I watch her as she scrolls through her phone. I wait, and I watch. I can’t tear my eyes from the screen.
Finally, after nearly an hour, she gets up and knocks on the door.
I ignore it, of course, but I hear her voice. “Casey, it’s Sage. I’m leaving now, but I’ll be back tomorrow.”
My heart breaks into pieces. On one hand, I’m afraid that she will come back. On the other hand, I’m worried how I’ll feel if she doesn’t.
Fuck. I don’t need this. I don’t need Sage Summers showing up at my door. I won’t open it. There’s nothing to talk about. Nothing to say. The sooner she gets the picture, the better.
*
The next morning, a loud bang at the door wakes me from a restless sleep. I immediately think of Brett and groan, but then I remember Sage’s words.
I check my phone and see her standing in front of my door. I move my leg off the bed but quickly pull it back in and under the covers.
She will tire of waiting there.
I don’t watch her this time. It hurts too much. My resolve to let her stand there weakens and if I see anything on her face that would soften me to her situation, I know I will crumble.
But I can’t let her see me like this.
I stare at the ceiling, and when impatience overtakes my desire to stay put, I get up and walk to the kitchen.
I haven’t felt hungry for weeks. I eat to survive, but my stomach gurgles, so I grab a Greek yogurt from the refrigerator and shovel a few spoonfuls into my mouth. That seems to settle the pain.
There’s a shuffle by the door. I want to check if she’s still there, but I don’t know what I’ll do if my hand is next to the knob. I don’t trust myself not to open it.
So I go back into my bedroom, throw my pillow over my head, and go back to sleep.
*
It’s dark outside my window when I wake up. I must have slept for at least eight hours for it to be dark outside, and yet my body feels heavy and tired. My head throbs and I don’t even want to turn on the television because I know the light will strike a migraine. I walk back into the kitchen and lean against the countertop. I stare at the front door from here, and curiosity grows in my gut. It possesses my body, and I walk toward the door and look through the peephole. My heart hammers in my chest in the milliseconds it takes for me to look. I don’t know what I’ll do if I see her there. Not through a screen, but just one foot away from me.
I know the answer, and I look anyway.
But Sage isn’t there.
The hallway is empty, except for a small courier package at the foot of my door. I don’t care about the box. I turn my back from it and a deep sadness takes hold of me. It feels as though the room darkens further, my muscles feel even heavier, and the weight of who I’ve become pulls me down into an ocean that is drowning me.
Tears stream down my face, but I make no sound. I wipe them angrily, furious at who I’ve become. This pathetic, empty human being.
Without baseball, I am nothing. I have nothing. What is my identity? I don’t have one. I don’t even know who I am, so I cannot fathom what I can be to anyone else.
All I’ve ever wanted was to play baseball. All I’ve ever dreamed of is playing in the MLB. All I’ve ever hoped for was to retire as one of the greatest players to have played the game. And now, I’m barely a talking point at the beginning of the game, the commentators wondering if I’ll be back this season.
But I know the truth. I’ve spoken to the doctors, and they told me my career is over. They might as well have told me my life was over, too.
My hands tremble by my sides, and I ball them into fists. I drop my head back and roar out in anger. “Fuck!”
The tears fall harder this time, and my breath is ragged. A deep sob pulls from my throat, and I fall to my hands and knees from the pain in my chest. I cry uncontrollably, my body shaking from each sob that retches out of me.
I don’t know how long I lay there, but the outburst drains me. I’m so tired. I don’t want to be here anymore.
I crawl back into bed, pull the covers over my head, and go back to sleep.
*
A loud ringing startles me out of bed. “What the fuck is that?”
