From Batter Up

CHAPTER ONE

DARCY

Music blares from my smart speaker as I pull the one Eagles shirt I owned out of my closet. Tonight, my roommate and I are going to a baseball game, so I have to show my support for the team even if I don’t follow their schedule that closely. Tugging the tee over my ponytail, I stare at myself in the mirror, trying to decide if I should add a bit of interest. Knotted at the side. Tucked into the front. But every rendition looks bad ﹘ cutting me off in weird places, highlighting my round stomach.

A film of tears bubbles up, but I rapidly blink them away ﹘ used to the all too familiar refrain. No matter how hard I try, nothing can disguise my fat. Most days it doesn’t bother me, and I’m comfortable in my skin even relishing my extra curves. But then something like this removes the blinders to show me that in the end I’m just a chubby woman and no amount of adjusting a tee shirt can hide that fact.

Pulling the cotton hem from the waist of my jeans, I smooth it over my stomach and stare at the box shape I make in the mirror. Get a grip; it’s just a baseball game. It’s not like you’re going to meet someone.

Sighing, I flip the light switch off for my room and step into the living room to see if Bethany’s ready to go. Standing in the kitchen, she leans against the counter with a bowl of salad in her hands.

“I thought we were eating at the ballpark. Did you forget?” I’d specifically chosen this game because they were holding a special discount on ballpark concessions which I’d mentioned to her the other day.

Bethany’s  nose wrinkles in disgust as she shakes her head. “No, I’m just not going to eat that junk.”

“Oh...I thought we said we were.” A sick knot sinks in my stomach at her revulsion. I’d droned on and on about deciding between hot dogs or nachos, trying to get her excited for the full game experience since I knew she wasn’t a sports fan when I’d asked her to go with me. Now embarrassment and disgust with myself welled up.

Of course, she wouldn’t eat the food. And I should know better, too. Wasn’t I just lamenting my weight? Yet here I am about to binge on cheap concessions.

Composing myself, I force a smile. “Let me know when you’re ready to go, then. It’s okay if we’re a little late.”

She waves her empty fork as she swallows. “We can leave in a few minutes; I’m almost done.”

Nodding, I eye her shorts with the pockets peeking out from the hem and the neon pink crop top. Bethany always dressed for the occasion even for simple walks with just the two of them, reasoning that you never know who you might run into.

At first, I’d tried to keep up, dressing up a little more than usual, so I wouldn’t look so out of place next to her. But that actually made me feel worse about myself because my best didn’t hold a candle to her natural beauty. Thick raven waves coursed down her back, shiny and sleek, and she kept a toned runner’s body. When I’d first moved in, she invited me on her runs, but I refused, not wanting to showcase how out of shape I was compared to her, until she eventually stopped asking.

I tried not to compare myself to her too much, though, because it wasn’t her fault she was beautiful and I wasn’t. Plus she’d earned her fit body while I stayed home reading or watching tv. Didn’t mean moments like these didn’t hurt, though. Or cause a pang for what was to come in a stadium full of men. Overlooked all the time, I remind myself to prepare for all the flirting we’d encounter at the game— for the men who’d ignore me while hitting on Bethany.

It’s not like you’re easy to talk to. My shyness prevented me from saying much outside of a brief greeting. Well, shyness and the fear of risking getting to know a man only to have him dismiss me or worse ﹘ look at me with pity or disdain.

Bethany tosses her dirty bowl and fork in the sink then turns around with a swish of her ponytail. “Alright, let’s do this! Maybe we can snag a hot baseball player,” she jokes. 

I laugh along, knowing it’s not out of the realm of possibilities for her.

Twenty minutes later we pull into the parking garage by the stadium and follow the straggling groups of fans heading inside. The game started thirty minutes ago, but I’m not too concerned. Innings can last forever in baseball, and there’s a lot of downtime. I hand Bethany one of the free tickets I’d gotten from work, and it’s not long before we find our seats behind the home team’s dugout.

“Wow, these are actually really good seats. Your company sprang some serious cash.”

“What can I say? Our CEO is a huge fan and probably friends with some executive for the team.” I shrug, thankful for our good fortune. One of the many perks my job offered its employees, I thank god that my leap of faith a few months ago had paid off. Stuck in a small town, loneliness and depression defined my days until I’d decided to make a change and moved across the country with nothing but my savings as a safety net. Two weeks later, I’d landed a new job and a shared apartment with Bethany who I’d found through a social media group. Sometimes it still shocked me that I’d made such a bold move ﹘ one of the few I’d made in my life.

Bethany and I chat during the first two innings as I explain what’s happening, and we try matching the players on the field to the pamphlet with the team roster we’d gotten upon entry. But by the fourth inning, the tantalizing aroma of grilled hot dogs and spicy nachos causes my stomach to growl, announcing its annoyance with being forced to wait an hour later for dinner.

“I’m going to grab some food. Are you sure you don’t wanna go with me?”

“I’m good, but I do have to pee. See you in a few!”

We both go our separate ways, and I find the shortest concessions line leading to nachos and a Dr. Pepper ﹘ my favorite drink. Juggling the handful, I head over to a condiment stand for a straw and napkins before retracing my steps. Unfortunately, the path back to our seats is fraught with obstacles ﹘ vendors, fans, and leashed dogs ﹘ and I have to dodge little kids playing tag. A sigh of relief billows up as I near the end of my journey, stepping out to the relative quiet of the outdoor field.

Three guys stand blocking the aisle, waving their beers in the air and talking loudly as I take careful steps down to Aisle J. As I wonder if I can get around them without speaking, one bumps into me and sends my dinner flying all over my front. Ice cold soda drips down my chest to soak the fallen tortilla chips by my feet, and a fierce flush wells under my skin.

I feel like a character on the jumbotron with all eyes on me as a strange silence follows the crash of food. Laughter filters through the buzzing in my head. Apparently, the guys find the accident hilarious.

I can’t say I agree.

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