Page 9 of Switch Hitter

And Emiliano doesn’t accept half-measures.

He’ll want the thing I can’t give him.

I don’t answer.

Buzz.

Emiliano

Look, I’m not mad. I just don’t like when you disappear.

My hands curl into fists.

I hate that he can call it what it is so easily. Like I’m not complicated. Like I’m not a mess of rules, fear, and Irish Catholic guilt wrapped around a baseball uniform.

I grab my phone again, thumbs hovering.

Sean

I’m fine.

Delete.

Sean

Don’t.

Delete.

Sean

It was just⁠—

None of the words are true, and I don’t know how to send a lie that won’t unravel the second he looks at it.

I set the phone down harder than necessary.

Like a punishment.

Like I can discipline the want out of myself.

I crawl into bed and stare at the ceiling until my eyes burn. Sleep comes in scraps. In restless dozes. Flashes of chain link and his mouth and the way he almost kissed me like it meant something.

I wake up once to another buzz.

I don’t look.

I look.

Emiliano

If you’re going to pretend you hate me, at least be good at it.

My breath catches, and a laugh tries to escape before it gets strangled halfway out.

When I don’t answer, he goes back to banter. Back to the language we use when honesty feels too sharp.

It still hooks me.