The Seventh Inning Stretch
The baseball game played on mute across the bar television—another team in another city, living another life. Marcus watched anyway, tracking the imaginary arc of a fly ball he couldn't actually see. He'd been running from this moment for three months, since the funeral, since the reading of the will, since he learned that his best friend had been sleeping with his wife.
His phone buzzed. Sarah. Again.
He'd stopped answering weeks ago. What was there to say? Sorry I missed the signs? Sorry I was too busy building my career to notice my marriage collapsing? Sorry I trusted the wrong person with both my heart and my keycard?
The bartender, Elena, set down another whiskey. She'd been kind enough not to ask why he showed up every Tuesday, Thursday, and Sunday, sitting in the same corner booth, watching silent sports while his life disintegrated.
"Cat's back there," she said, tilting her head toward the storage room. "Been yowling for an hour. You want to go check on him?"
Marcus nodded gratefully. Anything to escape the game, the memories, the weight of his own cowardice.
In the storage room, a calico cat sat atop a stack of kegs, watching him with knowing yellow eyes. This was the bar cat, a stray Elena had taken in years ago. Marcus reached out, and the cat pressed its head against his palm, purring like a small engine.
"You know," he whispered to the cat, "they say animals can sense things. Can you sense how pathetic I am?"
The cat only purred harder, kneading his paws against Marcus's sleeve.
He thought about the last conversation he'd had with David—his friend, his confidant, the man who'd held him while he cried at his mother's funeral, the best man at his wedding. They'd talked about baseball, of all things. The Cardinals' chances that season. David had looked him in the eye and smiled, lying effortlessly about everything except the score.
Marcus pulled out his phone. Three missed calls. Twelve texts.
He opened the text thread and typed: I'm ready to talk.
His thumb hovered over send. Running had sustained him this long, but he was tired. So tired. The cat bumped its forehead against his knuckles, as if in encouragement.
He pressed send.
The bar door chimed. Marcus stood up, the cat jumping gracefully from the kegs. It was time to stop running. It was time to face whatever came next—even if it meant striking out.