The Last Inning

The cable guy found me on the fire escape, three beers deep, watching the sun bleed out over Jersey. He shouldered his heavy equipment bag and grinned.

"Running from something or to something?"

"Just running," I said, which was half-true. I'd been running from Julie's ghost since February, from the empty side of the bed, from the wedding invitation that arrived yesterday.

He set to work on the cable line while I nursed the bottle's condensation against my palm. The condensation felt like tears I hadn't cried. Julie used to cry at everything—commercials, songs, the way light hit buildings at sunset. I'd mocked her for it. Called her dramatic.

"Baseball fan?" he asked, gesturing at the cap on the railing.

"My dad's. He died before I could tell him I was sorry." The words came out before I could stop them. Somewhere inside me, something cracked open. "We were at a game. Last thing I said to him was that baseball was for people who couldn't handle real sports."

The cable guy paused, wire strippers paused mid-cut. "Harsh."

"I was twenty-two and thought indifference was armor. Turns out it's just emptiness."

He finished the job and packed up his tools. On the railing, my dad's baseball cap caught the last light. Julie had given it to me our first Christmas together, said she'd seen it at a thrift store and thought of my stories.

"You know," the cable guy said, "running's not cowardice. It's just a different kind of courage. Takes guts to keep moving instead of facing the mess."

He left me there with my ghosts and my beer and a working cable connection I'd never use. I called Julie. She didn't answer. I left a message about baseball and fathers and all the things I'd been too armored to say before.

Inside, the television flickered to life. Some game from decades ago. I sat on the edge of the bed and finally let myself feel it all—the weight of everything I'd been running from, catching up at last.