“They’re long-distance.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I’m here with her. She invited me because she knows I’m a huge Cubs fan.”
“You’re here with Marian Hart?”
“Yes. Who is a lovely, generous, thoughtful person kind enough to think of me. It’s quite an experience, being here with the team. Did you know there’s a whole suite for the visiting team with free drinks and catering? I had prime rib and a Manhattan before the game.”
“Well, good for you. And good for Marian. I would fuck that guy right into the ground.”
I try not to choke at the thought of this.
“I thought you were a Dodgers fan,” I say.
“I can be bought.”
We arrive at the merchandise store, crammed wall-to-wall with Dodgers paraphernalia.
“Anything you want, Marks,” I say. “On me.”
She takes her time perusing this and that, showily checking the price tags and declaring things like, “No, no, not expensive enough.”
I stand sheepishly in my mustard-covered Cubs jersey, watching people eye me with hostility, confusion, and mirth.
She finally comes to me with her selections: a hoodie (“it might get cold later—this is the desert!”), a jersey (“this color looks great on me”), a baseball cap (“it’s too bright out”), four key chains (“for my cousins in Iowa”) and two T-shirts: one a men’s large and one a women’s small.
“One for you and one for me.”
“Molly, I’m not wearing a Dodgers shirt.”
“Yes you are. It’s your punishment for pouring beer all over me.”
“An accident.”
“It’s not the intent, it’s the harm.”
“I’m literally sitting with the families of the team. As the guest of the star outfielder.”
“Well, explain to them that you’re being gallant.”
I sigh. I suppose I can wear the shirt backward and inside out.
I take her selections to the register and proffer my credit card to the tune of $473.12.
“So,” I say as I hand her the bulging bag. “How are you?”
“Me? Fine, fine. You know. Writer’s life. Just type, type, typing away. And you?”
“I’m great. Thanks so much for asking.”
“Are you being sarcastic?”
“No, enthusiastic. You wouldn’t be familiar.”
I’m trying to be casual, but I feel awkward. What do you say to a person who has flatly stated they don’t want to speak to you? Has she forgotten?
“Well, um, we should probably go change,” I say. “It was nice to see you.”
She furrows her brow. “You aren’t going to invite me down to see Marian?”
I furrow my brow back. “You don’t … like Marian.”
“But I like you,” she says, stopping my heart.
She seems taken aback that she said that—like it just slipped out.
It still robs me of breath.
“Uh, well. We’re in section H, row thirty-one, by the aisle. The ones wearing Cubs shirts and getting booed. Come say hi if you want.”
CHAPTER 15 Molly
I enter Seth’s seats into my phone so I don’t forget, and wave goodbye as he walks away.
There’s a dry breeze cooling the sweat in my hair as night descends. The floodlights cast shadows over the stands, making the light-up novelty wands in the crowd glow brighter. The stadium feels alit with opportunity. And so do I.
Seth. Here. What are the odds?
