The Seventh Inning Stretch

The baseball game had dragged into the seventh inning when Sarah felt it again — that persistent vibration against her thigh. She ignored it. Dave hadn't noticed. His eyes were fixed on the field where their son, Tommy, stood in the outfield, adjusting his hat between pitches, the same nervous tic Dave had at his age.

"He's got his mother's grace," Dave said, gesturing with his beer. "But my hat."

Sarah's phone vibrated again. She shifted in the metal bleacher, the cold seeping through her jeans. When Dave turned toward the concession stand, she finally pulled out the iPhone and thumbed it open. Three missed calls. Two texts from Mark at work:

"Did you tell him yet?"

"We need to talk about the project. Soon."

Her thumb hovered over the screen. She and Mark had been careful. Too careful, maybe. Late nights at the office that weren't about quarterly projections. Coffee runs that lasted two hours. The way he looked at her across conference tables, the weight of unsaid things accumulating like storm clouds.

"Here," Dave said, dropping back into the seat beside her. "Forgot mustard."

She slid the iPhone into her purse just as the batter connected. The ball arced toward right field — toward Tommy. Their son tracked it, turned, sprinted. The hat flew off his head. He caught it against the fence, stumbling but holding on.

"Yes!" Dave shouted, spilling mustard on his jeans. "Did you see that?"

"I saw it," Sarah said. She didn't say: I see everything now. I see how you've been looking through me for months. How you sleep on your side of the bed, how you haven't asked about my day since January.

Tommy trotted back to his position, retrieved his hat from the grass, and put it back on. Sarah's phone vibrated a third time. In the harsh fluorescent glare of her purse's interior, Mark's name burned across the screen.

"Your work again?" Dave asked, not turning from the field.

Sarah pressed ignore. She watched her son adjust his hat, settle into his stance, prepare for whatever came next. The baseball waited in the pitcher's hand. Behind home plate, the umpire crouched, ready to call balls and strikes.

"Yeah," she said quietly. "Work."

She would tell Dave tonight. Or tomorrow. Or maybe there would be another game, another chance to pretend nothing was ending, another opportunity to believe the seventh inning stretch was something you could live in forever.