Chapter 22
Sophie
The field is absolute chaos when we push through the metal gate. Kids and noise bounce off every surface. I give Liam one more reassuring squeeze before letting our hands drop as I spot an older man approaching.
“Liam Blake,” he says, shaking Liam’s hand. “You are a sight for sore eyes.”
“Thank you for having me, Sir,” Liam says, and I’m probably the only one who notices a hint of hesitation in his voice.
“And still as polite as ever. I’m William Vallera.” Coach Bill says, extending his hand to me.
“This is Sophie Rhodes,” Liam says. “She’s…”
“And an old friend of Liam’s,” I finish, unsure how he was going to introduce me.
“Thank you both for coming. These kids are excited to hear from a real-life baseball player.”
“I’m hardly—”
“We brought some balls for Liam to sign.” I cut him off, holding out the canvas bag.
“Wonderful, let’s head this way.” Coach Bill gestures back towards the field.
I place a quick hand on Liam’s shoulder. “I’m going to hang back here.” I tip my chin toward the metal bleachers. “You’ll be fine.”
Liam swallows and looks like he’s about to protest, but his eyes meet mine, and I nod again, inhaling like we had in the car. “You’ve got this.”
He walks away with Coach Bill, and I find a spot on the metal bleachers.
As Liam gets closer, the kids swarm around him.
I can’t hear what anyone is saying, but I watch as kids tug on Liam’s sleeve to get his attention and mime baseball swings.
Liam takes his time with each kid, listening to their stories and nodding attentively.
Coach Bill steers him towards some older kids taking batting practice in a cage to the left of the infield.
Liam is in his element.
I’d spent nearly every day with Liam for six weeks, and he was no longer the mopey guy from the first days. We’d gone from accidental roommates to convenient sex partners to friends.
We swapped childhood memories and embarrassing stories—like the time he got locked out of his dorm in just a towel and had to shimmy through a window, junk barely covered. I laughed so hard Diet Coke nearly came out my nose, which made him laugh so hard beer actually came out his nose.
We debated everything from launch angle versus contact percentage to the flaws of the gallery system and which parts of Survivor are rigged. We also spent countless nights tangled together, memorizing every moan and sigh so we could draw them out again.
We both showed up at Cal’s confused, angry, and a little broken, and we both changed.
But watching Liam now, this was different.
He positions himself behind a teen holding a bat. He adjusts his elbow, points to a spot on the horizon, demonstrates how to shift his hips, then cheers wildly when the kid hits the ball hard into the metal fence of the batting cage.
We'd joked about how burned out we were, how disillusioned we felt by the thing that was supposed to bring us ultimate joy. Baseball, like art, was a fickle lover neither of us wanted to keep chasing.
I thought we were the same.
But despite all his earlier nerves, Liam’s whole body was radiating joy.
His smile, his posture—everything had transformed.
I couldn’t hide my happiness as I watched him, but I also felt a sharp pang of envy.
Yesterday at the de Young, Liv gasped at one of Luna Margullies’ most profound pieces, and I caught Andy shedding a little tear at another of her works.
And I felt nothing when I was supposed to feel everything.
I push off the metal seat and wander back towards the main building of the community center.
My eyes take a moment to adjust to the dimmer light inside the building, and when they do, I see a young girl, maybe around ten, struggling with an armload of art supplies.
I rush over to help her unload the basket full of paint and brushes onto the table.
“I’m Talia,” she says politely, holding out her hand.
“I’m Sophie,” I say, taking her hand for a shake. “What are you working on?” I ask, nodding at the big blank sheet she’s unrolling.
Talia sighs, frowning down at it. “I never know what I should paint when it’s just…empty. How do I know?”
I hover for a second, then sit on the edge of the table. “I’m…not sure,” I admit, then after a breath, I add, “But sometimes it helps to stop thinking about what it should be and just…put something down. Anything. Even if it’s messy.”
Talia studies me for a long moment, then tilts her head. “Are you an artist?”
I let out a shaky laugh, “I…don’t know anymore.”