Chapter 15. Molly
I enter Seth’s seats into my phone so I don’t forget, and wave goodbye as he walks away.
There’s a dry breeze cooling the sweat in my hair as night descends. The floodlights cast shadows over the stands, making the light-up novelty wands in the crowd glow brighter. The stadium feels alit with opportunity. And so do I.
Seth. Here. What are the odds?
I have to tell Alyssa and Dez about this. I open our text chain.
Molly:Holy. Fucking. Shit.
Alyssa:What????
Molly:I’m at a dodgers game and I just ran into seth rubenstein!
Molly:He spilled beer all over me and I made him buy me $400 worth of sweatshirts?
Dezzie:What
Molly:IDK!!!!! I panicked
Alyssa:Ok, first of all, what is Seth doing at a Dodgers game?
Molly:They’re playing the cubs
Molly:And get this: he’s here with marian hart, who is dating JAVIER RUIZ
Dezzie:Wait. The Javier Ruiz who used to be married to that supermodel?
Molly:Precisely that javier ruiz!!!!
Alyssa:What is happening?!?!
Alyssa:Chaos in the universe!
Molly:I have to go clean beer out of my cleavage
Alyssa:Be nice to Seth
Dezzie:But not *too* nice, Molly
I shove my phone back into my regulation transparent plastic bag before I can disclose that I already told Seth I like him.
Obviously, when you discontinue communication with someone after they tell you they have a crush on you, the courteous thing to do is stay out of their orbit. You can’t reject someone and then jet pack around in their airspace, skywriting compliments with your exhaust.
Besides, there were one trillion other things I could have said when Seth asked why I would want to see Marian. Like “I don’t want to seem rude.” Like “I want her to set me up with a millionaire baseball player.” Like “You’re right, I don’t like Marian; never mind, good luck with the mustard stain.”
There must be something seriously wrong with me.
The problem is I really do like him. When I saw him my stomach did a flip-flop as acrobatic as the one performed by his pretzel.
I go to the bathroom, wet some paper towels to sponge off the beer warming in my belly button, and put on my new T-shirt. I smile at my reflection in the mirror. I love dressing up in team-centric apparel. I truly am a fan.
My mom grew up watching baseball with my grandpa, and our area of Florida is home to several MLB teams’ spring training grounds. Tickets are dirt cheap. After my dad left, we would go whenever we had the chance, sneak in a bag of microwave popcorn, buy a huge Coke to share, and spend hours losing ourselves in the rhythm of the game.
To this day, I love that feeling. The energy of the crowd is infectious, as reliable a burst of serotonin as an extra half-dose of Lexapro. I delight in the fans singing along to the songs that they play at top volume—“We Will Rock You,” “Seven Nation Army,” “Sweet Caroline.” Plus, when the Dodgers win, there are fireworks all throughout Echo Park.
I go back to find Emily and Gloria. Our seats are bad—we decided to come last-minute, and the nosebleed section was all that was left. They are squinting at the field, trying to make out what’s happening.
“You look cute,” Emily says.
I toss her a baseball cap. “Courtesy of Mr. Rubenstein.”
“Ahem,” Gloria says. “What do I get?”
I dig in the bag. “Want a sweatshirt?”
She narrows her eyes at me. “It’s one hundred degrees.”
I shrug. “But it’s a dry heat. And it’s free.”
She takes the hoodie.
“So, guess who Seth’s here with,” I say.
“Who?” Gloria asks.
“Marian Hart! She got tickets because she’s dating Javier Ruiz.”
Emily looks at me blankly, but Gloria leans in closer.
“The guy from the Cubs?” she asks.
“Uh-huh!”
“Are you making this up?” Emily asks.
“I don’t lie, Emily. Lying is boring.”
“If Marian is here, why didn’t she text me?” Gloria asks. “Why doesn’t anyone text me?”
“I text you, my love,” Emily says, kissing her cheek.
“Marian didn’t text me either,” I point out.
They both give me long-suffering looks.
“Maybe because she can tell that you don’t like her?” Emily suggests.
“Why does everyone keep saying that?”
“Because you are very bad at hiding your feelings.”
Like, for instance, when I blurt out I like you! Point taken.
“Well, I told Seth we would walk down and say hi.”
Gloria stands up immediately. “Oh, we certainly will. Javier Ruiz? I have to hear about this.”
Emily insists we wait for the inning to end—excruciatingly, no one scores—before we make the trek down to Seth and Marian’s glamorous seats in the Loge. Marian is wearing a sparkly red jacket with RUIZ appliquéd on the back. She and Seth are surrounded by other women in matching jackets bearing different players’ names, all of them so preposterously glossy and well-groomed that I want to excuse myself to call a dermatologist, a colorist, a facialist, and a liposuctionist for emergency appointments.
“Marian Hart!” Gloria yells over the din.
Marian turns around, and her face lights up. “Glor! Get over here!”
Gloria prances down the vertiginous stairs in her platform mules, making me fear for her life, and throws herself into Marian’s arms.
Marian, as always, is radiant. She smiles and waves over Gloria’s shoulder. I wave back, doing my goddamn best to evince warmth and enthusiasm.
Seth laughs at me from behind Marian. “Good job,” he mouths.
“I would have called you, but I’m only here for the night,” Marian is saying to Gloria.
“Swooping in with your man, I hear,” Gloria says, poking her in the ribs. “Tell us everything.”
Marian giggles the giggle of a woman in love. “Marcus introduced us a few months ago. He’s Javier’s agent. We met, and it was just thunderbolts. We went on one of those dates that last all day and”—she blushes—“all night. And we’ve been together ever since.”
“Isn’t it hard if you’re in Miami and he’s in Chicago?” I ask, because I have a constitutional need to question other people’s joy.
Marian waves this off. “He travels so often it doesn’t really matter where he lives. We make it work. It’s so worth it.”
“I don’t suppose he has a friend for this one,” Emily says, pointing at me. “She could use a man with strong arms.”
“Excuse me!” I cry. “I have many suitors.”
I sneak a glance at Seth. His face is studiously neutral.
“Well, we should get back to our seats before the inning starts,” Gloria says. “But, Seth, see you at the shower on Saturday? It starts at two.”
“I’ll be there,” Seth says. “Text me the address.”
We get back to our seats just in time to see Tom Beadelman hit a home run, breaking the tie for the Dodgers. Gloria, Emily, and I scream until we’re hoarse. I exchange a high five with the heavily bearded gentleman to my right and a low five with his tiny daughter, who is whipping around one of those commemorative sweat towels they give you for free during the playoffs.
I bend down and offer her one of the Dodgers key chains Seth bought me. (I don’t actually have cousins in Iowa; I just wanted to run up the tab.) She smiles shyly and lisps out “thank you.” Emily side-eyes me like “who are you?”
I don’t care. The DJ is blasting “Don’t Stop Believin’,” the entire stadium (sans, I imagine, the sullen Cubs fans) is singing along, and I, for once, am happy.
My phone buzzes in the pocket of my cutoffs.
I pull it out to see a text from Seth.
Seth:Fuck.
Seth:We’re gonna lose, aren’t we?
Seth:I blame the Coors Light.
Above it, I can still see the bubble of my last conversation with him.
January 2
Molly:You’re sweet. But I can’t.
He had to read that before texting me, and he did it anyway.
I hope he’s texting me because enough time has passed since that awkward phone call in January, not because I said I like you. But either way, seeing his name in my phone adds to this strange feeling of joy.
Molly:Don’t worry. Y’all have another inning to further humiliate yourselves
Molly:And it’s not the cheap beer. It’s that we’re a way better team
Molly:Also you SUCK at being a fan! You’re supposed to be ride or die, not just GIVE UP because we’re ahead
My phone vibrates again.
Seth:I can’t believe I’m getting (accurate) fandom lessons from a woman who once wrote a term paper at a Tampa Bay Lightning game out of boredom.
Molly:That’s because hockey is puerile and vicious
I put away my phone and try to focus on the game. The inning ends. Bottom of the eighth and the Cubs have a chance to tie it up. Emily grabs my hand. “Say a prayer,” she demands.
I pull out one of my Dodgers key chains, kiss it, and hold it up to the heavens like a sorceress. The fellow fans around me clap.
I get a text.
Seth:Now it’s MY time to shine. Eat shit, Molly Marks.
Seth:God, ugh, sorry. My attempts at pro sports machismo are… ungallant. I take that back. Please don’t eat shit.
Seth:Unless you have pica or something.
Seth:Although actually you could still get dysentery so better not.
Molly:STOP
Seth:Yep. Good call. Stopping.
Molly:Anyway use your attention to focus on losing the game
Just then, none other than Javier Ruiz walks up to the plate, and my phone goes quiet.
“Strike out, strike out, strike out,” Gloria is murmuring. The pitcher lobs a ball. Not ideal.
“It’s okay it’s okay it’s okay,” Emily murmurs like an incantation. “We got this we got this we got this.”
Ruiz swings and misses. Strike one!
We cheer.
Another strike.
We cheer harder.
“Strike him out!” I shout as the pitcher reels his arm.
We all hold our breath.
Ruiz cracks that fucker deep, deep into the stands.
“Goddamnit!” I yell. The fans around me moan similar sentiments.
My phone buzzes.
Seth:You know what? I spoke too soon. We’re definitely going to win this.
I can’t manage a sassy reply. I’m too stressed-out.
The Cubs don’t score again, and then the Dodgers are back up at bat. The whole stadium is taut with tension.
The first player strikes out.
I’m dying.
“Come on, Lanzinella,” Emily is screaming. “Tie it up, baby!”
The friends we’ve made during the game chime in with her. “Tie it up! Tie it up!” we all chant.
Lanzifuckingnella ties that motherfucker up, and we all lose our minds.
That is until Woo, who’s up next, strikes out.
We have one out to break the tie, and then it’s their game to lose.
Madison’s up next, and he gets on base. “We Will Rock You” blasts over the speakers, and I almost wish they would turn it off because I want the players to focus and win this thing.
Next up, Robinson, who is not known for his batting.
Emily erupts in uncharacteristic rage. “Are you kidding me? No pinch hitter?”
The woman behind her spits on the ground. “MORON BITCH,” she screams at, presumably, the coach.
Robinson hits a foul immediately.
Every part of me that can clench clenches.
Robinson hits another miserable foul.
I unclench, because I can see where this is going. And it’s not to the World Series.
The Cubs pitcher lines up. Time slows. And then, the most beautiful sound rips through the stadium.
The crack of the bat.
I strain to see against the floodlights as the ball lists just inside the foul pole and into the stands.
It’s a home run. Lanzinella rounds the bases with Robinson right behind him. Damn if we are not up by two going into the top of the ninth.
I hug Emily and Gloria, screaming.
When we are done jumping up and down, I take out my phone and text Seth:
Molly:Bad night to have to hang out with a professional cub
Seth:Nope. We got this.
They do not got this.
They lose.
The stadium basically levitates. People are dancing in the aisles, hugging each other, throwing popcorn in the air. The sky lights up with the silver whorls and golden spiders of fireworks, and we all stop and gasp.
In the distance, you can see smaller, amateur fireworks going off—reds and greens and golds crackling like thunder, echoing off the mountains.
“God, it’s so beautiful,” I say to no one in particular.
My phone buzzes.
Seth:You were right about fireworks in LA. Magical.
I smile down at my screen.
“Shall we go celebrate at Izzie’s?” Gloria asks.
“Definitely,” I say. Izzie’s is a cute little bar right down the hill from the stadium in Echo Park. It’s close enough to walk to, and it’s our tradition to go there for cocktails after a game.
We slowly make our way behind the crowd seeping out of the stadium and into the parking lot. People are tailgating, dancing. The sky is still booming with fireworks. The air smells like sausage and peppers from the guys barbecuing on the sidewalk, selling hot dogs and cold beer to fans walking home.
I wonder if Seth is taking this in, the enchantment of my city on this warm fall night.
I take out my phone and reply to his last message.
Molly:They are pretty, aren’t they? Glad you could see them
Molly:And sorry for your loss:(
He replies immediately.
Seth:Can’t say it doesn’t hurt. But at least I’m best friends with Javier Ruiz now.
I laugh at the idea of Seth hanging out with an A-list celebrity. But I guess it’s no less absurd than Marian dating one.
I consider for a moment, and then decide fuck it.
Molly:Hey—emily and gloria and I are going to grab drinks at a bar nearby. want to come?
Molly:And of course marian, should she deign to fraternize with the enemy
Seth:Aww, thanks for the invite! Can’t though—we’re going back to the hotel on the friends and family bus to mourn.
Of course. It was stupid of me to suggest it. No one wants to hang out with the jubilant fans of the opposing team.
But I kind of thought he might want to hang out with me?
“What’s wrong?” Gloria asks.
I realize I’m staring glumly at my phone.
“Oh, nothing!” I say. I shove my phone back into my pocket and try not to be disappointed.
But as we get down to the bottom of the hill, my pocket buzzes.
Seth:But I’ll see you at the baby shower, right?