Three Strikes You're Out

The baseball stadium lights hummed above us, that familiar electric buzz I'd associate with Dad for thirty years. He'd taken me to my first Giants game when I was eight, bought me a miniature bat I kept until college. Now he was gone, and here I was with Marcus—barely six months into this thing we kept calling a relationship, though neither of us had said what that meant.

"You want the rest?" Marcus asked, gesturing to the paper boat of spinach and artichoke dip between us. His fingers grazed mine, and I remembered how they'd felt two nights ago, exploring the curve of my spine, then again this morning when he'd reached across my nightstand, knocking over my water glass. He never apologized for that. Just laughed it off like he did everything else.

"I'm good," I said, though my stomach hollowed. The dip sat there congealing, spinach leaves wilting under stadium heat, and I thought about Mom telling me how Dad used to pick spinach out of his teeth at dinner, how she'd loved that about him. That unapologetic messiness.

The crowd roared. Someone hit a home run. Marcus's palm found my thigh, warm and possessive, and I should have leaned into it. Should have turned to smile, maybe kiss him while fireworks painted the sky. Instead, I watched his other hand reach for his phone, watched him scroll through messages, watched his face soften at something that wasn't me, wasn't this moment, wasn't us.

"Karen says congrats on the promotion," he said without looking up. "I told her you'd call tomorrow."

Karen. His ex-wife. The one who'd left him because he couldn't commit to anything beyond the next good time. The one he still texted daily.

The spinach dip sat between us like a green, congealing truth. His palm remained on my thigh, claiming territory he didn't intend to keep. Below us, the baseball game continued—nine innings, three strikes, so many chances to fail and try again. But relationships weren't sports, and some things, once broken, didn't have a next season.

I stood up. "I need some air."

Marcus finally looked up, his smile faltering for the first time all night. "Everything okay?"

No. Nothing had been okay since I'd confused his attention for affection, his charm for character.

"Fine," I said. "Just need a minute."

I walked toward the concourse, leaving my palm print on the armrest, leaving him there with the spinach dip and the game and the comfortable lie we'd both been living. Somewhere behind me, the crowd cheered again, but I couldn't remember what I was celebrating anymore.