Page 103 of Crazy Pitch

“You mean besides me dying from caffeine withdrawal?”

I looked up. Naomi stood there, hair a wild halo, empty coffee cup in hand, her expression softer than usual.

I managed a small, crooked smile. “I think I’m falling out of love with him.”

She didn’t even blink — no shock, no judgment. Just walked over and perched on the edge of my desk, setting the cup down.

“Maybe that’s not the worst thing,” she said quietly.

And for the first time, I didn’t argue. Because deep down, I already knew she was right.

That night, I sat at my desk long after the building should’ve gone dark, pretending to work and mostly just rearranging the same three emails like they were a puzzle I could solve if I stared hard enough. The office hummed with after-hours quiet—heater kicking on, the distant clink of pipes settling, the field lights outside throwing soft stripes across the carpet. My cursor blinked on a blank reply I didn’t have the energy to write.

My phone lit up face down beside my planner, a small square of brightness nudging my attention.

Hydrated yet?

I felt it before I could stop it—the lift at the corner of my mouth, the lightness that slipped in where the ache had sat all day. I typed back, elbows on the desk, chin in my palm.

Barely.

The bubbles appeared almost immediately.

Lightweight.

A laugh slipped out of me, soft enough that it surprised the room. The sound didn’t bounce off the walls like usual; it settled warm in my chest, a private joke between me and the glow of the screen.

You try managing a gala and Naomi in the same week.

I pulled your martyr card last night when you threw up on me. We’re even.

I winced. I didn't remember that.

Thank you. For… all of it.

The dots paused. When his reply came, it was shorter, steady.

Anytime.

Outside, a whistle blew on the far field and then cut out, the kind of sound you only noticed when everything else is quiet. I leaned back in my chair, letting the silence stretch. For once it didn’t feel like a void to fill or a clock counting down. It felt—strangely—like company. Like the space you make at a table when someone you trust sits beside you.

Eat something.

I glanced at the untouched takeout on the credenza and made a face he couldn’t see.

Bossy.

Nice-bossy.

Heat crept up my throat—the echo of something I’d said I shouldn’t have. I pressed my lips together, then typed anyway.

You’re impossible.

You’re fine.

I let the phone rest in my hand, the screen dimming, light fading to a soft gray. For the first time in a long while, I didn’t feel like I was bracing for anything. The knots in my shoulders loosened. My breath went deeper.

I swiveled toward the window, watched the last players drift off the turf, tiny figures under tall lights. Somewhere in that quiet, my phone buzzed once more.