Page 16 of Switch Hitter

I texted him after he ran.

Then I texted again.

Then I tried calling.

No answer.

No “fuck off.”

No “I hate you.”

Nothing.

Just fucking silence.

Silence is what you use when you’re trying to pretend something didn’t happen. I throw my phone onto the couch and drag a hand down my face.

“Pinche irlandés terco,” I mutter.

I should let it go.

That’s what the smart part of me says. The part of me that cares about staying clean in the media, because headlines can ruin people.

If anyone knows that, it’s me.

The Mets don’t do small stories. New York doesn’t do small stories. If a rumor starts, it becomes a thing.

I don’t give two flying fucks if people know I like men.

I never have.

I’m Mexican as fuck and Catholic. I have a mother who prays for me and tías who light candles and a family that can argue for hours about nothing and still feed you like you didn’t just disagree over heavy shit. I grew up with saints on the wall and music in the kitchen and faith that felt like home.

My faith never told me I was filthy.

People did.

And I decided a long time ago I wasn’t going to let anyone else write my shame.

Sean—Sean is still letting other people write his. He wears shame like it’s a second jersey, always rubbing him raw.

I can taste it in the way he talks to me, in the way he curses at me like he needs anger to justify what his body wants. The way he can say “I hate you” like it’s oxygen, but he can’t stand still when I try to kiss him.

That’s not hate.

That’s fear.

My heart hurts for him and for me, because I don’t want to be someone’s fear.

I want to be someone’s choice.

I open the fridge even though I’m not hungry. It’s full: meal-prepped containers stacked neatly because that’s the life of an athlete. Chicken. Rice. Vegetables. A container of my mom’s caldo sits in the back because she showed up last week with a pot like she was feeding a village.

I lift the lid, stare at the beef chunks, and then put it back.

My phone lights up again on the couch, and I practically run over, thinking for a second it’s him.

It’s not.