Chapter 1 #2
My eyes fluttered as I gasped for oxygen.
The two most important men in my life were leaving me on April 2nd.
I couldn’t even use the April Fool’s joke to excuse away what was happening because Mathias squeezed my hand, kissed the back of it, and mumbled something about grabbing a rideshare.
He held my stare as he bowed and left me at the gravesite.
I could only watch him with an open mouth, my eyes too dry to form any tears, as my boyfriend became my ex.
The graveyard blurred but the thought that hit first wasn’t heartbreak.
It was logistics. Where would I live? Would I have to move out of my own place?
No. He would. I bought this condo with my money, my work, my long nights editing videos until my eyes ached. He wasn’t running me out of it.
But even as I clung to that sliver of control, pieces started clicking together.
The empty hangers. The gaps in the closet he’d brushed off as dry-cleaning runs.
This wasn’t impulsive. Mathias had been removing himself from my life one folded shirt at a time.
He’d just been waiting for the right moment to make it official.
And maybe I gave him that moment. Maybe it was the way I laughed when he slurred his words at the funeral dinner, the quiet eye roll I thought he didn’t see. Something small, harmless—except to a man looking for an exit.
I hope there’s a special place in hell for him.
“Cassidy, is there anything you’d like to say to your dad before we depart?”
“‘It ain’t over ’til it’s over.’”
I sniffed and took out the baseball from my bag, eyeing one of my dad’s favorite Yogi Berra quotes. We grew up laughing at them, using them as advice when needed or to surprise people because so many of them didn’t make sense. They did to us, though. They always did.
It had been just the two of us for as long as I could remember—me and Dad against the world.
He packed lunches with dumb notes written on napkins, showed up at every school game, and let me stay up late to watch extra innings if I promised to do my homework first. He wasn’t perfect, but he showed up.
Every single day. And there was so much I didn’t know about him.
I thought I had time. I was so busy growing my business, having my own life, that I didn’t ask him questions about his.
I quickly scribbled the quote on the baseball and kissed it before tossing it over the casket. “Goodbye, Dad. I love you.”
The priest nodded, a solemn expression crossing his face as he frowned.
I’d seen countless looks of sympathy the last few weeks, but this one took the top prize.
I fisted my hands against my sides and focused on taking one breath at a time.
My stomach felt like tornadoes plowed through it, and my heart was a shattered bat, but I’d hold it together until I got home.
I couldn’t drive myself at this point, but I’d call an Uber or—
“Excuse me?”
The voice wasn’t just deep—it was commanding. It sent a shiver down my spine before I even turned to look.
Two men approached from the back, both in black slacks and Arizona Gila Monster polos, the kind the coaching staff wore during interviews.
The older man had white hair and glasses, eyes red-rimmed but kind.
My gaze, though, snapped to the other guy.
Broad shoulders, scruff along his jaw, a faint crease between his brows like he carried the weight of a thousand decisions.
He looked vaguely familiar—one of those faces you’ve seen before but can’t place. A highlight reel, maybe. A commercial. Something sports-related. I was too foggy, too caught up in the swirl of grief and exhaustion, to care.
“Is this the funeral for Jackson?” he asked again, his voice lower, gruffer.
I nodded, my mind spinning. I should have stepped back. But I didn’t.
I had no clue why two people I’d never met were here. They could’ve been big fans like my dad—fantasy camp regulars or superfans with matching tattoos of the team logo.
“They just lowered him,” I said, my voice rough as I nodded toward the casket. “Are—are you friends of his?”
The older gentleman with white hair and glasses stepped closer, his expression heavy.
“We’re so sorry we missed the service,” he said quietly.
“Traffic from the stadium was worse than expected. I’m the president of the Gila Monsters.
Jackson meant a lot to us—we’ve known him for decades.
We wouldn’t have missed this if we’d had the choice. ”
“Oh.” My throat went tight. “I … didn’t realize he was that close with the team.”
I tried to sound composed, but the words came out hollow. The president of the Gila Monsters stood at my dad’s funeral, and somehow I’d been completely oblivious to that part of his life.
“Jackson has worked security outside our clubhouse for the last five years,” the other guy said, the one with the messy brown hair and aviators. His scruff was salt-and-peppered, and his lips were full. His broad shoulders and ripped forearms had me doing a double take. But then his words hit me.
“Worked security?” I repeated, frowning as I stared at the reflection of the glasses. I saw myself—small, sad, and my blonde hair going in every direction. My eyes were bloodshot, which, great, and my nose red. “What do you mean by that?”
“The guys have gotten to know him well the last few years. He was a good man.” The guy ran a hand through his hair, his jaw flexing as he jutted his chin toward the casket. “Did he have any last wishes?”
“To throw money in for his poker habit in heaven.” I swallowed the lump in my throat, but it didn’t go down easy.
My dad worked security at the stadium? That couldn’t be right.
I had no idea. I thought … I thought he went to games as a fan, just another guy in the stands.
He’d always invited me, said I’d love it if I gave it a chance.
I brushed him off every time—too busy filming, editing, chasing engagement numbers like they were more important.
Had I blown off his invitations for five years? My heart ached.
But the more I thought about it, the more the puzzle pieces rearranged themselves.
The late nights, the vague “extra shifts,” the way he’d smile when I asked if he’d had fun at the game but never elaborate.
He’d been there, right in the heart of something he loved, and I never once asked about it. Never cared enough to look closer.
Regret hit like a line drive to the chest. It wasn’t just that I didn’t know—it’s that he’d let me stay in the dark, maybe to protect me from feeling guilty for not showing up.
“Are you alright?” The broad-shouldered man gently gripped my elbow, his strong fingers holding me still. “Do you have someone to drive you home?”
Regret hit like a line drive to the chest. It wasn’t just that I didn’t know—it was that he’d let me stay in the dark, maybe to protect me from the guilt of never showing up.
“Are you alright?” The broad-shouldered man’s voice softened. He steadied me with a hand on my elbow, his fingers strong. “Do you have someone to drive you home?”
I shook my head, a dry laugh escaping before I could stop it. “No. My boyfriend broke up with me as they lowered my dad into the ground,” I said, words tumbling out faster than my brain could filter them. “So that’s fun. Real rom-com material.”
His brows pulled together, but I didn’t stop. Couldn’t. The dam had cracked.
“I mean, he’d been packing up for weeks.
I just didn’t see it. Said he was getting things dry-cleaned.
Turns out that was code for ‘slowly removing himself from my life.’ And I’m standing there, holding a baseball for my dead dad, thinking, of course he’d pick today to finish the job.
Why not make sure the day really sticks in my memory, right? ”
Silence. My voice caught somewhere between laughter and tears. The air buzzed around us, full of chirping birds and my humiliation.
“I’m sorry,” I muttered, wiping at my face. “I’m not usually like this. I’m the together one. The smile-for-the-camera one. But right now, I feel like a cracked screen—still working, technically, but one tap away from shattering completely.”