I don’t answer right away as I study the grooves in the wooden table. “I was with my ex-boyfriend for three years. He travels a lot for his job, so it wasn’t always easy, but we made it work. At least for a while. When I had to come to London, it changed things.” My anxiety spikes at mentioning Darío, about calling him my ex. I remind myself that he’s part of my history, and that he is, in fact, my ex.
“Ah. I can see how that would be hard. Could he not come with you? Three years is a long time.” His question catches me off guard. “I’m sorry, that’s rude. You don’t have to answer that.” A look of remorse crosses his face, so I rush to reassure him.
“No, it’s ok. He plays baseball. Like, professionally. It wasn’t possible for him to move with me.” Taking a deep breath, I consider how much I want to share with this stranger. It’s the first time in months I’ve had a meaningful conversation with someone who isn’t my best friend or sister. “I made some poor decisions at the end, and I cheated on him.”
I expect judgment, and when I feel his hand cover mine, I finally look up to meet his eyes. I don’t find condemnation, justcompassion. “Our mistakes don’t define us, Harlan.” I exhale a shaky breath. Whether this stranger means it or not, his response is exactly what I needed to hear. I may walk out of this café and never see him again, but at least I won’t feel shame when I look back on the first interaction I’ve had with a man since the breakup.
“Sorry, that got heavier than I intended,” I say lightly, and I feel my cheeks heat.This was not exactly a first meeting conversation, Harlan.
“Don’t apologize. I’ve enjoyed getting to know you,” he replies, and he smiles kindly. “I’m only here for another week, but I’d love to take you out for dinner.” My pulse spikes a bit at the thought of a date with someone else, but he's so genuine and curious that I find myself nodding.
“I would really like that, thank you.” We exchange numbers, and he promises to send me a text tomorrow to make plans. “I’ve had a lovely evening, but I should really get home to make sure my friend didn’t get lost on her way to my flat,” I laugh. Penelope has become a bit of a pro at navigating England, but I still worry about her.
Oliver places his hand on my lower back as we make our way to the exit. We stand close while we wait for our respective Ubers on the pavement. When the cars arrive, I turn to say goodbye, and Oliver gently grabs my wrist. He pulls me in for a hug that I return, a bit hesitantly. Everything about him feels different than Darío. He smells faintly of soap and lemon, mixed with sweat from the club, and I find relief in the difference between the two men.
“It was truly a pleasure meeting you, Harlan. Thank you for the company tonight.” Leaning down, he kisses my cheek before climbing into his car. I climb into mine, my mind reeling from this beautiful stranger. My only intention was to dance and finda hookup, not agree to a date, but Oliver seems like he’s full of surprises.
At home, Pen is waiting for me on the sofa while she scrolls through her phone. Her face is clear of makeup, and she’s in sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt that looks vaguely familiar. When she sees me, her face lights up. “Tell me everything, Harlan!” I laugh, taking the seat next to her, as I fold my legs under me.
I recall the conversation with Oliver while Penny absorbs every detail. I can tell she’s battling the urge to interrupt and ask a million questions, but she keeps it under control while I give her the details. “He asked if he could take me on a date while he’s still here. I said yes.” Part of me wonders if she’s going to tell me it’s too soon for me to start dating someone new. The plan was a quick hookup, not an actual date.
“He sounds super sweet. I bet it was hard to tell him about what happened with you and Dare, but I’m very proud of you,” she says and leans over to kiss my cheek. “It’s about time you start to experience life again, bestie.”
I consider her words for a moment before I reply. “It actually wasn’t nearly as hard as I thought it would be. He’s really easy to talk to. I was expecting judgment, but he was so sweet about it, he almost didn't seem real.” I lean against the back of the sofa and look sideways at Penny. She’s smiling back at me, and my heart feels a bit less broken.
It should beillegal to play day games. Especially in Arizona in June. I’m sweating my ass off in the outfield, and we’re getting slaughtered. I should probably feel more than apathy for how horribly we’ve played in the last few series, but, as Harlan would say, I can’t be arsed to care. Maybe I’m experiencing heat stroke. Why else would I be thinking about my ex-boyfriend in the middle of the worst inning we’ve ever played?
I’ve been in touch with Penny to check on Harlan a few times in the last few weeks to make sure he’s ok. I know it’s none of my business, but I can’t stop hearing his voice on a relentless loop, sounding so brokenhearted. Apparently, he’s been running every day and is finally putting in effort at work. He stopped drinking and started seeing a therapist. These are all great things; the things I wanted him to do all along. It doesn’t alleviate the sting of loss and longing I have carried with me since I hung up with him, but at least he’s finally starting to heal.
I’ve been considering reaching out to him to check in, but that feels selfish. If he’s doing well without me, I don’t want to jeopardize that. I also don’t know how Jasper would feel about it, and I really don’t want to hurt him. Even though the conversation with Harlan has fucked with my head, I’ve been trying hard to focus on my own relationship. Jas has been staying with me more frequently, and we’ve developed a comfortable routine.
“Molina, what the fuck?” Sam, our left fielder, is jogging toward me, and it dawns on me that the inning is over. It’s about fucking time. Sweat is pouring down my back, as in, I can feel the steady trickle slide along my spine. Black jerseys are fun until they aren’t. I’m desperate for a cold shower and a dark room. I cannot wait for this game to be over.
“Sorry, bro,” I mutter as I jog with him toward the dugout. “I’m good.” I’m not actually sure that Iamgood, but at least it’s almost over.
“You’d be good if you were paying attention, asshole. Can you keep your head in the game long enough to bat?” I roll my eyes, and the sting of sweat frustrates me even more.
“I’m fucking fine.” I toss my glove on the bench and uncap my water, chugging some before pouring the freezing liquid over my head. I reach for my batting gloves and helmet, ready to get this game over with. I’m not hopeful we’re going to pull out a win in the top of the ninth, especially when we’re down by three runs, but stranger things have happened.
Taking a few practice swings before approaching the batter’s box, I inhale deeply, getting focused. I get into position, watching the pitcher closely, blocking out the oppressive heat. As the first ball sails over the plate, the umpire calls strike one. Fucking fastballs. That’s fine, I’m ready for the second one. Before I realize what’s happening, I feel white-hot pain as the batfalls out of my hands. My ears are ringing, and suddenly I’m on the ground, staring up at the sky.
Chaos ensues as the umpire hovers over me, and a few coaches and trainers pour out of our dugout. Words like ‘hit by the pitch’ and ‘ninety-eight miles per hour’ float around me, but I can’t fully focus. The pain radiating from my right hand is unbearable. I can’t bend my fingers, and I attempt to tell the trainer this, but he’s speaking. “Darío, can you sit up for me?” With assistance, I sit up near the plate and meet Coach’s concerned gaze. A flurry of activity around me has me standing and being led off the field to the locker room, where Doc will, no doubt, be waiting for me.
After getting assessed by the team doctor, I’m transported by ambulance to the nearest hospital for X-rays. The pain in my hand is excruciating, radiating from the tips of my fingers all the way to my shoulder, though the injury is to my hand specifically. Emmett, one of the trainers, is riding with me, and he asks if I want him to call anyone. I almost ask him to call Harlan before I catch myself. I should probably be checked for a concussion at this point. I know I didn’t hit my head, but it’s the only reasonable explanation for almost asking for my ex. “No need to call anyone,” I settle on. I need to get my shit together. I close my eyes for the remainder of the ride and try to ignore the pain.
At the hospital, I’m diagnosed with a metacarpal fracture, putting me on the Injured List until the end of the summer, if not longer. I wish I could say that I cared more, but right now the pain is too much, and my head is muddled with the effects of the pain pills they started me on. I trust that Emmett is paying attention to the doctor’s instructions as I stare at a spot on the ceiling. The ER’s fluorescent lighting bathes everything in a putrid shade of yellow. The antiseptic smell is the same as every other hospital I’ve ever stepped foot in.
By the time we get back to the hotel, I’m dead on my feet. Emmett helps me to my room and promises to check in with Coach so I can get some sleep. As ready as I am to sleep, I need to shower the combined stench of the game and the hospital off me. Stripping one-handed isn’t easy, but I’m nothing if not determined. The lights in the bathroom are too bright, causing me to squint, so I flip the ceiling lights off, leaving only the softer lights over the vanity.
I let the soothing heat of the water work to loosen my muscles as I lean my forehead against the cool shower tiles. The cover on my casted hand is inconvenient, but at least it’s allowing me to shower. I briefly consider staying under the spray for the rest of the night, but that’s probably a bad idea. I make quick—as quickly as one can without two hands—work of scrubbing the misery of the day away. Exhaustion is hitting me hard, and before I’m even out of the shower, I’ve decided I’m not going to bother dressing before I get in bed. When I’m finished brushing my teeth, I take the pain pills that Emmett instructed me to take.
I belatedly remember my phone when I’m about to fall face-first into the plush mattress; the pillows look like heaven. Deciding it’s best to have it within reach, I make the mile-long journey to the dresser where I dropped it when I got back to the room. The movement of picking it up wakes my screen, and I’m met with a picture of Jasper and me smiling at the camera. Guilt hits me as I realize that it hadn’t even crossed my mind to have Emmett call him when I was in the ambulance. I have six unread texts—three of them from Jasper—along with two missed calls from him. “You suck, Darío,” I chastise myself.
I dial Jasper without reading his messages. If I allowed myself time to think about it, I’m afraid I would have found a reason not to call. He picks up on the third ring. “Hey, Darío.”His tone is clipped. “How was the game?” It’s clear he already knows how the game went.
“Jas, I’m sorry,” I start, but he doesn’t give me a chance to explain.
“Oh, in case you didn’t know, since you wereat the fucking hospital,your team lost. But I’m sure you checked in about that. You know what’s awesome? Finding out your boyfriend broke his fucking hand from your parents,” he seethes.Ouch.
