Cap in Hand

The brim of his baseball hat cast a shadow across his eyes, but I could still see it—that flicker of something like guilt, or maybe just the shame of being caught. The stadium lights flickered overhead like the memory of lightning from a storm that had passed hours ago.

"You're not actually going through with it," I said, though we both knew he was. Jamie's hair was longer than I'd ever seen it, dark curls falling over his collar—proof of how long it had been since we'd really seen each other. Since we'd been friends in any way that mattered.

He took off the hat, running his hands through those curls. "It's just business, Elena. You know that."

"Business," I repeated. The word tasted like ash. "You're taking the promotion that three people told you was contingent on throwing me under the investigation. That's not business. That's something else."

Around us, the crowd roared as someone hit a home run. The sound washed over us like a wave, drowning out the silence between our seats. We used to come here every Sunday during college. Cheap tickets, cheap beer, the certainty that we'd figure out our lives together. Some kind of future.

"Elena—"

"Save it." I stood up, knocking my popcorn over. It scattered across the concrete like everything else we'd built. "I hope it's worth it."

I walked away without looking back, but I could feel his eyes on my retreating form. That's the thing about lightning—you never know when it'll strike, but you always feel the heat afterward. Some things, once broken, can't be fixed. Not by time, not by nostalgia, and certainly not by baseball tickets.