Page 18 of Switch Hitter

I call him.

The line rings.

Once. Twice. Three times.

“Hey, you’ve reached Sean… I’m probably on the field or sleeping so leave me a message and I’ll hit ya back.”

I hang up before it beeps, not because I’m embarrassed, but because I don’t want to say everything over a fucking voicemail. Tossing my phone back onto the couch, I stand there breathing like I’m trying not to lose my mind.

The next morning, I’m up early, running on the treadmill and checking my phone every few minutes. I sent him a couple of texts when I woke up, trying to extend that olive branch.

Emiliano

You know if you would have just kissed me… you be waking up here.

With me.

Nothing.

Emiliano

Answer me.

Minutes pass with him ignoring me, and it makes me laugh.

“¿En serio?” I mutter. “You’re gonna ghost me?”

I pick up my phone again and type.

Emiliano

You know what’s funny?

I pause.

If I push too hard, he’ll bolt. If I go soft, he’ll panic. Sean lives in a battle of extremes. He only knows how to fight or flee.

So I split the difference and I go back to what we do best.

Banter like a blade.

Emiliano

You ran when I tried to kiss you

But you’ve never run when I make you moan my name

I hit send and stare at the screen like I can will him into replying.

Okay.

So he’s committed to the silent treatment. I breathe out slowly through my nose and try to think like a pitcher again.

What do you do when a hitter won’t bite?

You change the approach.

You stop throwing him what he expects.