Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 80953 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80953 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
Fresh tears leaked weakness. “Why would you say that?” He knew. He had to know. Or maybe he didn’t.
“It’s convenient timing with this breakdown.”
“It’s not a breakdown.” I sat up and sniffed, a glob of mucus thick down my throat.
“Then toughen up. Whatever it is. Either talk to me about it, or stop crying and get the hell over it.”
I twisted my mouth, holding back a burst of angry words. I was mad at him, and for no good reason. We had always talked, often no one else around to bounce things off of, and his treatment of me as an adult was one I valued, my attitude and silence for the last week uncharacteristic. I didn’t blame him for being confused, or for being sharp. He wasn’t at fault in all of this. Chase was. Who punched a security guard over a slow key machine? Who told a girl he loved her, and then moved to Baltimore without saying goodbye?
“Pack up. Get on the plane. Let’s get to Chicago and you’ll feel better. The game has helped me through a lot of hard moments. Pull on cleats, smell your glove, run on the field … it’ll help with whatever you’re going through.”
It was tempting. For the first time, I considered leaving the house. Moving on. Returning to life. But how could I walk on a field and not think of his jog across it? Sit on a dugout bench and not remember his slouch against it, his eyes on me? Walk down a tunnel and not think of our collision? Every memory, every piece of my life was now tainted with him. I couldn’t turn on ESPN without hearing his name. Couldn’t go through our schedule with every Orioles game looming, eight more games left this year. Eight times we would share the field. Eight times he would stand on the dirt, just steps away.
I just wasn’t ready to smell the leather of a glove or to walk into an empty hotel room. I couldn’t handle any memories of Chase right now. But eating … maybe that I could do. I swung my feet off the side of the bed. “I’ll stop moping. I’ll try.” I gave him the best smile I could muster.
“And you’ll pack? Come with me to Illinois?”
I shook my head. “Next week,” I promised.
That was enough, and he held out his hand, pulling me to my feet and wrapping me in a hug. “You stink,” he murmured into my hair, and I laughed.
“I’ll shower too.”
“And eat something. Carla just made your favorite: chicken pot pie.”
I nodded, the smell of her cooking coming through the open door. My stomach woke up, churning to life, and I pulled out of his hug, his arm keeping me close, and he bent down to press a kiss on the top of my head. I suddenly felt hot, the scent of food overwhelming, my shove against him harder than I intended, my sprint to the bathroom barely in time, the door slamming against the wall, my knees hitting the tile, hands on the seat, my stomach heaving.
I wheezed, the action painful, each lurch of my stomach bringing up little, my forehead dotted with sweat by the time I collapsed against the wall of the bathroom, my legs weakly falling open, my eyes traveling up my father’s body and to his face. He watched me, concerned, then paled, turning ashen. Seeing it cemented all of my fears, his hand dragging over his face in the moment before he pointed a shaky finger toward me.
“You’re not … not…”
I swallowed hard, more tears threatening, barely held at bay, my mind counting over the last few weeks, trying to remember when I’d last had my period. “I think so,” I whispered. “I’m pregnant.”
I didn’t end up going back on the road.
I didn’t go to another game that year.
The next time I walked into Yankee Stadium, it was through the owner’s entrance, my journey by private elevator and surrounded by security, until I was seated in the skybox, my dinner order taken by a tuxedoed waiter, my ring shining in all the glory that seven carats brought. I sat up there, ate crab cakes, sipped hot tea, listened to my fiancé talk, and watched my boys play.
With every single play, I thought of him.
With every single play, I died a little more.
FOUR YEARS LATER
2015 Season
JUNE
“Rachel Frepp was the first. She died on September 28th, the last day of the 2011 season, when the Yanks lost to the Rays. A jogger found her, stabbed, early that next morning, in the alley behind her apartment. That’s how all the girls died, and they were practically carbon copies of each other. Single blondes on the Upper East Side, all in their twenties. All in love with the Yankees. I guess those were his favorites.”