Page 48 of The Art of Catching Feelings

“Maybe she’s in the process of getting a divorce,” Chris said. He didn’t love the idea that she would’ve lied about that, but he could understand if the relationship was already pretty muchover, if they’d talked about it and seen a counselor…who was he kidding. He hated that idea.

Randy made a face that clearly indicated whathethought of the suggestion. “Maybe,” he said. “And maybe she does, and you get together, and a year from now you’re on the road and she’s got some other dude she’s texting every day. Only you’re not even home, so she can feel free to take his calls all she wants to.”

Chris must’ve looked stricken, because Randy reached out to squeeze his shoulder. “Or maybe not, man. I could be totally off. I don’t know this chick. But don’t forget thatyoudon’t know her, either.”

It wasn’t lost on Chris that, if he’d been playing that stupid board game, he probably would’ve gotten those questions wrong, too. He didn’t know her favorite color, or greatest fear, or least favorite place to travel. But he did know that she wore lime green pajama pants with bright pink dinosaurs on them, that she was a nervous driver, that she wanted to go to Prince Edward Island someday to see L. M. Montgomery’s house. And she knew stuff about him, too, stuff he’d barely told anyone—about his brother, about the way he felt about playing baseball, about how lonely his life sometimes felt.

He pulled out his phone, typing out a new text.

C: I’m going to reserve two tickets for tonight’s game for you. Just go to will call and ask for the tickets under “Duckie S. Books.” If you can’t make it or don’t want to come, I understand—but I hope you do.

There. He’d made a move, given her an opening. What she did with it would be totally up to her.

—

He rarely requested tickets beyond the ones he used to bring his dad out to occasional games, so the front office was very accommodating. He’d asked for two seats right by third base, sohe had a chance of finding her in the crowd when he was out on the field.

An hour into the game, he was starting to question whether that had been the smartest move. He knew better than to glance up into the stands between every play. This wasn’t Little League, where he’d once waved to his brother from first base and gotten picked off by the pitcher.

But by the eighth inning, the seats were still empty. Worse, he’d even taken a brief bathroom break when the top of the Battery’s order was up to bat, not because he’d particularly had to go but because he wanted to check his phone to see if she’d texted. He’d never done that during a game before.

She hadn’t.

They were down by one run in the bottom of the ninth, two outs, nobody on. The best thing Chris could do would be to hit a home run, obviously, and tie up the game with one swing of the bat. But he knew that the other team’s closer hadn’t given up too many of those, so the second-best thing he could do would be to just get on base, however he had to do it. Beau was in the batting order behind him, and he hadn’t had a lot of luck against the closer, either, but at least it would give them a shot.

Chris had it in his head that he was going to watch the first pitch almost no matter what, show the guy that he wasn’t trigger-happy, that he wasn’t going to chase. Then the pitcher would have to tighten up, throw one in the zone to get back in the count.

But that first pitch was an absolute beauty, a sinker that dropped right in over the middle of the plate. The umpire called, “Strike.” Chris was so rattled that he took an aggressive swing on the second pitch, one that ended up almost in the dirt with Chris pivoting down to one knee from the force of his swing. He could practically hear the collective disappointment from the crowd, theexpectation as he stepped out of the batter’s box, tapping his bat against his cleats, before stepping back in and getting set.

He watched a ball, then fouled off two in a row to stay alive. He couldfeelhimself getting closer, could feel the pitcher’s frustration as he shook off two suggestions from his catcher before finally nodding his head. When the fastball came, it was a little outside, but Chris found himself reaching for it anyway. He was almost surprised when he felt the bat vibrate from the contact beneath his fingertips, when the ball went flying toward the back corner of right field. It wasn’t enough to be a home run, he could tell that, but he could also tell that the right fielder wasn’t going to get it in time to be an automatic out.

He took off, rounding first base and heading into second, where he allowed himself a quick sideways glance out to right field. That guy was an All-Star, with multiple Gold Gloves and an absolute rocket of an arm. But he was still fumbling with the ball, hadn’t fielded it cleanly, and Chris knew that if he could get on third base, the chance that Beau could score him would be that much greater. He put his head down and pushed through, his lungs burning as he booked it toward third, sliding into the base only a split second before he felt the third baseman’s glove brush his leg.

He popped up, keeping his foot on the bag, looking to the third base umpire who called him…

“Out!” the ump shouted, clenching his fist with what seemed like unnecessary emphasis.

“I was safe,” Chris said. “I beat the tag.”

The other team had already started to trot off the field, giving each other celebratory high-fives and pats on the back, and Chris looked to the Battery dugout. Marv was on the phone, indicating a call to see if a review would be necessary, but when he hung up he just waved at Chris to come in. The game was over. Chris was out.

“I was safe,” he said again, but even the ump had walked away.

Chris crouched down on the base, his forearms resting on his knees. He would’ve had a double standing up if he’d just stopped at second. He hadn’t even looked at the third base coach to see if he was waving him on or not—a cardinal sin. He also didn’t need to look up into the stands to know that she’d never come, and he bet if he checked his phone she wouldn’t have texted, either.

“Fuck.”

He stood up, brushing the clay off his pants, although he needn’t have bothered. As he headed toward the dugout, he saw just about the last person he wanted to see.

Daphne. Waiting with her microphone to talk to him. He knew it was part of her job, but he’d rather walk over a bed of nails than give an interview right in that moment. But there was something about her face that made him slow down, head toward her with his shoulders set in a resigned line.

“Chris, tough loss,” she said. Was he imagining things, or was she looking over his shoulder again instead of directly at him? He thought they’d gotten past that. “What did you see that made you go for the extra base?”

“I thought I had it,” he said. “Turns out I didn’t.”

It was a complete nonanswer, which she’d probably thought they were past, too.

“You were playing the game the right way,” she said. “Taking a risk. Can’t fault you for that.”

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