Several days had gone by since Clover said goodbye to Dustin by the light of a half moon. She’d stumbled into her apartment and dropped her purse by the door without even turning on a light. The next morning she woke up on the couch with a wet throw pillow— stained by her tears— under her cheek.

Life didn’t get better after that.

She hoped it would. Hoped the pain in her chest would subside, that the gaping hole in each day that was once filled with Dustin would stop gnawing at her.

She seriously considered running away. The anonymity of living on the street, of once again being invisible, was tempting. The only things holding her in town were The Pantry regulars and Jane and Maddie.

Every morning, on her way to The Pantry, Clover visited Serena in the hospital, taking her little treats and encouraging her to get better soon. Not only was Serena reeling from what Chad had done to her; she ached for her son. Damarius hadn’t been allowed to visit her, but she hoped once she was released she could see him at his foster home. They speculated on how long it would be before Serena’s bruises faded and the swelling on her face went down enough that Damarius wouldn’t see the horror she’d experienced.

Clover wasn’t allowed to visit him either, and she prayed daily for his emotional and physical well-being. Chad was in jail. Serena had filed charges against him, and he wasn’t able to post bail. It would be a couple months before his case went to trial—she hoped they locked him away for a good long time. Clover applauded Serena’s newfound determination to get Chad out of her life once and for all. If anything good came from all this, it would be that Serena and Damarius could start fresh without the threat of Chad finding them hanging over their heads.

Despite the good she saw in the world and the silver linings even around the darkest clouds, Clover couldn’t shake the blues. Her life, which had been so colorful and bright with Dustin, was now painted in shades of navy, cobalt, salt, and pepper. With a heavy sigh, she entered the hotel lobby.

“Hey, Jeff.” She set her purse on the counter without making a sound. That was life these days, too, like she was a ghost of her former self and therefore didn’t make the same impression on the world around her. Her footsteps were slower, quieter; her voice barely sounded above a mumble in her ears; and doors shut behind her with a muted click.

Jeff hustled about, shoving his wallet and phone in his pockets. The big screen was off. Clover had taken to leaving it dark instead of watching her team. She wasn’t ready to see Dustin yet and was, therefore, avoiding baseball altogether.

“Thanks for coming in a little early. Tonight’s the city championships, and David left his bat in my car.” He clicked through the screens to log out for the night. “He’s called three times to see if I’m going to make it.”

Baseball. Her soul yearned to be in the stands. If she closed her eyes, she could smell the crisp air and feel the humidity coming off the grass. In a place as dry as St. George, moisture rippled in the outfield. The Redrocks were out of town, so she wasn’t tempted to use the tickets Dustin had promised her. “You’d better get going.”

“I am.” He rounded the desk. “Room 204 has called for a blanket, and 119 says the pool is out of towels.”

Clover held back her sigh. “I’m on it.” Jeff left, and she clocked in. Besides the short to-do list, the lobby was quiet. She decided to deliver the blanket first. Room 204 was a woman and her elderly mother. The mother was apparently chilly, so Clover took an extra minute to show them how to adjust the thermostat. They said thank you, and she headed back to the front desk.

Two men had come in while she was gone and turned on the television. They had sodas and bags of chips open on the coffee table and were discussing the Redrocks lineup.

Clover stopped in her tracks and stared, soaking in the commentator’s easy way of talking about everything and anything that had to do with the sport, from the clips of the mascot teasing some guy about drinking his beer to the kids in ball caps sipping frozen lemonade.

“I’d like to go to a game there one day. The park looks huge.”

“Wide-angle lens,” said Clover before she thought better of interrupting these two.

They flipped around. “What?” demanded the one with a large potbelly.

Clover lifted one side of her mouth—even that much of a smile was a major effort. “The parks all look big on television, but that’s just a trick of the wide-angle lens. I’ll bet you could sit in outfield seats and still feel like you were on the grass.”

The men exchanged a can-you-believe-this-chick look.

Clover shrugged. “You should go. Being at a game is—” Her voice caught and she had to clear the lump from her throat before she could continue. “It’s a real treat.” She ducked behind the desk to check the phones, keeping her head down to hide the tears that threatened to fall. She missed baseball. She missed feeling like she was part of a huge family of fans. Baseball had given her the ability to break out of her shell and talk to strangers—like the men on the couch arguing with the ump behind the plate over a strike. She hadn’t hesitated to share her knowledge, and she was confident in what she knew.

Surely, watching some of the game would help ease the vice around her chest. A dose of baseball was just what the doctor ordered.

There were forms to fill out and things to do, but none of it was too distracting as the game unfolded. Truly, her heartache eased as the first two innings unfolded, and she took a deep, satisfying breath for the first time in days.

“Crap. Colt’s up next.” The guy with the belly flung himself back into the cushions.

Clover slammed her eyes closed. She couldn’t watch, couldn’t bear to see him look dashing in his uniform, because it would dash her to pieces. Instead, she listened to the announcers.

“Dustin Colt has had an on-again, off-again year.”

“That’s right, Carl. When he’s on point, he hits it out of the park, but he’s been in a slump for a while now.”

“There’s no way to explain what happens in a player’s head when he’s at the plate. Here’s the windup … the pitch is low and inside. Dustin steps out and adjusts his grip on the bat.”

Clover squeezed her eyes tighter to fight off the urge to peek. One glimpse of him could be her undoing.

“Strike one. That was a wicked sinker. He’s pulled a strikeout of three guys with that pitch tonight. Colt didn’t fall for it, though.”

Clover clasped her hands in front of her chest. Two balls, no strikes—he has a swing to give. “Come on, Dustin,” she pleaded.

“Colt is locked and loaded. He swings and misses the curve. Now, I don’t know why he reached for that one, Carl.”

Clover’s fingers began to turn white and tingle with loss of blood, but she couldn’t pry them apart.

“He swings at the same pitch!” The announcer sounded horrified. “If I’m the pitcher, I know what I’m throwing next.”

Come on, Dustin. A base hit—that’s all we need. It was all he needed, too: a chance to get on base and get some confidence back. She clearly remembered the look of devastation that crossed his face when she’d broken things off with him. In that moment, he’d questioned if he was good enough, and she was too cowardly to give him the old it’s not you, it’s me speech. If he could get a hit, she wouldn’t feel like she’d destroyed him, and maybe the guilt and anguish would lessen enough that she might survive losing him.

“Strike three. And that’s another disappointing at bat for Dustin Colt.”

Clover dropped her head to the desk. She’d ruined everything.