“No reason,” Fitz said, way too innocently.
I should have said no. Should have made an excuse, met Emma for coffee, stayed in my safe little bubble of anxiety and avoidance, but something about the way they were looking at me—friendly, genuine, like they actually wanted me there—made me hesitate.
And honestly? The idea of sitting in Fenway Park, eating overpriced hot dogs, and not thinking about Tracy or Gabriel or my failed culinary career sounded really, really good.
“Okay,” I heard myself say. “Yeah. Let’s go to the game.”
Fitz pumped his fist. “Excellent. Fair warning: we’re very loud. And we will absolutely judge your baseball knowledge.”
“I know what a home run is,” I offered.
“That’s a start,” Quinton said, grinning.
Fenway Park was exactly as I remembered it—loud, crowded, smelling like beer and fried food and summer. We’d gotten decent seats along the third base line, and I was currently working on my second hot dog while Fitz explained the intricacies of the Red Sox bullpen situation. I understood maybe thirty percent of what he was saying, but I was nodding along anyway.
“You’re not listening,” he said.
“I’m totally listening. Bullpen. Very important. Much baseball.”
Quinton laughed. “She’s got the spirit. That’s what matters.”
The game was tied in the seventh inning, and I was surprised to find I was actually enjoying myself. The energy of the crowd, the crack of the bat, the way everyone around me seemed tocollectively hold their breath when the ball was hit deep into the outfield.
It felt normal.
Like I was just a person at a baseball game, not a walking disaster who’d failed at her dream career and was now professionally responsible for not killing a five-year-old.
“So,” Fitz said during a pitching change, “how’s it going with Gabriel?”
I choked on my hot dog.
Quinton helpfully slapped me on the back while I coughed and tried to remember how to breathe.
“Fine,” I managed. “It’s fine. Very professional. He’s my boss. I’m the nanny. Everything is extremely normal and professional.”
“You said ‘professional’ three times,” Quinton observed.
“Because it’s very professional,” I said. “Did I mention it’s professional?”
Fitz was grinning again. “Gabriel’s been weird all week.”
“Weird how?”
“Distracted. Keeps spacing out during meetings. Yesterday he called a patient by the wrong name.”
“Gabriel never does that,” Quinton added. “Guy’s got a memory like a steel trap. But this week? Total space case.”
My stomach did a weird flip. “That’s probably just... work stress. Or something. Nothing to do with me.”
“Uh-huh.” Fitz didn’t look convinced. “And the fact that he mentioned you approximately fifteen times during our staff meeting last week?”
“He did not.”
“He absolutely did. ‘Cate made dinner.’ ‘Cate is good with Megan.’ ‘Cate is surprisingly competent despite the arm incident.’”
“That last one sounds exactly like something he’d say,” I muttered.
“The point is,” Quinton said, “he talks about you a lot. For someone who’s supposed to be all professional.”
