Page 4 of A More Than Mayhem Christmas

In high school, I once did a paper on the rule of threes as it pertained to literature. It’s pretty much the only thing I remember learning from high school.

To me, school was a stepping-stone to college, which was another stepping-stone to pro baseball. It’s strange to think how high-school-me has everything he ever dreamed of, and yet…

I shove the diamond ring in my pocket before glancing at the bathroom mirror, then the door. On the other side of that door is silence. No footsteps. No movement. Unless Kayla suddenly took off without a word, I know she’s there. At least physically. Mentally, I don’t know where she is…

Theruleof three is a literary device used by writers to give their storytelling more impact. Three adjectives, three characters, three acts. Or three simple words.

You can see it in everyday life used by brands as their slogans. Nike: Just do it; Redbull: gives you wings; Skittles: Taste the rainbow.

Not surprisingly for me, I’ve always linked the number three to baseball.

Three strikes, and you’reout.

I glance at my reflection once more. So much has changed in the ten years Kayla and I have been together. We’ve both grown, that’s for sure. In multiple ways. For multiple reasons. And the truth is… I don’t know if we’ve grown closer or further apart.

I tap at the engagement ring in my pocket, making sure it hasn’t disappeared into thin air. Then I ignore the shakiness of my hands, the fear in my mind, and the uncertainty turning my stomach before exiting the room.

Kayla’s exactly where I left her. In our bed. On her side. Her eyes closed.

We’re in the garage apartment of my parents’ house, where we moved her into after the tragedy that took her entire family.

I squat down beside the bed and move the hair away from her face so I can see her more clearly. Her eyes open slowly, the brown of her irises meeting mine. One second. Two.Three. Then they close again.

“We don’t have to go tonight,” I tell her, my voice just above a whisper. “I’ll call Cam?—”

“And tell him what?” she interrupts, her eyes snapping open as she practically throws the covers off her. I watch as she moves to the dresser, pulling open the drawers with enough force it rattles the items atop it.

“I’ll just tell him I’m tired,” I say, coming to a stand. “He won’t?—”

“You need to stop making excuses for me, Jake. I’mfine,”she says.

Only she’s notfine.

And she hasn’t been for a while.

I don’t know what happened or exactly where things went wrong, but she hasn’t been herself in quite some time. Maybe I noticed it too late, or maybe she worked really fucking hard to hide it from me. Either way,fineis the absolute last word I’d use to describe her.

Andus.

I bite back a sigh, and instead, use what energy I have left to plead, “Kayla…”

She stops with her task, her shoulders dropping, along with her head. Then she turns to me. Her eyes are clear. No tears. And I wait with bated breath as she approaches me. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, right before she wraps her arms around my waist. Face pressed against my chest, she mumbles, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” I assure. A lie, obviously, because this simple hug is the closest we’ve been thatshe’sinstigated since I can remember.

Kayla pulls away, and I almost die at the emptiness her touch leaves behind. But then she takes my hand, leads me to the large armchair in the corner of the room. She urges me to sit, and I do as she asks. Then she sits across my lap, her arms going around my neck as she rests her head on my shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she repeats.

“Baby…” I stroke her leg, resting the back of my head on the chair, and stare up at the ceiling. I give myself a moment, allowing my lungs to fill with air for the first time in what feels like forever. I don’t want to tell her it’s okay, because one: I don’t truly know what she’s apologizing for; and two: I don’t want to lie to her. Things aren’t okay.She’snot okay. “You know you can talk to me if something’s upsetting you.”

She seems to hesitate a moment before answering, “I know.”

“Do you?” I ask, needing confirmation.

She pulls away, and I reach for her face, cup her jaw. “I think it’s just… being separated so much is getting to me.”

Postseason ended early November, but I have training camps and other things that keep me in St. Louis for the most part. I come back here as much as possible, only becausehereis where she chooses to be. I open my mouth, ready to retort, but she beats me to it.

“Please don’t take that as anything other than what it is. I’m so proud of you. YouknowI am.”

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