Page 81 of The Art of Catching Feelings

She could see instantly that this was the most unforgivable part of what she’d done. She tried to reach for him, more out of an automatic impulse than anything else—tears were streaking down her face, she needed comfort and hewasher comfort—but he flinched away. She realized he wouldn’t be that for her ever again.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I know those words don’t mean much, coming from me. I know I could say it until I’m blue in the face and you wouldn’t forgive me. You probably shouldn’t. But I do want you to know that I really do care about you, Chris. None of that was fake. None of thatisfake.I love you. I fell in love with you in our texts, and I fell in love with you in real life, and the only reason I wasn’t more honest with you was because I was so afraid of messing it all up. Which, ironically of course, I did worse than I ever could’ve by being honest from the beginning. I know what I did was wrong, and I don’t expect or deserve your forgiveness. But I did want you at least to know that I love you.”

When he looked over at her, it was hard to believe the way he’d looked at her only an hour before, like she was something precious to him. “You’re right, those words don’t mean much,” he said. “They don’t mean shit to me. I don’t even know who you are.”

She felt her face crumple. “Youdo,” she said. “I’m the same—”

“You’re not.” He shook his head, backing away from her. “I’ll tell you one thing, though, you’re not boring. Whatever else this was, it was a hell of a ride. A twist a minute. You can feel great about that part.”

Feelgreat? This feltawful. And it felt even worse for all the memories she had of how happy they’d been right here in thissame space only hours before. When they’d had the whole day ahead of them and were looking forward to spending it with each other. Daphne knew they’d said what they were doing was just a fun, no-strings arrangement—she’d been the one to use the phrasefriends with benefits, but she’d been fooling herself. That had never been all it was. And now it might never have the chance to be anything at all.

“Please,” she said. “Just—”

“I gotta go,” Chris said, pressing his hand to his chest. “I can’t—I gotta go.”

He picked up his keys from the dresser, passing by her carefully in the bedroom doorway to avoid even the barest touch. “Just lock up after yourself when you leave,” he said. He was talking fast, looking somewhere over her shoulder. “And from here on out, I’ll answer any baseball questions you ask me in front of a camera, but I think it’s probably best if we don’t interact beyond that.”

A broken, silent sob racked her body, but she didn’t respond. He hesitated only a second at the front door, like maybe he wanted to say something else, but her vision was too blurry for her to see the expression on his face. And then, with a quietclickof the door, he was gone.

THIRTY-SEVEN

Chris was getting better at recognizing when a panic attack was coming on. It was the adrenaline spike, as if a line drive was heading straight for him, the way he suddenly got real focused on his breathing. In, out. In, out. It seemed impossible that his body just knew how to do that by itself, that it wouldn’t fuck it up somehow.

He’d grabbed his keys without really knowing where he was going, but he didn’t want to drive. He didn’t want to be in the car at all, not when it still contained the echoes of some of what they’d said to each other. He pulled his baseball cap lower over his eyes, and started walking down the sidewalk.

Daphne was Duckie. He was still reeling from the revelation. She’dliedto him. He couldn’t even think about all the times she’d asked him a question she probably already knew the answer to, or carefully meted out what she told him about her own life.

God, he felt sostupid. The clues had all been there, if he’d just stopped to pay attention. There were so many commonalities—the divorce, the cat, even her nervousness around driving. But none of those things by itself was that unusual, right? Lots of people got divorced, or had a cat. He never connected her to Duckiebecause it had never occurred to him that she’d have any reason to keep some secret identity from him.

Every single moment they’d spent together was now tainted with this extra layer, this knowledge that she’d had and kept from him. Even when they’d sat down for that first interview,she had already been talking with him for almost a week. He’d sat across from her saying banal shit about how he felt about the game and the crowd, and she’d already known exactly what was going on with him. She probably hadn’t been surprised when he’d walked off.

And then afterward,shewas who he’d turned to. He’d texted all that shit about needing a friend, about wanting to keep talking to her. She must’ve gotten a real kick out of that. When he wouldn’t talk to her in person, she had him on her phone. And when she was ready to be with him in person, she could just ditch him through her text alter ego, leave him wondering what the hell had happened even as she propositioned him in real life.

He was out of breath, way more out of breath than he should’ve been just from walking. He needed to stop, he needed to sit down, but there was nowhere to sit. Eventually he came to a space between two buildings that was too narrow to be a proper alleyway, but enough room that he could lean his back against the wall, his hands on his knees while he tried to breathe more deeply. In, out. In, out.

You can’t white-knuckle your way through the whole season. He could do whatever the fuck he put his mind to. He’d devoted his life to baseball. He’d been a middle schooler who’d spent every night at the ballpark, doing his homework in the dugout while he waited for his turn to hit. He’d barely had a life in high school or college, because he knew that every minute he spent away from training could mean the difference between a scholarship or not,getting drafted or not. He’d taken up running, biking, Pilates, he’d lifted weights, he’d eaten a more plant-based diet, a high-protein diet, he’d had surgeries, he’d rehabbed injuries, he’d done anything they told him to do, all in the name of baseball. And it was worth it. He could let his team down, could lethimselfdown, but the sport was always there. The stitches on the ball felt the same, you knew exactly where to stand and what your job was, and you had twenty-seven outs to make your case, no matter what.

Put your faith in people, and you were bound to get hurt. Put your faith in the game—not even the people, not your teammates or your manager or anyone else, but thegame—and you couldn’t go wrong.

When Chris finally got going again, he automatically turned down a few streets until he realized he was making his way to Randy’s place. The All-Star Game wasn’t until tomorrow night, but he couldn’t think where else to go.

THIRTY-EIGHT

Somehow Daphne made it back to her apartment in one piece, physically at least, but once she was alone she let it all out. She cried so much that Milo hid under the bed, less interested in comforting her in her time of need than in removing himself from the tense situation.

On the one hand, she’d known this was coming. She’d been dreading it all these months, and it was almost a relief to have it out in the open, to not have to worry anymore about keeping secrets. But on the other hand, it had taken her by complete surprise, the way it had all happened and just how badly it had hurt. She couldn’t shake that image of Chris’ face, when he’d first realized. He’d looked betrayed. He’d lookeddevastated.

She heard a key working in her lock, and she sat up in bed, so thrown by the sound that she couldn’t even process who it could be. Her first thought was Chris—which was of course ridiculous, and true wishful thinking. She’d never given him a key. She’d done everything to keep him as far away from her apartment as possible, actually, which was part of the problem with the subterfuge she’d been running. And even if hedidhave a key, there was no way he’d be coming over now. Those days were over.

It was only when Kim shoved her way in, the door sticking inits frame the way it did during the humid summer months, that Daphne remembered. She’d texted Kim earlier that morning, asking if she could stop by to feed Milo and check in on him. Back when she’d thought maybe she’d still be at Chris’ place. Back when she’d been feeling hopeful, and happy, and like maybe she deserved it.

God, she hated herself for having felt that way.

“Oh!” Kim said, her hand flying to her chest as she was clearly surprised by Daphne’s presence. “I’m sorry, I thought you said tonight?”

“I did,” Daphne said. “I’msorry. I should’ve texted you that I’d be home after all.”

“Plans fall through?”

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