Page 89 of The Third Baseman

Maybe we had a different definition of the word.

Maybe she’d been too busy with Coffee Douche.

I must have been out of my mind when I told her to go on a date. What the fuck had I been thinking?! I was an idiot for thinking I’d be able to handle it, handle knowing she was with another guy.

Worse than that; kissing him. Or more.

My stomach convulsed at the thought. My knuckles whitened as I gripped the steering wheel and shook it hard. It didn’t move.

Fuck’s sake.

I eased forward to the front of the lights. Fucking finally! I’d be home in ten minutes, which was probably all the time my wiper blades had left before they flew off.

Lightning flashed in the sky, and pedestrians hurried along the sidewalk quicker.

A loud ringing cleared my black cloud enough for me to glance over at the dash to see my youngest sister’s name. I sighed heavily and my chest sagged; I really didn’t want this conversation, but she’d only call again, and again.

“Hey, Em,” I sighed resignedly as I inched forward another couple of yards.

“You okay? I caught the end of the game.”

On the far side of the traffic I watched a woman get soaked by a wave of water, sprayed by a passing truck. She stood there, her mouth wide open, while coming to terms with the fact she’d have been drier if she’d gotten into a bath fully clothed.

Oh well, hopefully she didn’t have late night plans. Hopefully she was going home with a lonely broken heart, just like me.

“Jupe?”

“Sorry, yeah I’m fine.” If she only saw the end of the game, I could get away with this being a short conversation.

“Sure?”

“Yes, Emerson! I’m fine.”

“Then what’s this Drew is saying about you smashing a bat in the dugout during fourth innings?”

Goddammit. My brother-in-law had a big mouth. I muted the speaker and shook the wheel hard again, letting out a loud, frustrated cry. It didn’t work if I thought it was going help me feel better.

Only one thing was ever going to help me feel better.

I returned to the call. “I wasn’t playing well. I didn’t even get off home plate. It was a bad game, that’s all. With one hundred and sixty two games a year, they can’t all be good.”

“And you took it out on your bat?”

Yes. Yes, I had. My bat was currently in the morgue undergoing autopsy. Cause of death: Jupiter Reeves and his inability to be chill about anything concerning Marnie Matthews.

“Emerson… why are you calling me?”

She didn’t even pause, because I knew the real reason she was calling, which was why I’d been avoiding her the past few days. “How are things with Marnie?”

I scratched through my stubble and rubbed hard on my still-damp neck, then sighed deeply. “They suck.”

“I thought they were getting better.”

“So did I, but then I fucked up, and now they suck again.” I didn’t want to get into details, because honestly, I didn’t want to hear Emerson agree I’d fucked up, and I also wasn’t sure I could keep a grip on myself long enough not to cry.

Fucking cry, with actual tears… just like Marnie.

“Oh, Jupiter...”

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