Extra Innings

The baseball game droned on in the background—ninth inning, two outs, bases loaded. Sarah hadn't touched her wine in an hour. The cat we'd adopted together during that brief, disastrous year of marriage curled at her feet, oblivious to the wreckage between us.

"He was your best friend," she said, not looking at me. "Greg. You haven't mentioned him once tonight."

I stared at the television. Greg had died three weeks ago—pancreatic cancer, cruel and efficient. We hadn't spoken in two years. Our friendship had unraveled the way marriages do: slowly, then all at once. Something I'd said at his fortieth. Something he'd never forgiven.

"We weren't friends," I said. "Not at the end."

The dog padded into the room—Greg's dog, a chocolate Lab named Cobb with bad hips and a gentle soul Sarah had insisted on taking in. She'd always been better at the difficult things. Cobb rested his chin on my knee, and something in my chest cracked open.

"You know what he told me?" Sarah's voice was quiet. "When he got the diagnosis. He said, 'Tell David I'm sorry for whatever it was. I don't remember anymore.'"

The baseball player struck out. Game over. Season over.

Cobb whined, pressing harder against my leg. The cat lifted her head, yellow eyes watching me. Three years of silence in this house, and now this room felt full of everything unsaid.

"I don't remember either," I admitted, and the truth of it was like a stone in my throat. "I don't remember what we were fighting about. I just know I was right."

Sarah's laugh was dry. "You always think you're right, David. That's the problem."

"Is it?" I met her eyes for the first time tonight. "Or is the problem that I'd rather be right than happy?"

She didn't answer. The cat settled back into sleep. Cobb sighed, that long, shuddering breath dogs give when they're satisfied with where they are. The television showed players shaking hands, that ritual of sportsmanship that always looks so performative.

"Greg's memorial," she said. "Tomorrow. You should come."

Outside, rain began to fall against the windows. The sound was familiar and strange at once, like a half-remembered song.

"Will Cobb be there?" I asked.

Sarah's mouth curved—something almost like a smile, or maybe just exhaustion. "That's why you'd go? For the dog?"

"For the dog," I agreed. "Maybe for the friend I used to have. Maybe for the marriage I ruined. Maybe to remember what it was like to not need to be right."

She finished her wine in one swallow. The baseball highlights looped on the screen—great catches, perfect swings, moments no one would remember in a month.

"Extra innings are possible," she said, standing up. "In baseball, and in other things."

The cat stretched. Cobb thumped his tail against my leg. And somewhere in the space between silence and speech, I thought: maybe. Just maybe.