“Excuse me,” I said quickly, with a tight smile. He let me pass, worry in his eyes.
I didn’t vomit. My body didn’t allow me that reaction of guilt. I dry heaved into the toilet, wanting it, hoping it would ease some part of what I did, but my stomach stayed calm, the step away from Tobey’s love all that it had needed.
I could not be this woman—a cheater. Not to this man who loved me so much. Not to this man who had given me everything.
I opened the skybox vanity kit and took out a fresh toothbrush and paste. After brushing, I stepped out and back into place next to Tobey, the seventh inning stretch beginning, the stadium swaying before us in harmonic concert.
“You know how the seventh inning stretch began?” Chase spoke quietly next to me, his arm resting on the dugout rail, his eyes on the field, “God Bless America” floating down and over the dugout roof.
“Yes.” I rolled my eyes.
“You do?”
I laughed quietly under my breath. “There are five or six stories, and I have heard them all, so whichever one you use to pick up girls in bars, I know.”
There was a long pause from his direction. “At Manhattan—”
“College,” I interrupted. “Brother Jasper. Got it.”
“In the summer of 1869, The New York—”
“Herald published an article about the laughable stand up and stretch.”
He turned his head toward me, my peripheral vision catching the action, and I glanced his way, his eyes challenging me. “A letter—”
“By Harry Wright. Also in 1869. Cincinnati Red Stockings,” I shot back.
“1889.”
“World Series. Someone stood up and yelled ‘stretch for luck.’”
“1910.”
I smirked, the final one too easy. “President Taft.”
He grinned at me, the trademark cocky smile a little different. Softer. Sweeter.
“Well?” I challenged. “Please. Tell me all about your precious baseball history, Mr. Stern.” I put on an innocent face, and he laughed.
“Ty!” The bark made me jump, and I glanced over my shoulder at the bench.
“Go grab some more Gatorade,” Fernandez said, his glare on Chase.
“You got it.” I flashed a smile at Fernandez, and he watched me warily, his eyes darting back to Chase.
Thank God we’d finally switched back to the seventh inning stretch’s original song, our troops out of Afghanistan, “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” resuming its tenure. Every game, that stretch had mocked me. Every game, I had steeled myself for its chords.
Now, I looked at the empty field and thanked God that I wasn’t down in that dugout. Up here, in our throne, I could almost forget his presence. I could definitely avoid his eyes.
Behind me, there was the loud pop of a champagne bottle, and I flinched.
74
After those minutes with Chase, I suddenly couldn’t stand Tobey’s touch. I didn’t feel worthy, not with his loving gaze already clawing through my skin. That night, when he pulled me to him, I winced, the brush of his fingers across my stomach prickly, my hand unable to stop in pushing him away.
“Not tonight.”
“Do you feel okay?” He was worried, after my rush to the bathroom during the game. I’d had nausea during my first pregnancy. So maybe … always the maybe, floating out there. He didn’t know about the birth control implant I had put in. I’d done it after the miscarriage, terrified of the chance of another baby, one that might chain us together forever. Now, four years later, our marriage was in a different, stronger place, one where love had grown from the seeds of friendship and circumstance. But even after the love, I didn’t remove the implant. I told myself that I couldn’t handle another loss. And I didn’t tell Tobey. I’m not sure why, except that I didn’t know how to discuss my motivations. How do you tell your husband that you don’t want to carry his child?