The Palm Reader's Ninth Inning

The iPhone lay face down on the nightstand, its screen dark, like the void in Elena's chest. Three weeks since David had walked out, and still she found herself reaching for the phantom vibration that never came.

Her cat, Buster, brushed against her ankle, purring like a small engine. He was the only one who hadn't left.

"You're hungry again," she said, scooping him up. His yellow eyes held more judgment than affection.

The flight to Palm Springs had been spontaneous—a desperate escape from the apartment where every object held a memory. The Airbnb was a mid-century disappointment: peeling paint, a kitchen that smelled of other people's burned dinners, and a dead palm tree in the yard, its fronds brown and curled like old love letters.

Elena sat on the porch with a glass of wine, watching the desert sunset bleed orange across the sky. Her iPhone buzzed—a real buzz this time.

Unknown number.

"Hello?"

"Elena? It's Marcus. From college."

The name hit her like a baseball bat to the chest. Marcus, who had held her hand while she cried over someone else. Marcus, who had given her his glove when she complained about blisters at the batting cage. Marcus, who had never stopped loving her, not really.

"I'm in Palm Springs," he said. "Saw on Facebook you were here too."

She hadn't posted anything. David must have mentioned it when they still talked.

"I could meet you," he continued. "For old times' sake."

The palm tree cast long shadows across the patio. Buster meowed at the glass door, demanding dinner.

"Marcus," she said, "I can't."

"Because of David?"

"Because I'm still at bat, and I keep swinging at the wrong pitches."

Silence on the line. Then, softly: "You know, the best coaches always tell you—keep your eye on the ball, Elena. Not on who's watching."

She hung up and turned off the phone.

The desert air cooled around her. Inside, Buster had given up waiting and was curled on the sofa, his breathing steady and certain. Elena sat in the gathering dark, her palm pressed against the glass, feeling nothing but the warmth of her own hand.

Somewhere, miles away, a baseball game was ending. She imagined the crack of the bat, the roar of the crowd, the certainty of winners and losers.

She fed the cat, opened another bottle of wine, and waited for the sunrise.