“My mom.”

“A missed opportunity,” I say, shaking my head.

“Opportunity for what?”

“To get back at the lying, cheating bastard. You could have said they were from a secret admirer. Someone you met at the hospital perhaps. A hot doctor maybe.”

She laughs and proceeds to tell me how she managed to make her roommate jealous tonight.

This girl. This woman. She’s different from anyone I’ve ever met. I’m her only friend in New York and she chooses to keep that fact to herself. Most girls would have shouted to everyone who would listen that I was sending them food and flowers. Not her. Not Murphy.

Tony is a stupid motherfucker. Does he even know what he lost?

We lie in silence for a few minutes, enjoying the stars and the comfortable quietness between us. When she breaks the silence, her insightful words surprise me.

“Are you scared of anything, Caden? I mean, not like getting mugged or having your identity stolen, but are you really and truly afraid of something?”

I turn on my side and rise up on an elbow. I don’t know why I’m inclined to tell this girl all my secrets, all my deepest thoughts and fears, but I am. “I’m afraid I’m living on borrowed time.”

She puts a gentle hand on my arm. “Please don’t tell me you’re sick, Caden.”

“No. It’s nothing like that.” I look around the dark stadium with a longing that has lived inside me for as far back as I can remember. “The average career of an MLB player is about five years. This is my third season. That means I could be more than halfway done. Sometimes I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, you know? What if this is it? What if this is as far as I go? Who will I be if I’m not on this field, wearing this uniform, doing this job? It’s all I’ve ever dreamed of. I never thought about what would come next. But next isn’t going to be too far off. And it scares the hell out of me.” I try to laugh away the thoughts. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to get all existential on you.”

“I was the one who asked the existential question,” she says.

“What about you, Murph? What are you afraid of?” I poke her in the ribs. “Except for fly balls.”

“There’s really only one thing,” she says.

In my mind, I try to guess what she’s going to say. Not making it as a model? Not putting her mark on the world? Not getting her big break? “Well, don’t keep the crowd guessing,” I prod.

“I’m afraid of not being happy,” she says with a sigh.

Wow. Okay, I was not expecting that. “You’re not happy?” I ask.

“I’m not unhappy,” she says. “And on a day-to-day basis, I do think I’m enjoying life. But I see so many people who get up every day and just go through the motions. They complain about burning their toast at breakfast. Then they whine about traffic, after which they get to work and grumble about their terrible bosses. Then they come home and complain there is nothing for dinner, but when they go out, they roll their eyes at the bad service. Nobody takes the time to appreciate things and be truly happy. It’s a disease that has afflicted our generation. So, yeah, I’m afraid of growing old and not being able to look back on my happy life.”

“So, Murphy Brown, what would make you happy? Another modeling contract?”

“You know, I’ve been thinking a lot about that over the past few weeks. Yes, it would make me happy, but only for a short while. Only until I have to go to work with narcissistic models, bitchy agents and pushy photographers. And being a model is so disingenuous. You have to be someone you’re not. I really don’t think any job would make a huge difference in my happiness. It’s more about my life as a whole. The people in it, the places I go, the experiences I have.”

I sniff and pretend to wipe tears under my eyes. She sees my gesture in the moonlight and swats my chest. I have the urge to trap her hand and keep it there. Then I remember this isn’t a date. Nor do I want it to be. Murphy isn’t the woman I want to date. She’s more like the person I want to be best friends with.

“Tell me about ‘never mind’,” I say.

“What do you mean?” she asks with a wrinkle of her nose.

“When I texted you from San Diego, you said something about your ex and about me not knowing the half of it. What happened?”

“Oh, that.” She huffs in frustration. “It seems Tony was fucking all of my roommates, well except the gay one.”

I break out in laughter.

“You find that funny, do you?” she asks.

“Sorry,” I say. “It’s just that you’re so cute when you curse.”

She rolls her eyes at me.

“We’ve already determined the guy is a prick, Murph. Try not to let what he did bother you. It wasn’t your fault.”

“I know, but it hurts to find out I was being used. Jamie told me he wanted to ride to the top alongside an up-and-coming model. She said he would pick anyone. It wasn’t me he wanted. Guys are dicks.”

I elbow her. “Good thing I’m not a guy then,” I joke.

She has no idea how her words have affected me. Does she have any clue how similar our lives are?

“Well, you’re not a dick,” she says. “But I think you might just be the one exception.”

“Look!” I shout, pointing up. “I see one.”

“That’s an airplane, Caden.”

I know it’s an airplane. But I wanted her to see a shooting star. I hoped she’d pretend with me.

“But thanks,” she says. “I know what you were trying to do.” She sits up and crisscrosses her legs, resting her elbows on her knees. “How is it that you aren’t married? I mean, this is the most romantic non-date I’ve ever been on. I can’t imagine what your real dates must be like. And you definitely shouldn’t be wasting all this on a friend.”

“I’m not wasting anything, Murph. And don’t go getting any crazy ideas of romance.” I point my finger between us. “You might just be the best girl friend I’ve ever had. I’m not about to screw that up. And, married? No freaking way. I don’t think I could ever trust anyone enough.”

“Trust anyone?”

“Yeah, you know, to marry me for who I am. You, if anyone, should be able to understand that now.”

She nods, giving me a sad smile. “Yeah, I guess I can.”

I get my phone out and text Harold. A minute later, the lights start to come back on again. I lean over and offer Murphy my hand. She takes it, allowing me to pull her up while shielding her eyes from the bright lights.

“Come on,” I say, pulling her over to home plate. “Your first lesson is about to begin.”

Chapter Twelve

Murphy

I pull my hand out of his grip. “No way,” I tell him, backing away. “You promised we wouldn’t play baseball.”

He grabs my hand again and drags me behind him. “We’re not playing baseball,” he tells me. “We’re miming it.”

“Miming it?”

“Yes. No actual bats. No cheekbone-shattering balls. Just us and the ball field.”

Caden positions me on one side of the plate, then he cocks his head. “You’re not left-handed, are you?”

“No.”

“Okay, so stand here and pretend there is a bat in your hands. Here—hold your hands like this.” He forms my hands into fists and puts one on top of the other and then puts them up near my right shoulder.”

I glare at him. “It’s not like I’ve never played before, you know. We did have to play softball in gym class in middle school. I’m not completely clueless.”

He looks me over from head to toe. “Something’s missing,” he says.

“A bat maybe?” I say sarcastically.

“Funny. No, not a bat.” He takes the Nighthawks cap off his head and puts it onto mine, being careful not to disturb my stitches. “There, now you’re ready.”

He spends the next half hour teaching me about balls, strikes, line-drives, and pop-flies. My brain is on overload from all the information. But at least I feel like I might understand it a little more when I come to his game next weekend.

I follow him into the dugout and we sit on the bench. I take off his hat and hand it to him.

“Keep it,” he says, winking. “I have a few more where that came from.”

I put it back on my head, knowing I’ll add it to the collection of other Hawks stuff he’s given me. “Thanks.”

“It looks good on you,” he says. “Some girls don’t look good in hats but it suits you. The sign of a real tomboy.”

I smile when he calls me that. Then I decide to tell him why. “When I was a kid, my dad used to call me a tomboy. I was always building forts and riding skateboards with the neighborhood boys.”

“But he doesn’t anymore?” he asks.

I shake my head. “No. He died when I was twelve.” I look down at the concert t-shirt I’m wearing that reminds me of him. “This was my first concert. My dad took me. It was only weeks before he died.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, looking sad. “The shirt must mean a lot to you.”

“It’s my favorite article of clothing.”

“We have another thing in common, you know. My dad isn’t around either.”

“I’m sorry you lost him,” I say, knowing how terrible it is to lose a parent at a young age.

He shrugs. “No, he’s not dead. At least not that I know of. Who knows, maybe he is. He was a drug addict who left us just after I was born.”

“Oh, Caden, that’s awful.”

“No.” He touches the hem of my shirt. “What you went through is awful, losing a dad you grew up with. A dad you loved. I never even knew mine. Big difference.”

He stands up. “I’d better get you home before you turn into a pumpkin.”