Summer's Last Inning

The sky turned that sickly orange color just before the storm—like bruised fruit about to rot. Elena sat in section 214, row 12, watching the baseball game she hadn't wanted to attend. Kevin, twenty-five to her forty-two, kept glancing at her with that earnest, desperate hope that made her chest ache.

"You okay?" he asked, handing her a concession stand bag.

She peered inside. Spinach dip. "You remembered."

He beamed. Like a golden retriever who'd learned a new trick. She should have been touched. Instead, she felt like she was suffocating.

Lightning forked across the sky, illuminating the stadium's sudden hush. The players scattered. Everyone else ran for cover—except her. She sat frozen, watching the storm roll in, thinking about how she'd been running for three years now. Running from David's departure. Running from the promotion she'd taken and hated. Running from the mirror each morning.

The spinach dip sat untouched in her lap. She'd started eating it because David said she needed to take better care of herself. Now she couldn't remember if she actually liked the taste or if it was just penance for being alive when he wasn't.

"We should go," Kevin said, touching her shoulder.

She didn't move. The orange glow deepened to purple-gray. Rain began to fall, cold and sudden.

"Elena?"

She turned to him—this boy who loved her, this wrongness she'd invited into her life because she was too terrified of being alone. Lightning struck somewhere behind the bleachers. The flash showed her the truth she'd been dodging: she wasn't running toward anything anymore. She was just running.

"I'm sorry," she said, standing up. The spinach dip splashed onto the concrete between them. "I can't do this anymore."

"This?" Kevin's voice cracked. "You mean—the game?"

She kissed his forehead, a final mercy. "No, darling. I mean all of it."

She walked alone into the rain, letting the storm wash away three years of pretending.