“I know you did. And I cared about you.” Something tightens in my chest, not the painful kind, more the kind that comes with being honest about something that’s been complicated for a long time. “But caring about someone doesn’t give you the right to take them apart when they leave. And it absolutely doesn’t give you the right to go after someone else to do it.”
She’s quiet. Her jaw sets in the particular way it gets when she knows she’s lost the argument and hasn’t decided what to do with the information yet.
“She’s going to hurt you,” Lena says. The strategy has drained completely out of her voice. What’s left sounds more like simple tiredness. “She’s not built for this world. The attention, the scrutiny, the way everything you do ends up on a screen somewhere. She’s going to look at all of it and run.”
“Maybe.”
I think about Ava in Box 214 with her cap pulled low, watching me pitch in the fifth inning. I think about three tattoo sessions and her hand steady against my ribs, the design going down clean and exact, her voice going quiet and certain in equal measure. I think about her telling me she won’t be the reason my career implodes, the most self-sacrificing, infuriating, completely Ava thing she’s ever said to me.
“That’s her choice to make,” I say. “Not yours.”
Lena picks up her champagne and studies the glass. “Did you come here to yell at me?”
“I came here toend it.” I hold her gaze. “The photos, the posts, the contact, all of it. It’s done, Lena. And I need you to understand that it’s done because I’m clearly and directly asking you to stop. Not because I’m angry. Not because of what theblogs might do with another photo, but because what you did damaged someone who deserved better, and it needs to stop.”
“She seems like she can take care of herself.”
“She can. But she shouldn’t have to take care of herself from you.”
The room moves around us, voices, music, and the low percussion of too many people in a shared space. Somewhere behind me, I hear my name in a conversation I’m not part of. The gala goes on. The auction sits pristine and patient under the lights.
Lena looks at me for a long time. I let her.
“I’ll take the post down,” she says eventually. “The throwback.”
“And the blogs?”
“I can’t un-ring that bell.”
“No, but you can stop ringing it.”
“Fine.” She smooths the front of her dress, a gesture so familiar it almost aches. “For what it’s worth, and I know it isn’t worth much right now, I never specifically wanted to hurt her. I wanted to complicate things for you.”
“I know.”
“And I’m sorry it landed on her instead.”
It’s as close to a genuine apology as Lena gets, and I’ve known her long enough to recognize it when it arrives.
I nod once. “Take care of yourself.”
“You too.” She looks at me one more time. The calculated warmth is entirely gone now, replaced by something closer to the person she is when the phone isn’t in her hand. “She’s lucky. In case you were wondering.”
I don’t answer.
Instead, I walk back through the gala, taking the obligatory handshakes. The conversation with the foundation director, andthe photograph with two kids in Wildcats jerseys who can’t believe they’re standing next to the starting pitcher.
I smile for the photo. Sign the jerseys. Shake hands. It’s muscle memory at this point. Smile, sign, and keep moving.
Mack materializes at my elbow the second the kids move on. “Well?”
“Handled.”
“You’re not in handcuffs, so I’m calling that a win.” He flags down a server for two glasses of water. “She admit it?”
“Enough.”
“What does enough mean in practical terms?”
