The Leftovers

was walk Sansome and have to face Larry Tallerico with the bases loaded. Tallerico was a beast, a scowling, sunburned bruiser who’d once hit a ball so far it had never been found.
    “Easy does it!” Kevin shouted. “Make him swing!”
    He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead, trying to ignore the lingering sense of shame that had dogged him all day. He knew just how close he and Aimee had come to making a terrible mistake, and he was determined not to let it happen again. He was a grown man, a supposedly responsible adult. It was up to him to take charge of the situation, to lay out the ground rules in an honest and forthright manner. All he had to do was sit down with her first thing in the morning, acknowledge what was going on between them, and tell her that it needed to stop.
    You’re a very attractive girl, he would say. I’m sure you know that. And we’ve gotten pretty close in the past few weeks—a lot closer than we should have.
    And then he would explain, as bluntly as he needed to, that there could never be anything romantic or sexual between them. It’s not fair to you and it’s not fair to Jill, and I’m not the kind of man who would put either of you in that position. I’m sorry if I gave you that impression. It would be uncomfortable, there was no question about that, but not nearly as uncomfortable as doing nothing, allowing themselves to feign innocence as they continued down the dangerous path they were on. What would be next? A chance encounter in the hallway outside his bedroom? Aimee in nothing but a towel, mumbling an apology as she squeezed by, their shoulders brushing as she passed?
    Sansome fouled off the next pitch and the one after that, hanging on for dear life. Gonzo’s next pitch sailed so high over his head that Steve Wiscziewski had to leap out of his crouch to grab it.
    “Ball four!” bellowed the umpire. “Take your base!”
    The runners advanced as Sansome trotted to first. Hoping to calm Gonzo’s nerves, Steve called time-out and walked out to the mound for a conference. Pete Thorne wandered in from shortstop to put his two cents in. While they chatted, Kevin retreated deeper into the outfield, showing his respect for Tallerico’s power. With Carpe Diem up by three, they could afford to give up a run or two. What he wanted to avoid was a scenario in which the ball sailed over his head, and he had to chase it down and nail a long throw to the relay man to prevent a grand slam.
    “Let’s play ball!”
    Pete and Steve returned to their positions. Tallerico lumbered up to the plate, tapping the surface with the fat end of his bat, doing an amused double-take when he saw how far away Kevin was standing, maybe ten yards from the edge of the woods. Kevin took off his blue hat and waved it in the air, hailing the big man, inviting him to bring it on.
    Gonzo wound up and pitched, dropping a fat one right over the plate. Tallerico just stood there and watched it fall, not the least bit fazed when the ump called strike one. Kevin tried to imagine the conversation he would have to have with Aimee at the breakfast table, wondering how she’d take it, and how he’d feel when it was over. He’d lost so much in the past few years—everyone had—and had worked so hard to stay strong and keep a positive attitude, not only for himself, but also for Jill, and for his friends and neighbors, and for everybody else in town. For Nora, too—especially for Nora, though that hadn’t worked out so well. And right now he was feeling the weight of all those losses, and the weight of the years that were behind him, and the weight of the ones that were still ahead, however many there might be—three or four, twenty or thirty, maybe more. He was attracted to Aimee, sure—he was willing to admit that much—but he didn’t want to sleep with her, not really, not in the real world. What he was going to miss was her smile in the morning, and the hopeful feeling she gave him, the conviction that fun was still possible, that you were more than the sum of what had been taken from you. It was hard to think about giving that up, especially when there was nothing waiting to replace it.
    The chink of the aluminum bat snapped him out of his reverie. He saw the flash of the ball as it rose, then lost it in the sun. Raising his bare hand to shield his eyes, he stumbled backward, then a little bit to the right, instinctively calibrating the trajectory of an object he couldn’t see. It