Page 8 of Switch Hitter

It doesn’t.

I don’t.

That’s the whole problem.

When I finally step out, my fingers are pruney and my chest feels bruised from the inside. The mirror is fogged, but my silhouette still looks guilty. Like a man who did something he wasn’t supposed to do.

I wipe the glass with my palm.

My reflection stares back.

Red hair damp and sticking up. Cheeks flushed from heat, and a faint mark on my neck that wasn’t there earlier. It’s not dramatic, but it’s enough. Enough to make my throat tighten.

Catholics are trained to notice evidence.

My phone sits on the nightstand, screen dark.

I stare at it like it’s going to start burning.

Because he’s going to text.

Emiliano always texts.

He texts like he pitches: confident, precise, like he already knows where you’re going to swing.

The phone buzzes.

My stomach drops.

I pick it up.

Emiliano

You run fast for an outfielder

It’s stupid. Playful. A rope thrown across the gap so we can pretend it was just a game.

My chest tightens anyway, and I don’t answer.

I set it down like it’s a snake.

Two minutes.

Buzz.

Emiliano

You ok, Cobre?

No emoji. No teasing. Just checking in.

That one lands harder.

I stare at the ceiling like it’s going to give me instructions.

If I answer, I open the door.

If I open the door, he walks through it.