Tension was in the air, the bodies that passed our seats subdued, everyone on edge, short greetings tossed our way. Game 2 had been bad, a loss by four runs, the team’s cohesion off, everyone batting shit, errors right and left. I had stayed at the skybox’s glass, tension building with each inning, the drinks Tobey kept passing me not helping, nothing helping. I almost went down there. Just wanted to see his face, to hear his voice. I needed it, each of these days without him were torture.
Now, Tobey and I sat in the first seats of the jet, each new body in the open door causing my heart to skip, my eyes frantic in their game of avoidance and need. I tried not to look, but I failed. Then, there was the moment of glance and stick—his head ducking through the opening, a hat on his head, his eyes finding mine, the edge of his mouth barely lifting, his chin nodding, his eyes going from me to Tobey, and his mouth flattened. “Mr. Grant,” he drawled. “Mrs. Grant.” He nodded and moved past, down the aisle. It took every muscle in my neck to keep my head trained forward, to not turn my head and watch his exit. I wondered if he turned around. If he glanced up at us when he sat. I hated sitting next to Tobey. Being on this jet with both of them. I tried to get Tobey to fly out separately, but he refused.
If he wasn’t here, I’d have your seat leaned back and my face between your thighs.
I saw the email twenty minutes after we took off, the jostle of turbulence covering up my small reactionary gasp, the uncomfortable cross of my legs. I tilted the phone away from Tobey, rereading the email, committing it to memory before I pushed the delete button.
There. Gone. I shifted in my seat, needing some relief from the sudden ache between my legs. Tobey leaned over, kissing my neck, and the familiar stab of guilt returned. It’d been haunting me, getting stronger by the day, gaining momentum with every touch of my husband’s hand, every whisper in my ear. I wished I could hate him. I wished I didn’t feel pity for him. He was too good for pity. He was too good for any of this.
Three more games.
Five more days.
Then, the lies and the deaths would all be over.
103
World Series: Game 4
We had won Game 3. A short-lived victory since we were now down by four runs. Chase swung, the ball ripping from his bat, going high, high, high … gone. I watched fans in the upper decks scramble for the ball, bodies jumping off seats, a claw of arms and elbows until one lone figure cheered, his arm stretched high in the air, the ball clenched in his fist. It didn’t matter. No one was on base. One run in, three more needed just to tie up the game. And in the sixth inning, our prospects looked bleak.
I tipped back my beer and sank into the chair. Took another pull. I’d been using alcohol to avoid sex with Tobey. Guzzling drinks and then stumbling into our room at night. Funny, since alcohol was what put us in bed together the first night. That chug of his beer, then the next round of shots, the fuzz they brought when they hit my virgin system. The recklessness it had pushed him to. I doubt Harvard boy would have fucked little Rollins without a condom, had his head been on straight.
Another inning, another run brought in by the Cubs. Tobey growled under his breath next to me, the entire box quiet as we watched. We should have changed pitchers earlier. Should have put Franks before Chase in the lineup. Should have, should have, should have. I should have ended things with Tobey a long time ago. I could have done it before the attachment, before the love. Then maybe this wouldn’t feel so seedy. I was a woman unaccustomed to guilt, and it drowned me—pulling me deeper, cutting off my air supply.
I stood at the final pitch, tossing my empty beer bottle into the trash, the loss painful as I stared at the final scoreboard. Two more losses and we’d lose the World Series. Two more losses and … what? Would another girl die?
I stumbled for the door, and Tobey caught my arm, holding me steady, his hand a shackle I reluctantly leaned on for support.
It was too much pressure, all of it. Baseball shouldn’t be life or death. Baseball shouldn’t determine fates.
104
World Series: Game 5
Our last day in Chicago. I stepped from the elevator, into the huge lobby, one that towered upward, its grandeur constructed over a century ago. I paused, my eyes sweeping the room, looking for Tobey. He’d come down fifteen minutes earlier, anxious for our lunch with Dick and John. Not seeing him, I headed for the restaurant, walking quickly, tension knotting my veins, any public experience always running the risk of—
“Ty.” Chase. Freshly shaven, a nick on his jaw, his hair wet. He wore sweatpants and a long-sleeve T-shirt, the smell of soap drifting off his skin, a duffel bag hanging from one shoulder. He joined me, our steps carrying us closer to the restaurant, and I glanced around.
“I’m meeting a group for lunch,” I said quickly.