I wish, for a moment, that I was. That I believed in the logic of rom-coms: that Seth could shore up my faith and sand down my rough edges, and I could brace him with realism until we evolved into each other’s missing piece.
But that’s not how it works.
I send Seth one more message.
Molly: You’re sweet. But I can’t.
PART THREE
October 2019
CHAPTER 14 Seth
Is there anything like a cold beer in a thirty-dollar novelty cup at a baseball game? What is it about that translucent hard plastic that makes beer taste so much better? So crisp. So fun. So American. And not the bad, dog-whistle kind of American. The America’s pastime, Fourth of July, peanut shells on the floor of the ballpark, type of American.
The only problem with novelty cups is the difficulty of carrying two of them, plus a giant tub of popcorn and a hot pretzel with extra mustard, back to the stands. Especially at a playoff game where everyone is screaming and stomping and jubilantly (or despairingly) bumping into one another.
I bid good day to the cheery concession stand worker, balance the pretzel over the popcorn, pinch two beers by the rim in my other hand, and begin my Herculean trek back to my seat.
I am lucky. It is a very, very good seat. Even though I am rooting for, some might say, the wrong team.
I am at Dodger Stadium, in Los Angeles, cheering on the Chicago Cubs in the seventh game of the National League Championship Series. Whoever wins goes to the World Series. It’s the sixth inning. The game is tied, 2–2. I am losing my mind. I had to leave and get snacks so I don’t have a stroke.
My seat is approximately thirty steps down a narrow staircase, so I’m panicking a little about how to maneuver past the throng of highly charged fans. I feel vulnerable yet proud in my Cubs jersey. I know Dodger fans will throw popcorn, or worse, at me as I descend. I need to be physically and emotionally prepared. I take a deep breath.
“Seth!” someone calls from behind me. I pause but do not turn my head, because if I do I will spill something, and besides, all the people I know at this game are down in our seats. Surely no one is talking to me.
I take a few more precarious steps, pretzel wobbling on its perch.
A finger taps my shoulder.
I slowly turn around to see my high school friend Gloria and her wife, Emily.
Somehow, somehow, I manage not to spill my haul of concessions on any passersby as I say hello.
“I knew it was you,” Gloria said. “I’d recognize those ears anywhere.”
My big stupid ears are indeed recognizable. And I just got a haircut, emphasizing my least comely feature. Which is fine, as I don’t think my levels of physical hotness are particularly pertinent to two married lesbians. One of whom, I notice, is quite a bit pregnant.
“You’re expecting!” I squeal. “Congratulations!”
Emily puts a hand on her belly. “Twin boys. Can you even?”
I can even, as they will be wonderful parents. And I cannot help but experience a small pang of vindication that they have bonded their union by starting a family—as it aligns with a bet I made with a certain woman who shall not be named.
“You two will destroy parenting,” I say.
“Is that a good thing?” Gloria asks.
“So good,” I assure her.
“What brings you here?” Emily asks.
“The Cubs, obviously,” Gloria says, gesturing at my jersey. “This rat has the nerve to root for the enemy on our turf, and not even call to say he’s in town.”
“Horrible man,” Emily agrees.
“I’m sorry!” I say. “I just got in this afternoon. I was going to text you, I swear. Do you think I don’t want to hang out by your pool overlooking the canyons?”
“How do you know we have a pool overlooking the canyons?” Gloria asks. “Are you stalking us?”
“Yes,” I say solemnly. “I actually live in a car outside your house. I have this telephoto camera that lets me see right through your windows.”
“Good,” Gloria says. “I was hoping for a reason to have you thrown in jail. Where all Cubs fans belong.”
I laugh, and it throws off my balance. I grip the plastic of my novelty beers harder. I can’t spill Coors Light on a pregnant lady.
“Who are you here with?” Emily asks.
“There you are,” a voice says from over my shoulder. “Sorry, the bathroom line was eleven point two million people long. Also the sinks are crusted in blue face paint.”
I careen around at the sound of that voice.
The pretzel flops onto my chest, smearing my shirt in mustard. I try to resettle it and the popcorn goes flying, raining down like edible confetti on myself and—who else?—Molly Marks.
“Fuck!” I cry. “I’m so sorry.”
One cup slips, and I try to catch it, but instead bat it in the air, spraying all eighteen ounces over the clavicle, cleavage, and Dodgers tee of a woman who told me to stop texting her after I told her I had feelings for her.
