Chapter One
I settle into the couch, shifting my weight a bit. I know I shouldn't work on the couch, but I'm just so tired. I can hear Matthew in the other room. I can't remember if I said hello when I returned from work. I honestly can't remember if I've talked to him at all today.
Not that it matters.
I train my eyes back on the computer screen. It's blank. It's blank and I have a deadline in two hours.
One hour and fifty-eight minutes.
Fifty-seven minutes.
I shift my weight again. I pull my feet up onto the couch and rest the computer on my knees. I hear Matthew open up the office an door and tread up the stairs. He has heavy feet. It drives me crazy. I take in a deep break and blow out in an "O" shape. It almost creates a whistle.
One hour and fifty-one minutes.
I pull up my notes from the game earlier today. The Mariners beat the Brewers 3 to 1. My scorecard is on the couch next to me. I need an angle. These days writing for a print publication is damn near pointless. By the time anyone reads my story tomorrow, they will already know the score and have seen 100 variations of the stats. So, I need an angle. The Mariners are in the pennant race. Finally. I was a fan long before I started covering the team for the Seattle Daily News. So, I have a lot of emotion toward this season, and it's really, really hard not to cheer for the team.
Maybe that's the angle. A spin on the stats in the last twenty years. What's different about this year?
With that my fingers start moving. I type a line and then delete it. Then, a paragraph. I delete that, too. Damn it.
I move the computer over to the dark marble island in the kitchen. My back is to the refrigerator as I hunch over the laptop keys. I drum the fingers of my left hand on the marble. And start again.
Suddenly, I've written two pages, and I don't know how long Matthew has been standing over me.
"So … tomorrow?" He says.
"What? Yes! Yes, tomorrow." I reply without moving my eyes from the screen.
"Great … glad I could …"
"Wait, what?" I ask as Matthew retreats from the kitchen. He's barefoot on the white linoleum. He has on dark gray sweatpants, and he looks tired. "What's tomorrow?"
"The banquet." He says quietly.
"Banquet?" I hate that he doesn't wear socks in the house because he always insists then that it's cold.
"Yes, banquet. I'm getting an award," he says.
He's made his way back into the kitchen, and he's standing on the opposite side of the island now facing me. I give him a blank stare and blink back toward the computer screen. I type a few words and then look up at him again.
"Hang on," I say. I type a few more words. Delete a few. Write a few more. "Okay, sorry, what banquet?"
He's gone.
Sigh.
I want to go after him, but I really need to finish this article. And I really need to get it to my editor in the next thirty minutes or he'll have my head. What's another thirty minutes? I'm sure he's already mad at me.
I turn back to the laptop. It's not bad. The article. It definitely tells the story of what it means to be a Mariner's fan. I upload it to the server and pull out my cell phone.
[Sent: 11:58 p.m.] Hey Owen, just uploaded the article. It's a good one - nay, a great one. I'll be up for another hour if you need anything.
[Received: 11:59 p.m.] Right under the wire, Kepner. Be in touch.
Sigh. In some ways, Owen is a good guy. In other ways, he is a guy in a male-dominated world managing a woman. I hope that today he isn't in the mood to teach me any lessons.
I settle onto the dark blue couch and shift around the throw pillows a bit. I end up on my stomach, left arm dangling off the side and grazing the top of my cell phone. I try to will myself not to fall asleep.
Damn it. I'm sure Matthew is asleep by now.
I open up the calendar on my phone and switch it to our joint calendar. I don't see the banquet entry. He must have forgotten. I try to Google it.
Firefighters Honored for Wildfire Heroics - Governor to Give Medal of Honor
Damn it. I scroll down some more. Yup. Matthew Taylor. Damn it. The article was written two days ago. He must have told me then.
[Sent: 12:32 a.m.] Arizona - you up? What are the chances I can have tomorrow off?
[Received: 12:35 a.m.] Ask Owen.
Sigh. Owen is the Sports Editor, but Arizona is the general manager of the newspaper. She and I get along great, and if she were to give me the day off, Owen would have to go for it.
[Sent: 12:37 a.m.] I forgot that Matthew is being honored tomorrow night. By the Governor! I have to go. Owen is going to be pissed.
[Received: 12:39 a.m.] I'M pisssed. There's two games left in the season. You're our best baseball writer. Ask Owen.
Damn it.
[Received: 12:47 a.m.] Kep, it's going to press. This will really appeal to our women readers.
Leave it to Owen. My stuff can't have general appeal. It has to be "special." I stand slowly. I'm hungry. Starving actually. When did I last eat?
I rummage through the refrigerator, trying to be as quiet as possible. There is leftover pizza. Jackpot. I pull out two slices and throw them in the microwave. I sit on a stool at the island, feet dangling back and forth. I pull my phone over and start scrolling through scores from other games before just settling in and enjoying my food.
My phone chimes. Sigh. It's Arizona or Owen. I don't know who I'd rather hear from at this point. Neither. I think about ignoring it. But if it's Arizona and she's decided to give me tomorrow off, she might change her mind if I wait till morning to respond. If it's Owen, he might need a last minute edit. He would definitely be angry if I didn't respond.
Either way, I have to check. In a minute. I move over to the refrigerator and pull out an iced coffee before I sit in front of the phone again. Hm. 75% chance it's Arizona. Right? I mean Owen never asks for edits after he already approved the article. Oh, maybe he needs info for next week's potential flight.
Here goes nothing.
[Received: 1:22 a.m.] Dude! Just saw your story. I love it! You're killing it! Love you!
Jackson.
I can feel the smile high in my cheekbones.
I scroll up a bit to our last messages. Seven months ago. I shake my head a bit. When did that happen?
I scroll back to the message of a few minutes ago. Haha. He always called me "dude". In text and in real life. Just saw the story? I wonder if he reads them all. I wonder if he was up waiting to read this one? No, that's crazy. Why would he do that? It's the middle of the night for most people. Love you. Love you. We always say that. It's always true, and we always say it.
[Sent: 1:29 a.m.] Long time, stranger! What are you doing up this late? Or this early? Where are you? Are you even in the country? :) I love you, too.
[Sent: 1:31 a.m.] Oh yea, thanks for still reading!
I try to remember the last time I saw Jackson. The memory is fuzzy. Coffee shop? Maybe. He was passing through town. I hadn't married Matthew yet.
I'm lost in the memory, and again I don't notice Matthew enter the kitchen.
"What are you so happy about?" He asks. There's a little bitterness in his voice.
"What? Oh, nothing. Owen just published a story without any edits - for once." I reach out to him and grasp his fingers with my own. "I'm sorry about the banquet."
He stares at me. I can't help but shift uncomfortably.
My phone dings again. I'm sure that I flush red.
"Who are you talking to now?" Matthew asks, his brow is furrowed a bit and he pulls his fingers away from mine.
"No one," I say. I choke a bit on my coffee. "I mean - not talking. Just waiting."
"What?"
"Waiting. For Arizona. I asked for tomorrow night off."
"Oh." He's quiet again. "You don't have to come. I'll ask my mom to go. I know your job is more important."
Sigh.
"Matthew, it's not more important. It's just. You know, there are only -"
"-two games left in the season. Yea, I know April. Last week, there were nine games left in the season. And the week before that there was less than a month to go. And before that it was just after the All-Star Break. Or just before the All-Star Break. It's always something April, and you're not even here half the time."
"That's not fair. You knew what I did when you married me. And you have no problem bragging to everyone about your wife being the only beat reporter for major league baseball in the country. That comes with sacrifices."
"Sacrifices? Right. I'm the sacrifice. I'm always the one left behind. Always the one that doesn't matter. Don't talk to me about sacrifices. You write about a sport for God's sake. You're not saving lives."
"Oh, excuse me, Mr. Hero. We can't all run into buildings for a living. I'm sorry I'm "just" a sports reporter."
I walk back toward the living room, leaving my phone on the island. I settle back onto the couch, facing the kitchen but not really looking at Matthew.
"And you know what, you're right. This is about sacrifices, and I've sacrificed a lot to be here. The Mariners can clinch the pennant for the first time in twenty years tomorrow, and I'll be damned if I'm going to miss it."
Silence.
I look back at him from the couch. He's looking at my phone now. My face turns red and our eyes meet.
"Jackson." He says.
Matthew knows about Jackson. They've met before. There's never been anything romantic between me and Jackson. Never. But he's hot and everyone knows it. So, I don't blame Matthew for being jealous. And even though he has no reason to be, I've always hid Jackson from him for the most part. Stupid move on my part, but we don't really talk that much anymore anyway.
"What?" I ask.
"Oh, don't pretend. You remembered the banquet all along, you just don't care because your beloved best friend is in town."
"What are you talking about? I had no idea. I just heard that from you."
"Right." He says. Glaring, he tosses the phone on the couch near my feet.
Received: 1:33 a.m.] I always read your stuff, you know that! Some things don't change. Not only am I in the country, I'm in town! I want to see you. Tomorrow night.
Twenty minutes ago. He must have answered while Matthew and I were arguing. I close my eyes for a minute and breath deeply.
[Sent: 1:55 a.m.] Come see the Mariners clinch the pennant with me and we can hang out after.
[Received: 1:56 a.m.] You + the Mariners? You truly are the perfect woman. See you tomorrow. 3