Page 24 of Switch Hitter

Sean

I can’t do this.

Three dots appear immediately.

Then disappear.

Then appear again.

My heart pounds.

Emiliano

Yes you can. You’re just afraid, and it’s okay to be afraid.

Let’s talk after you eat okay?

I swallow hard because he’s right.

The thing I’m scared of isn’t him; it’s what loving him would make me.

I lock my phone and shove it back into my pocket like the truth is too hot to hold. I get in my car and drive home with my hands at ten and two, like I’m a teenager again, trying to be good.

Trying not to want what I want. Knowing damn well it’s not going to work. Emiliano Guerrero doesn’t accept half-measures, and it’s looking like my heart doesn’t either.

FIVE

EMILIANO

Packing for such a short trip is an art, really, and I like my shit to be organized. I lay everything out on my bed in neat lines like I’m building a bullpen routine: joggers, a hoodie, two shirts, a toiletries bag, a charger, and AirPods. I toss in my Kindle in case I get bored on the flight. I add a Mets cap, then pause and swap it for a plain black one.

Not because I’m ashamed.

Far from it. I’m just not stupid.

New York loves juicy chisme, and I’m not giving anyone a reason to ask why the Mets ace is flying to San Jose on an off day.

My phone buzzes on the dresser, but I already know it’s not Sean. No matter how much I want it to be. The silence from him has weight now, like he’s making himself heavier on purpose. Like if he stays quiet, the feelings can’t reach him.

The text is from my mom.

Mamá

¿A qué hora vienes hoy?

I smile despite myself while I type back.

Emiliano

No voy, mamá. Voy a salir.

Mamá

¿Salir a dónde?

I hesitate for a second, because my mother is a woman who treats information like a living thing she can hold in her hands and examine from every angle.

If I tell her the truth, she’ll ask a hundred questions.