the moments that led us here—each small compromise, each justified betrayal, each time we chose something else over being the kind of people who didn't hurt each other.

"I don't forgive you," I said. "But I miss you every day."

She nodded. That was enough for now.