The Seventh Inning Stretch

She was running late, again — the perpetual state of her existence since the promotion. Sarah checked her watch as she dodged through the turnstiles, the smell of stale beer and roasted peanuts hitting her like a memory she'd spent years trying to shake.

There he was. Section 114, row 12, seat 4. Still wearing that ridiculous navy cap with the curled brim, the one he'd refused to replace even after she'd bought him a new one three Christmases ago. Marcus hadn't changed. That was the problem, and the comfort, and the wound that wouldn't quite heal.

"You made it," he said, not looking away from the field where the baseball teams were warming up. "I ordered you a hot dog. Extra mustard, just like college."

Sarah sank into the plastic seat beside him. "I almost didn't come."

"I know." He finally turned, his face weathered but kind. "But you're here anyway."

The friend who'd covered for her when she'd crashed his car. The friend who'd held her hair back when she'd drunk-texted her boss at the holiday party. The friend whose promotion she'd stolen five years ago because she'd been too hungry, too terrified of being left behind, too convinced that nice people finished last in corporate America.

He adjusted his hat, fingers lingering on the frayed edge. "My mother asked about you last week. She still thinks we're dating."

"Marcus—"

"It's fine, Sarah. Really." He gestured toward the field where the players were lining up. "I got over it. The question is, did you?"

She watched him instead of the game. Marcus, with his stable salary and his modest apartment and his cap he'd worn since they were twenty-two. While she was running a department she hated, collecting validation that felt increasingly hollow, wondering why success felt so much like drowning.

The crowd roared as someone hit a home run. She jumped, automatically, then caught herself. They used to come to games together every weekend. Used to scream themselves hoarse, used to dream about opening a bar, used to promise they'd never become their fathers.

"I miss this," she whispered.

Marcus finally looked at her, really looked at her. "Then stop running, Sarah. You've been running for five years. Where exactly are you going?"

She reached over and touched the brim of his hat, her fingers trembling slightly. Below them, the game continued — innings passing, allegiances shifting, the world turning on its axis whether she figured herself out or not.

"I don't know," she said. "But I think I'm done running away from here."