Inside is her desk, which looks a lot like Forrest’s kitchen table: stacks of papers, an old laptop in a charging dock. I’m expecting stiff upright chairs—instead everything is comfortable plaid and leather, a couch, an overstuffed ottoman facing her desk, a set of bookshelves that holds a myriad of textbooks and reference guides, along with a few slim volumes of poetry.Whitman. Sappho.
“Have a seat, please,” Dr. Ghorbani tells me.
I do, dropping my stuff next to me on the ottoman, waiting as she seats herself at her desk.
“Your office is really nice,” I say.
She arches an eyebrow. “Yes, if you’d come see me at office hours, you would know.”
Her message is clear: help was always available. I just had to know how to ask for it. “Point taken.” I look around again. “It might not matter. I’m not sure how I’m going to pay tuition next semester.”
“Ah.” She glances briefly at my neck as if noting the absence of my locket. “That’s unfortunate. I know you had your struggles initially, but I meant what I said. You have the potential to be a real asset to this program.”
For some reason, my chin starts to shake, tears coming up faster than I can blink them away. Professor Ghorbani merely nudges a box of tissues toward me as if she’s accustomed to having students cry in her office. I dab my eyes. “I shouldn’t be crying—Forrest makes it work.”
A tiny smile tugs at the edge of her lips like she can’t help it. “Forrest is extraordinary in so many ways.”
“So what did you want to talk with me about?” I ask when she doesn’t say anything else.
She opens her desk drawer and withdraws an envelope labeledovernightdelivery. “This arrived in our department mail this morning.” She passes me the envelope. “Do you know anything about it?”
It takes me a second to realize it’s addressed to me, care of the Morningside bioinformatics program. The return address is vaguely familiar, but nothing I can place without looking it up. “Um, I’m not sure.” Slowly, I pull the cardboard tab to open the envelope. Inside, there’s a single piece of paper. I unfold it. It’s aprintout of a Peaches ticket with a logo and barcode for a game that starts at 7:20 p.m.
I turn the paper over. On the back, there’s a note.See you tonight, princess. SignedA & B.
Professor Ghorbani is peering over her desk as if trying to read the note upside down. She leans back when I catch her.
“It’s a note from my soon-to-be ex-husband,” I say.
“Ah.”
“And, uh, my ex-boyfriend.”
Her eyebrows creep up. “Together?” Though she doesn’t sound particularly scandalized.
I summon my courage. “Ourex-boyfriend.”
She nods as if putting the pieces together. “I see. That would explain why you’ve been a bit distracted this semester, wouldn’t it?”
I examine the ticket again. It’s in row A, seat 1, right behind home plate. If I sit there, there’s no way I won’t be on TV cameras for almost every pitch of the game. A distraction. A scandal.A mess.
Or a possibility: that we’ll be together the way we promised each other we would. I’m not sure which outcome scares me more—but I know I need to find out.
I arriveat the stadium right before game time. Usually, WAGs go through the family entrance. Tonight, I file in with the main crowd. I’m not wearing any gear with Brayden’s number, just that generic pink T-shirt I bought way back that I paid to have cropped so the hem sits an inch or two above the waistband of my jeans. More skin thanBarbwould probably think I shouldshow, but enough that several heads turn as I walk past. I did my hair, fixed a chip on one of my nails. Applied my best smoky eye.
If they’re going to blast me on TV and social media, I’m gonna look damn good while they’re doing it.
At my section, the usher, an older gentleman in a faded Peaches hat, leads me to my seat. I wait as he wipes it down with a towel. “First Peaches game?” he asks.
I don’t want to lie, but I’m not sure I’m ready to tell the whole truth either. “It’s my first time sitting so close to the field.”
“I would have noticed a young lady like you in my section before.” He nods out to the field, then smiles. “I’m sure the players will too.”
That’s what I’m hoping for. So I thank him and station myself behind home plate, waiting for the game to begin.
“Get ready,because it’s time to play Atlanta Peaches baseball!” the PA booms as the stadium goes wild. Players run out to their respective positions as the announcer moves through a rollcall. “Now batting first for your Atlanta Peaches, Isaiah McDonald, your second baseman.”
Somewhere, Lexi must be watching, Izzy in her lap, her lipstick magnificently un-smudged. I’d given most of the money she lent me to Forrest who said, “Wow, we won’t even have late fees on rent.”Who knows what’ll happen next month?I can’t think about that now, not when the announcer calls the next Peaches player.
