“Two is definitely enough.” I drop my stuff, make my way through the buffet, settle in to divide my attention between my reading and the game.
None of the other women approach, but there’s whispering—the kind of whispering that means everyone is talking about you,even if when I look around, most people go back to scrolling on their phones or watching the game feed.
Is this how it’s gonna be for the next however many years?Brayden’s contract says he’s with Atlanta—barring being demoted or a trade—for another five years. Asher only has three, but he’s already said he’s going to bother his agent about an extension.
Maybe he shouldn’t, if we’re going to be greeted with silence. Out on the field, the Peaches are warming up, the crowd packing in for the last regular season game. Some have signs; a few wave rainbow flags. If anyone is booing or throwing things on the field, the TV cameras aren’t picking it up. If I go out there, I’m likely to be recognized. I’m not sure if that’s better or worse than the silence I’m being met with here.
My phone has been quiet, mostly because I blocked all but known contacts. Victoria left me a long voice note that managed to be the world’s sweetestI told you so. Forrest just textedhuhand then,so that’s why Shireen was talking about unconventional relationships.
When I responded,so it’s Shireen and not Dr. Ghorbani now?Forrest just sent a halo emoji in return.
If those are the people I have—Brayden, Asher, Lexi, Victoria, Cherri, Forrest, and Katia—then that’s enough. Even if the silence in the room around me is feeling a little…silent.
I dive into the paper I’m reading, getting lost in the analysis. Even reading the methods section is, well, kind of fun. I’m about to text Forrest asking if that’s how he feels all the time, when Lexi’s son toddles over to me.
“Hey, Izzy.” I set my paper aside and pull him up to my lap. He settles in, eyes focused on the TV monitor above us playing the game.
He points to the screen where the Peaches are about to take the first at-bat of the inning. “Papa!” he yells, delighted, when his father comes to the plate.
“That’s right, that is your papa,” I say, then talk through what’s happening on screen. The colors that players are wearing, the shapes that are found on the field. What the pitcher is doing, what the batter is doing, what the people in the stands are doing.Hopefully not insulting the man in the on-deck circle.
Isaiah flies out to center after a ten-pitch at-bat, and I know enough about baseball now to recognize that that’s a success, no matter the outcome. Which brings up Brayden.
Izzy points to the screen in question.
“That’s Uncle Bray,” I say. “He’s my husband.”
The TV broadcast picks up enough crowd noise to know that not everyone in the stands is happy to see Brayden. A few yell things. A few more boo. Brayden grips his bat with his bare hands, the black band of his wedding ring on his finger like an oath.
The pitcher throws. Brayden doesn’t hesitate: he swings. The second his bat makes contact with the ball, I know it’ll be a home run. The camera zooms in as he rounds the bases waving to the stands. Maybe a salute. Maybe afuck you. Either way, he’s grinning when he touches home plate and throws his arms up to the sky, when he passes Asher on the way to the dugout just as Asher is leaving the on-deck circle.
For a moment, neither man looks entirely sure what to do. Then Asher smiles—his real, genuine grin, and bashes his arm against Brayden’s playfully, just as Brayden does the same thing back.
“That’s Asher,” I tell Izzy. “That’s my other husband.” Mostly becausefiancéfeels like too big a word to teach a two-year-old.
Izzy just claps his hands together. Sounds out a word that I realize is his attempt athomerun.
“Yes, Uncle Brayden did hit a home run.” I hold up four fingers and count off the bases—first, second—and I’m just getting to third when Asher swings at the first pitch of his at-bat.
His hit isn’t a home run, but it’s a wall-banging double like he wants to shut up anyone in the stadium who Brayden didn’t already silence. When he gets to second base, he peels off his batting gloves and stuffs them in his back pocket. He’s got on his ring too and he holds it up for the camera as if daring anyone—the second baseman, the fans, the entire sport of baseball—to say something about it.
Grace, the shortstop’s girlfriend, moves to sit next to us. She has bright red hair, bright red nails, both of which should clash with her pink Peaches jersey but on her they work. She holds her hand up to shield her mouth from the rest of the room, then loudly whispers, “Both?”
I crack up. “Yeah, both.”
“Uh, how?” But she doesn’t sound embarrassed by the question so much as intrigued.
I cup my hands over Izzy’s ears, even if he seems content to watch the game. “Like, logistically or…?” I ask Grace.
She laughs. A few more of the WAGs drift over, clearly interested in the convo, even if the churchier ones hang back, though I can see them tilt an ear toward us, trying to eavesdrop.
“We make it work,” I say.
“And Brayden and Asher are…” Grace boops her index fingers together illustratively.
Despite myself, I turn slightly pink. “They are also together, yes.”
Grace sits back in her chair, considers all of that for a minute, then pushes me on my shoulder, careful not to jostle Izzy. “Girl, you are living the dream.”
