The Seventh Inning Stretch

Margaret stood at the edge of the orange grove, her running shoes laced tight, heart pounding not from exertion but from the sight of him—David, standing near the baseball diamond where their daughter now played shortstop. Sixteen years had passed since he'd chosen his career over their marriage, and here he was, greyer but somehow unchanged, watching Sarah with hungry eyes.

The sun dipped behind the hills, painting the sky in bruised shades of orange and purple. Margaret had been running—literally and metaphorically—for months now, training for a marathon she didn't even want to run, just to fill the empty spaces in her evenings. But some distances couldn't be outrun.

"She's got your arm," David said, not turning around. He'd always known she was there.

"She's got your temper," Margaret replied, her voice steady despite the flutter in her chest. The baseball game continued behind them—cheers, the crack of the bat, shouts of "Good eye!" from parents who still believed in second chances.

The orange trees around them heavy with fruit, their scent thick in the cooling air. Sarah threw to first, out by a step. David's shoulders relaxed.

"I was going to call," he said. "After the promotion settled. After—"

"After you proved you didn't need us?" Margaret finished for him. She'd heard it before, or variations of it. Men and their timing.

He turned then, and the years fell away from his face. The same eyes that had once watched her across a crowded lecture hall. The same hands that had held their newborn daughter with trembling reverence. The baseball game faded to background noise as Sarah's team took the field.

"I've missed you," David said, and Margaret felt something crack open inside her, something she'd thought sealed permanently.

"I've missed me too," she said, surprising herself. "The me I was when we were—before."

The coach shouted for a pitching change. Sarah walked toward the dugout, head down, then looked up and spotted them together. The expression on her face—hope warring with caution—made Margaret's decision for her.

"Sarah loves oranges," David said, reaching for a piece of fruit from the nearest tree. "Just like you did."

Margaret watched his hand close around the fruit. Some patterns repeated themselves. Some chords resolved in unexpected ways. Perhaps running wasn't always about escape. Sometimes you ran until you circled back to where you started.

"First pitch is Saturday," she said, not quite a question.

David's answering smile was slow and careful, like sunrise after the longest night. "I'll bring the oranges."

Sarah waved from the dugout. Margaret waved back, and for the first time in sixteen years, she wasn't running anymore.