What We Carry

Sarah's palm was sweating against the plastic seat of the minor league stadium, a nervous tic she'd developed during her divorce proceedings. Beside her, Mark pretended to watch the baseball game, but his eyes kept darting toward the gathering storm clouds.

The first lightning struck—silent and brilliant—illuminating the empty upper deck in pale blue. Sarah thought of her cat, Nimbus, alone in the apartment they used to share. She should have taken him when she left, but Mark had begged. "He's my cat too," he'd said, and she'd been too exhausted to fight.

"You still seeing that therapist?" Mark asked suddenly, breaking their fragile truce.

"Yeah. She says I'm working through things."

The pitcher wound up and threw a fastball that the batter missed. Strike three. The crowd cheered, but neither of them moved.

"I miss him," Mark admitted, and Sarah couldn't tell if he meant Nimbus or their marriage, or both.

"You can visit him. I gave you the key."

"It's not the same without you there."

Lightning cracked closer now, and the first fat drops of rain began to fall. Around them, spectators scattered toward the concessions. But they stayed.

"Mark," she said, turning to him. "The cat's fine. But we're not."

He nodded slowly, rain matting his hair to his forehead. "I know. I keep thinking if we'd had a different season—"

"This isn't about baseball," she said, but she didn't pull away when he covered her hand with his.

The tarp crew ran onto the field as the sky turned purple. In the distance, thunder finally caught up to the light. They watched the game disappear beneath canvas, suspended like everything else between them.

"I'll bring Nimbus by on Tuesday," he said quietly.

"He'd like that."

And maybe, she thought as they walked separately to their cars, they all would.