The Last Inning

The iphone buzzed against my thigh, a third vibration in as many minutes. I ignored it, focusing on the rhythm of my sneakers against pavement — *thud, thud, thud* — each step a small rebellion against the expectations chained to my wrist. Three years of marriage, seven years of building this life together, and I was running from it all at 6:43 AM on a Tuesday.

The air was thick with June humidity, the kind that clings to your skin like a regret you can't quite shake. I'd been running for forty-five minutes, heart hammering not from exertion but from the text I'd seen before leaving: *We need to talk. When are you coming home?*

Around mile four, I found myself at the old high school field. The chain-link fence stood rusted and familiar, and through the gaps, I could see the baseball diamond where Jamie and I had met. He'd been pitching; I'd been the scoreboard operator, bored and nursing a bruised heart from another failed relationship. When he'd tipped his cap at me after striking out the final batter, something in my chest had loosened.

Now, my iphone lit up again. *Are you okay? Please answer.*

I leaned against the fence, breathing hard, and watched as a teenage boy stepped onto the pitcher's mound. He went through the motions — wiping his brow, adjusting his cap, checking the sign — rituals I'd seen Jamie perform a thousand times. The boy threw a fastball, and it cracked against the catcher's mitt with a sound like a gunshot.

That's when it hit me: I wasn't running away from Jamie. I was running toward who I used to be.

The iphone slipped from my sweaty palm and clattered onto the pavement. I didn't pick it up. Instead, I stood there watching that boy pitch, remembering the feeling of possibility, of not knowing how everything would turn out. Of being young enough to believe that love — and life — could still surprise you.

After twenty minutes, I walked home. Jamie was sitting on the porch steps, face in his hands. When I sat beside him, he reached for my hand, and we watched the sunrise together without speaking. The conversation we needed to have would wait. Some things, I realized, couldn't be solved in a text message or outrun in the morning mist.

They could only be faced. Together.