The Eighth Inning of Us

The vitamin C tablet sat in my palm, a bright orange promise of health I made myself every morning but rarely kept. Maya watched me from across the kitchen counter, her eyes tired—eyes that used to light up when I walked through the door.

"You're going to miss your flight," she said, not really asking.

"I know."

I'd been living like a zombie for months, showing up to our marriage in body only. The consulting job had hollowed me out, left me walking through days on autopilot. Last week, I'd stared at a sphinx figurine in a client's office and found myself wishing I could ask it something real, something that mattered—something other than which quarterly report needed shredding.

The baseball ticket on the fridge was from our first date. Three years ago, Dodgers versus Giants, eighth inning stretch. She'd known every player's stats. I'd just wanted to hold her hand. When the palm reader at the pier told us we'd last "until the seasons changed," we'd laughed.

Now the seasons had changed three times.

"Are you coming back?" Maya asked, and the question sat between us like something fragile.

I looked at the vitamin in my hand, at the ticket curling at its edges, at the woman who'd loved me through my longest winter. The sphinx's riddle wasn't about quarterly reports or billable hours. It was simpler than that.

I swallowed the vitamin dry.

"No," I said. "I'm not."

"To Chicago?"

"To leaving you again."

Maya's hands found mine across the counter. Her palms were warm, her fingers interlacing with mine like they belonged there. Like they'd always belonged there, and I'd just forgotten how to notice.

We'd figure the rest out. But for the first time in months, I was actually awake.