Page 33 of Triple Play

“Sometimes.”

“You take ’em to sign the wall yet?” A reference to the huge wall in left field of Monsters stadium, one with an interior tunnel that players and their families graffiti with autographs.

His questions are innocuous—seemingly purposefully so, Forsyth treating my family like he might anyone else’s.

Something inside me relaxes. “Not yet, but maybe this season.” If I’m still playing in Boston… And I turn my attention back up to the sky.

Forsyth peers with me. “So what am I looking at?”

“Mostly nothing. But see that?” I point to a bright object circulating above us. “Satellite.”

He tilts his gaze up, elongating his throat. Some people are handsome only from a distance—TV handsome, Monet handsome—and plainer up close. Forsyth is handsome at any dimension. “What was that?” He points to a brief flash of light in the sky that shimmers and fades.

“Meteor.”

“How can you tell the difference?”

Some things burn out bright and quick. “Colors are different. And the way they move.”

“Huh. That’s pretty cool.” Forsyth studies the patch of darkness around where the light faded for another second. “Are we supposed to make a wish?”

“Sure.” Even if Forsyth seems like the kind of guy who got every wish he ever cast over birthday candles. So I imagine what I always imagine—having enough money that the farm is secure, something that’s distant as the stars above us. Shira. Who feels equally as out of reach.

When I look over, Forsyth is staring up at the sky. Then he turns to me with an unreadable expression. Does he know about me and Shira? If he did, he probably wouldn’t be staring at me, tongue swiping absently across his lower lip. “What’d you wish for?” he asks.

“You ever find yourself hoping for impossible things?”

“Yeah,” Forsyth says, low. What do you wish for that you can’t have? He recovers a second later, shrugging as if he’s casting off whatever’s bothering him. “So, hey, listen, about Shira?—”

Oh fuck, here it comes. Either a stay away from her or a do you know her from somewhere? Neither of which I’m really prepared for out here, my breath fogging, my heart jumping in my throat.

“We can’t let her drive tomorrow.”

I laugh. “What?”

“She won’t say anything about it, but I think today shook her up pretty good.”

No, she probably wouldn’t say anything. Not when she toughed out breaking her ankle. But I’m not supposed to know that. That’s the hardest part of all this, pretending I don’t care about her when I do. “I can drive. If that helps her.”

Something in the way I say that makes Forsyth narrow his eyes.

“I mean, if that’s helpful.”

I get another of those looks. There’s nothing going on between me and Shira. No matter how much I want there to be.

“Thanks, man, appreciate it.” He claps me on the shoulder, then retreats back inside, leaving me with nothing but the night sky and the realization that I was wrong.

The hardest part isn’t pretending I don’t care about Shira.

It’s knowing I’m not the only one who does.

That night, I settle into the king bed I claimed to see what Forsyth might do. If he was going to pull rank, kick my ass, send Shira in here to negotiate, even if her negotiation skills are largely like her driving: aggressive.

Not…nothing.

The bed is massive, comfortable but with a headboard that abuts the other bedroom. Sounds drift through the walls: the murmur of water running from the bathroom on one side, then the sounds of them getting ready for sleep from the other, Forsyth’s low chuckle and the higher peals of Shira’s laughter.

Those get replaced by noises like they’re kissing. Could I hear that through layers of drywall and paint—or am I only hoping I do?

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