Extra Innings

Emma's hair had started falling out in clumps that spring. Chemotherapy will do that. She sat on the bathroom floor counting them, each strand a tiny betrayal, while Marco leaned against the doorframe holding an orange he'd peeled into one continuous spiral—a trick she'd taught him fifteen years ago at that dive bar in Seattle.

"You're staring," she said, not meeting his eyes in the mirror.

"I'm memorizing," he corrected.

That afternoon, they drove to the old baseball diamond where his father had taught him to hit. The season was over; the field was overgrown with weeds, the backstop rusted through. Marco dug into his pocket and produced his glove—oiled, broken in, smelling of adolescence and summer. He tossed a pebble to her.

"Show me what you got, Em."

"I'm in remission, Marco, not training for the Olympics." But she caught it anyway. Her arm had lost its strength, but the muscle memory remained.

They played catch for twenty minutes under an orange sky that threatened rain but didn't deliver. She couldn't throw hard, but each arc between them felt like a conversation they'd been avoiding for months. The cancer was gone. The marriage might not be.

"I sold the condo," he said suddenly, catching a weak throw. "The one by the stadium."

She stopped. "Why?"

"Because you always hated it. And because I want to buy that house in Portland you circled in the real estate listings—when you thought I wasn't looking. The one with the big porch."

Emma's eyes filled. "I circled that two years ago."

"I know. I just... I needed to know you'd still be here to sit on it."

The first raindrop fell on her bald head like a blessing. She ran toward him, her arms wide, and caught him in a hug that felt like sliding home—safe, finally, after a long season of close calls. Behind them, the streetlights flickered on, turning the orange dusk purple. They'd rebuild. They always did.