Extra Innings

Maya sat at the kitchen island, pushing spinach around her plate with her fork. The baby spinach leaves—sautéed with garlic, just how James liked it—had gone cold an hour ago. Outside, the muffled sounds of a baseball game drifted through the window: the crack of the bat, the collective roar from the bar down the street. Opening day. Their anniversary. James had texted at noon: *Stuck at work. Drinks with the team after.*

Her phone vibrated against the marble countertop.

Not James.

She picked up her iPhone, the familiar weight grounding her. The text was from Sarah, James's executive assistant: *I'm sorry. I thought you knew.* Attached: a photo from the office holiday party three months ago—James's arm around Sarah's waist, his wedding ring conspicuously absent from his hand, tangled in her hair as they laughed at something off-camera. Maya had been at home with bronchitis that night.

She stood up, plate spinning to the floor, spinach scattering like fallen leaves across the white tile. Something primal and quiet broke inside her—not rage, but recognition. She'd been dressing for a game that had ended innings ago.

Maya walked to the bedroom, pulled her suitcase from the closet, and began packing. The baseball tickets on the dresser—box seats, fifth row—stayed where they were. Some games, you forfeit before the first pitch. She left her ring on the kitchen counter beside the cold spinach, and walked out into the April evening, leaving her iPhone behind. For once, she didn't want to be reachable.