Page 19 of Tagging Bases

I give him the universal gesture tospit it outas I mop up the mess with some napkins.

“I need some advice.”

“What’s up?”

“When I was over Liv’s place the other week, I used her laptop?—”

I snicker. “To watch porn?”

“No,” he scowls, but the tiny hint of pink on his cheeks says otherwise. “To look up something for a class assignment.”

“I’m guessing you found something?”

He nods. “An email notification popped up. I didn’t mean to click on it. It just…kind of happened. It was an Amazon receipt for flannel shirts, a pair of fake glasses, and some flats.”

“Huh.” I let that sink in. “Are you thinking she wants to date a hipster? Because she could just be trying to fit in with her new friends.”

Daniel picks up the salt shaker and spins it around the table. “I don’t know. She’s been sending me mixed signals lately. Like, she actively avoids coming over, but then asks me out to a poetry slam. Our sex life has all but dried up, but then she’s propositioning me, using a blowjob as a bargaining chip.”

He puts the salt shaker back where he got it and leans back against the booth. He sighs heavily, the sound reminding me of a deflating balloon. I feel like deflating right alongside him—it’s what any good friend would do.

“I used to love spending rainy days with her, lounging around in our pajamas, watching movies, and ordering in from that greasy Chinese place on Fifth. I miss that. I missher.” He runs a hand through his jet-black hair. “I don’t know how to compete with her new posse, Charlie. I’m a regular Joe Schmo. I like baseball, beer, and the occasional round of Mario Kart. I’m not into poetry or art. Could you even picture me with that crowd?”

Could I?I squint at my best friend, picturing him in a tight flannel shirt, a beanie pulled low over his ears, and his face obscured by a bushy beard. I drag and drop thick-rimmed glasses onto his long nose, a cup of kombucha into his hand, and a pair of ripped skinny jeans onto his legs that nearly split when he bends over to tie the laces on his Converse. Then I pretend he’s talking to me about some obscure indie band that recorded their album in a cave in Iceland.

The image isn’t terrible, per se. Daniel could pull off the ensemble better than I ever could. But it’s not him. It’s not the guy I’ve known since we were pimply-faced freshmen, bonding over a shared love of sports and a mutual hatred for early morning classes.

The Daniel I know is a creature of habit. He orders the same meals wherever we go, right down to the glass of Pepsi and the extra plate of fries. He wears his lucky socks the night before a game day—the ones with the hole that his big toe sticks out of. He belts out off-key renditions of Prince songs in the shower.

He’s not some try-hard, kombucha-guzzling, grass-smoking impostor. I want to say something that will convince him of that,but the truth is, I’ve never been in Daniel’s shoes. I’ve never had a girlfriend like Olivia—someone I was so deeply in love with that the thought of losing her made my stomach twist into knots. My past relationships have all been superficial and in high school, when you dated simply to say you were in a relationship.

We’d hold hands in the hallway and make out under the bleachers, but there were no real feelings involved. It was all for show.

I remember my first girlfriend, Julie Perkins. She had curly red hair and freckles that danced across her nose. We went out for two months before she dumped me for the quarterback of the football team. I was crushed at the time, but now that I’m older and wiser, I know that I wasn’t heartbroken over losing her. I was more upset over the fact that she chose someone else. Someone better and cooler. It was a blow to my ego, not my heart.

After Julie, there was Mona, then Emily, then Rachel. Each relationship lasted a few months before fizzling out. We’d grow bored with each other or realize we had nothing in common besides a shared class or mutual friends. There were no tearful breakups, no dramatic fights, or promises to stay friends. We simply drifted apart until, one day, we stopped talking altogether.

I never minded being single. In fact, I relished it. I loved the freedom of not having to answer to anyone, of being able to flirt with whoever I wanted to without that Catholic guilt. I could focus on baseball and hanging out with my friends without being called out for neglecting my girlfriend.

I am woefully unprepared to offer Daniel any real advice. What do I know about making a relationship work? About fighting for someone you love? I’m just a dumb jock who’s coasted through life on his looks and charm.

The server arrives at our table, notepad in hand, and asks for our order—spaghetti and meatballs for Daniel, lasagna for me. As the waiter walks away, I return my attention to Daniel. “Look, man, I know I’m not the best person to give relationship advice. But I do know one thing—you don’t change who you are forsomeone else. If Olivia can’t appreciate you for the amazing person that you are, then maybe she’s not the girlfriend for you.”

Daniel nods, but I can tell he’s not entirely convinced. He sighs and scrubs his face with his hands. “I’m scared, man. I’ve been with her for so long that I don’t even remember how to be with anyone else.”

“Well, you can’t sit back and do nothing, that’s for sure. You need to show her you’re willing to make an effort, even if it means stepping out of your comfort zone.”

Daniel nods, a glimmer of hope returning to his eyes. “You’re right. I won’t give up without a fight.” He pauses, then adds, “Hey, will you come with me tonight? I could use the moral support. Olivia has an extra ticket, so you won’t even have to break open the piggy bank.”

I choke on my saliva. Me at a poetry slam? With a bunch of hipsters who probably think baseball is a metaphor for the oppressive capitalist system?Fat fucking chance.

But then I look at Daniel, my best friend in the whole world. The guy who once helped inspect my balls when I thought I had testicular cancer, only for it to be a varicose vein. If Daniel can do that for me, the least I can do is suffer through a few hours of bad poetry readings.

“Of course, I’ll come with you,” I say, trying to sound more enthusiastic than I am. “What are friends for, right?”

“Thanks, man. I owe you one.”

“You owe me more than one,” I mutter under my breath, only half joking.

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