The Curveball Summer

The apartment was too quiet without her. Three weeks after Sarah moved out, I found myself sitting on the floor eating an orange for dinner, letting the juice run down my chin because I couldn't bother to find a napkin. The stray cat she'd been feeding—some mangy tom with one ear that she'd named Casanova—still appeared at the back door every evening, mewing like he knew something I didn't.

That's when Marcus showed up with baseball tickets. He'd been my friend since college, the kind who shows up unannounced when your marriage falls apart, bringing cheap seats and cheaper beer. We sat in the bleachers, surrounded by families and couples and the thick, golden light of late afternoon, watching players who made millions spit and adjust their cups while Marcus told me I'd be fine.

"You're swimming," he said, handing me a pretzel. "You just don't know which way is shore yet."

The game was terrible—our team lost by seven runs—but somewhere around the seventh inning, I realized I was laughing at something he said. The orange sunset was painting everything in shades of amber and bruised purple, and for the first time in weeks, I didn't feel like I was underwater.

Afterward, we sat on my balcony. Casanova the cat appeared, winding between Marcus's legs, purring like a small engine. Marcus scratched behind his ears and said, "Sarah always did have a thing for strays."

I looked at my friend—really looked at him—in the flickering light of the citronella candle. He'd driven three hours to sit through a baseball game he didn't even care about, just to make sure I ate something that wasn't an orange.

"You coming back next weekend?" I asked.

"Every weekend," he said. "Until you remember how to swim."