The Seventh Inning Split

The baseball ticket said 7:05 PM, but Marcus had texted at 6:45—*something came up.* That was his bull, his specialty. The kind of bull that sounded reasonable but meant he was with someone else.

So I went alone, which was worse somehow than not going at all. The stadium roared around me, a thousand conversations I wasn't part of. I peeled an orange in the third inning, its citrus spray cutting through the smell of beer and desperation. It was something Marcus's sister had taught me—peel it in one piece, keep the rind intact. Now she was his fiancée.

"You okay?" The woman beside me asked. She'd noticed my hands shaking.

"Fine," I said. "Just waiting for my friend."

The word felt like glass in my throat. Friend. What did that even mean anymore?

The scoreboard flashed: TOP 4TH. Below us, the batter hit a foul ball that arced toward our section. Everyone reached up, hands grabbing at air, collective hope suspended for one perfect second before the ball dropped into empty seats three rows down.

That's when I saw them.

Marcus and his sister—his fiancée—twelve rows down, laughing at something he'd said. He wore that orange tie I'd bought him for his promotion last year. The one that matched the sunset on our first date, or so he'd claimed. More bull.

They looked perfect together. The kind of couple that made sense on paper. The kind that stayed together.

My phone buzzed. *Running late. Be there soon.*

I stared at the message until the screen went dark. Around me, the game continued. Inning after inning. People cheering. Eating. Drinking. Living.

I dropped the orange rind on the concrete and walked out, leaving the friend who never came, the game that never mattered, and the life I'd been fooling myself into thinking was real.