Page 72 of Switch Pitching

James’s lack of a reply tells me that he’s unconvinced, and he just keeps pressing away at his phone.

“It’s done,” he says after a few minutes. “I’m checked in, and the flight leaves tonight at eight.”

I don’t know what to say to that, or if I can say anything that won’t make this worse for both of us. Instead, I walk over to the couch and sit next to James before wrapping him in the most comforting hug I can muster up.

“I’m gonna miss you,” I begin, James’s head resting on my chest. “Hopefully some time back home helps you feel more like yourself.”

“Gonna miss you too.”

“I mean it. I hope you feel better. James, I?—”

—love you and it kills me to see you like this?

“—I care about you a lot.”

“Thanks,” comes the muffled reply through a mouthful of my sweater.

Love isn’t a concept that I throw around lightly. I haven’t been in love with anyone before, but I’m almost certain that what I feel for James qualifies. It’s been a while since I’ve been ready to tell him, but with the injuries and then his shaky recovery, the right time hasn’t come around.

Okay, maybe the thought of telling James that I love him sends me into a cold sweat every time it crosses my mind. What if he doesn’t feel the same way? What if hecan’tfeel the same way because he’s processing the premature end to his first professional season?

Whatever happens, I’m hoping that there’ll be a time when it’s right for me, or us, to say that we love each other.

But seeing James take his passports out of his old room plants a tiny seed of doubt in my mind. We’ll have to do long-distance, and I don’t know if James booked a return flight. What if we don’t make it? What if Boston holds too many bad memories for him and he tries to sign somewhere else?

No.Stop it. Thinking like that is useless. James will go back to Toronto, spend time with his parents, and he’ll get better. That’s all I can hope for.

Slipping his passports and printed boarding pass into his backpack, James looks up at me, his mouth flat and stoic.

“I should head out,” he says.

“Do you want me to drive you?” I offer.

“Nah. I ordered a ride. Don’t want to bother you.”

I walk over and hug James, almost as if I’m trying to stop him from slipping away. “It’s not bothering me, James,” I say. “You’re my boyfriend. Of course I’m going to help you.”

A beep rises from James’s hand, and he looks at his phone.

“My car’s here.”

Oh.

With that, James unceremoniously detaches himself from me, puts on his jacket, and slips out of the front door. I’m left standing there in the living room wondering if he’ll ever come back.

Shaking my head, I tell myself that he will. Of course he’s going to come back. His career is here, and his contract renewal is practically guaranteed. Right until his injuries, he was on track to having one of the best rookie seasons for any pitcher in the league’s recent history.

James isn’t the kind of person to throw something like that away.

James Hernandez

Hey. Landed in Toronto

Nice. How was the flight? Miss you already

Miss you too

You doing OK?

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