“Ball!” the umpire calls.
Fuck.
I’m about to walk this fucking batter and subsequently walk a run in from the loaded bases . . . for a second time this inning.
Shaking it off, Travis stands from his crouching position, tossing me the ball from behind home plate. Even with his mask covering his face, I can see the concern in his furrowed brow.
“Come on, Ace,” Cody calls from first base.
“Let’s go, Kai,” my brother adds.
Exhaling, I pace the mound but all I see is her.
Miller wearing my jersey and holding my son on this mound.
I’m a fucking mess over the visuals, the memories. And they only grow worse when I take my hat off and see her there too.
It’s been one week.
One excruciating week since Miller drove away.
One week since I’ve started correcting Max every time he saw a picture of her and called her Mama.
One week since I started using the pillow she slept on in my bed instead of my own, praying that her sweet scent will somehow embed itself into the fibers and stay forever.
One week since this world I created, this little family I could finally claim as my own, dissolved, leaving me and my son with only each other once again.
It’s also been a week since I’ve heard her raspy voice, heard her say my name. We haven’t spoken since she left because I promised myself I wouldn’t hold her back. I wouldn’t guilt her into responding to me when she’s got these amazing opportunities keeping her occupied.
Instead, I’ve resorted to using her dad to get information.
Did she arrive safely?
Is she sleeping okay?
Is she happy?
Those last two questions couldn’t be further from my own reality, so for her sake, I hope she’s doing better than I am. I hope she’s finding everything she’s looking for. I hope she’s finding her joy.
Because I sure as fuck lost mine.
“Malakai, focus,” Isaiah calls out from behind me.
The stadium is packed for this September afternoon game that holds our playoff hopes in its hands. We have the opportunity to clinch tonight, and I just walked in a run on the last at-bat.
God, they’re going to ream me on the post-game recaps later, but I don’t give a shit. All those times I told Miller that pressure was a privilege, that it was an honor to live up to expectations, make me feel like a fraud. Because I’m not living up to anything.
With my cleats dug into the dirt, Travis calls my pitch, giving me a four-seam fastball. I nod, straightening to align my fingers over the ball in my glove before looking over my shoulder to check for runners, but when I do, all I see are the bases I ran with her just last week.
When I was happy. When she was happy. When she was mine.
I shake off the image and run through my pitch, using my entire body to throw the ball before letting it leave my fingers. It soars right over the plate, right at the height the batter needs to send it flying into left field.
Which is exactly what he does, hitting a grand slam and changing the score to 5-0 before I’ve even gotten an out in this third inning.
Fuck.
The crowd boos. Loudly. Deafening, and I don’t think it has anything to do with our opponents and everything to do with me.
Travis begins his jaunt to the mound, but Isaiah shakes him off, coming in from his position instead.
We both hold our gloves over our mouths to speak.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“Does it seem like I’m fucking okay, Isaiah?”
“Yeah, you’re right. Terrible question.”
My entire fucking life fell apart seven days ago, and it wasn’t due to a lack of love or wanting each other. It was simply because we were headed on two different paths that only crossed for a short two months.
Before my brother can ask anything else, Monty leaves the dugout, headed straight for me.
“God-fucking-dammit,” I curse into my glove.
I couldn’t tell you the last time I was pulled this early from a game. I played like shit in my previous start this week, but I made it a full five innings before the relief pitchers took over. Third inning is fucking embarrassing, and for the first time in weeks, I’m wondering what the hell I’m doing with my life.
Nothing makes sense without her. The team staff is taking turns watching Max until the season is over, but what am I going to do next year or the year after that? Hire some random person who will never care about my son the way she did? Why am I even doing this? Because I love it? Well, we don’t always get to have the things we love now, do we?
Monty nods my brother away, and Isaiah gives me an encouraging swat with his glove before heading back to his spot between second and third base.
Monty exhales, holding his jersey over his mouth so he can speak without the cameras picking up on what he’s saying. “I gotta pull you, Ace.”
I don’t argue. I don’t complain. I simply agree.
“You’ve got to find a way through this,” he continues.
“Yeah, sorry, I’ll get working on that.” My tone is entirely dry and Monty shoots me a warning glance, reminding me I’m not the only one having a hard time.
While I’m bitching and complaining about missing his daughter, he’s also heartbroken over not seeing her every day.
“Sorry,” I add more sincerely.
Monty’s brown eyes search mine. “Go home. Go get Max and head home. You don’t need to stay for the rest of the game or the press. Go take care of yourself and your son.”
While standing in the center of the field with forty-one thousand fans watching me, my eyes begin to burn, my throat growing tight because I don’t know how to take care of myself anymore.
I’m a shell of a human these days, barely showering or eating, only getting out of bed for Max. Having someone else to take care of while your heart is breaking is an odd relief. You want to wallow in self-pity but can’t because someone else is relying on you.
But someone else is always relying on me, so that’s nothing new.
“Pick up the damn phone and call her, Kai. It might help you.”
I shake my head, swallowing back the knot in my throat. “I’ll be fine. She’s got more important things going on right now that she doesn’t need to be distracted hearing how fucked up I am.”
He watches me for a moment, then gives me one single nod of his head, my cue to take off.
I do just that. Jogging off the field, through the dugout to the clubhouse to grab my keys. I swing by the training room to pick up Max and find Kennedy playing with him on the floor. She volunteered to watch him for me tonight.
“Hey, Ace,” she says as cautiously as possible. “How are you holding up?”
I groan. “Please don’t pity me like everyone else. I can’t handle another person looking at me like I’m about to break.”
“Sorry, you’re right. You got pulled in the third inning? Ouch. Hate to break it to you, Ace, but I only work on the body. I’ve got nothing for a bruised ego.”
A huff of a laugh escapes me. “Thank you.” Max walks himself over to me, hands up for me to hold him. “And thanks for watching him.”
With that I turn to leave, only to stop in the doorway, looking at Kennedy over my shoulder. “Have you heard from her?”
Her face falls, so much pity that I asked her not to give me. “A couple of times, yes. I’ve texted to check in, but I don’t get a response until it’s the middle of the night. Then by the time I write back, she’s asleep. She’s busy.”
She’s busy. I know she’s busy. I hate that she’s busy.
“Thanks again for watching him.”
Once in my truck, I drive away from the field, taking us home, all while trying to ignore the overwhelming, burning desire to pick up my phone and call her just to hear her voice one more time.
I get Max’s dinner together for him, not worrying about myself because, as I’ve said, I’ve barely eaten this week. We do bath time and I get him cozy in pajamas.
“Max, can you pick out a book to read before bedtime?” I ask, taking a seat on his floor.
He makes his way over to his little bookshelf, picking a big colorful book about insects before dropping to the carpeted ground. He settles himself between my legs, his head resting back on my stomach.
Though most of the day, I feel like I’ll never be okay again, I know I will be. I’ll have to be for him and that gives me a spark of hope.
“Bug,” he says, pointing to a cartoon caterpillar on the pages.
“Yeah, that is a bug. Do you know who else is a bug?” I ask him, tickling his side. “You’re a bug!”
He giggles, folding himself over my hand that’s tickling his ribs and it’s the best sound I’ve heard all week. My smile is the most genuine one I’ve worn in that same amount of time.
Max stands to his feet, turning to face me, meeting me eye to eye. His little hands find my face, running over my cheeks, sliding along my scruff.
He outlines my eyes with a single finger, and I close them so he can. “Dadda, sad,” he says, and my eyes shoot open at that.
His face is so concerned, far more concerned than any seventeen-month-old should be.
But I’m also not going to lie to him.
“Yeah,” I exhale. “Daddy is sad, but it’s okay to be sad.” Wrapping my hand around his back, I help him keep his feet so he can look at me. “It just means we love someone so much that we miss them. That’s a good thing.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, not really understanding everything I’m saying.
“We’ve got each other, Max. You and me.” I pull him into my chest, holding him. “Do you know how much I love you?”
“Yeah,” he says again and this time I can’t help but chuckle.
“Do you know how much Miller loves you? I know she’s missing you as much as we’re missing her. You’re so loved, Bug, by so many people. I don’t want you to forget that.”
He melts into my shoulder, curling himself close to my body, his cue that it’s time for bed.
Standing, I get him in his crib, turning on the sound machine that sits on a small table next to his crib. Max follows me with his sleepy eyes.
He points to the framed photo that lives next to his crib. “Mama.”
I swear the word takes the air right out of my lungs the way it has every day this week.
“That’s uh . . .” I swallow hard. “That’s Miller.”
“Mama!”
“Yeah,” I exhale in defeat, not saying anything else because truly, I don’t want to correct him.
I lean over his crib to kiss his head. “I love you, Max.”
After making sure the baby monitor is on, I turn the lights off and close the door behind me, heading straight for the fridge for a beer.
A Corona specifically, because that’s all I have stocked, which feels like a big fuck you from the universe.
Taking a seat on the couch, I pop the top and take a swig, unable to block out the visual of the way Miller looked with her lips around that Corona the first day I saw her in the elevator.
God, I’m a fucking mess. How do people do this?
Fishing out my phone, I scroll, eager for an iota of information on the girl I’m desperately in love with.
The same girl who is off chasing bigger dreams.
Every night when Max goes to bed, I’m nose deep in my phone, typing in her name, and whenever those jade green eyes and dark brunette hair come into view, my stomach dips, wishing I could reach through the screen and touch her.
She’s been interviewed at least once a day through different blogs. Violet truly kept her promise of filling her schedule when she returned to work. I’m annoyed for her. This is the pressure that set her off in the first place, but I know Miller, I know she can live up to the expectations if she chooses to, and judging by these interviews, she’s doing exactly that.
Then there’s the part of me that’s thankful Violet has thrown her back into the thick of it because it’s the reason I have a bit of her. I can read what she said that day, and yes, this hopeless, longing side to me is trying to read between the lines, searching for a hidden meaning. I’m trying to find the words “Miller Montgomery is moving to Chicago” somewhere in an article that’s titled, “Miller Montgomery—Back to Business.”
It hasn’t been long since those insecurities of not being enough were drowned out by Miller. Those voices were quieted but never truly extinguished, lingering just below the surface.
They’re there again, wondering, dreading the confirmation that she got back to her regularly scheduled life full of chaotic kitchens, traveling the country for work, and being interviewed for fancy magazines only to laugh at herself for ever believing she could get attached to this quiet and simple life with my son and me.
Mid-read of her latest interview, my phone dings with a new text.
Ryan: Family dinner is happening. Thought you were coming by after your game?
Shit. I didn’t even realize. That calendar that I once stared at and memorized, the one that moved at the speed of light while Miller was here, is now moving in slow motion, days ticking down when it feels like I should be crossing off months.
So, yeah, I forgot that it was Sunday because how the hell have I lived through this pain for an entire seven days?
Or maybe subconsciously I made myself forget because the idea of hanging out with my friends, the same friends that are hopelessly in love with their partners, while I’m wallowing in heartbreak sounds like the last thing on earth I want to do.
Me: Sorry, I spaced. I’ll be there next week.
Maybe.
Ryan: Next week, me and my wife will be on our honeymoon.
Shit. The guy is getting married on Saturday and I completely forgot.
Me: I’m a terrible friend. Of course, I know that. I’m looking forward to Saturday.
Ryan: Don’t sweat it. I know you’re going through it right now. We’re here for you if you’d let us be.
Me: I’ll be all right.
Before I can get back to Miller-stalking, a new text thread comes through.
Indy: Ryan can bring you leftovers if you haven’t eaten yet.
Me: Thanks, Ind, but I’m okay.
Indy: Love you and Max. Thinking of you both.
I intend to swipe out of our conversation, but I can’t help myself, hovering my thumb over the keyboard.
Me: Have you heard from her?
A pathetic amount of hope mixes with dread.
Indy: I texted her the other day to tell her she was missed. She said work was kicking her butt, but she missed everyone here too.
I begin to respond, wanting to tell Indy to relay a message for me, that Max misses her, that I miss her, but I talk myself out of it. If she’s going to hear that, it should come from me.
Me: Looking forward to Saturday.
Indy: Me too!!!!!!
The idea of family dinner without Miller is bad enough, but to sit through my friends’ wedding alone? God, that’s going to be rough. I have six days to try to pull it together, to attempt not to ruin their day with my shitty attitude.
Any and all resolve leaves me when I mindlessly find her contact in my phone. It’s staring back at me, taunting me.
Would it really be the worst thing in the world if I got to hear her voice? If I could just tell her how much we’re missing her. Maybe I’d feel better if she knew. Maybe she’d feel better too. Or, and more likely, I just want to hear her say it back.
Without another moment of thought, I press her name and call.
My knees are bouncing with nerves as her phone rings. It continues to do so two more times, until finally on the fourth one, she answers.
My heart soars out of my chest at the knowledge that she’s on the other line, that she can hear me. “Miller?”
I’m fairly certain my voice cracks on her name which would be real fucking embarrassing if I could feel anything other than excitement.
“Uh, no,” someone finally says on the other end. “This is Violet, her agent. She’s in the middle of an interview, at the moment.”
Instant deflation.
“Oh, okay. Do you know when she’ll be done?”
“I’m not sure. She’s got a long night in the kitchen afterward. I’d guess she’ll be free around 2 a.m. or so.”
Two a.m. in Los Angeles which would be 4 a.m. in Chicago.
“Do you want me to have her call you then?” Violet asks.
“No. No, don’t worry about it. I know she’s busy.”
“She is, but it’s all very big and exciting things for her. And she’s happy here. She’s jiving well with this kitchen. She’s got a bright future in the industry. Take it from me. I’ve represented a lot of chefs in my career, but none as promising as her.”
This is what I wanted, for her to succeed. I just didn’t realize it’d hurt so bad to watch from the sidelines. But taking myself out of the equation, I couldn’t be prouder of that girl. It sounds like she’s finally finding what makes her happy.
“Hey, Violet.” I clear my throat. “Do me a favor and don’t mention to her that I called.”
She pauses on the line for a moment. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. Thank you. Have a good night.”
“You too, Baseball Daddy.”
I huff out a small laugh, knowing she saw my name on the caller ID.
I hang up the line feeling as if it were last Sunday all over again. Like I’m starting from scratch in missing her. Only this time, I have the confirmation that she’s happy. That she’s off succeeding, doing bigger and better things than I could ever offer her here.
