The Next Best Thing

Chapter 12

Emma's face was burning. It felt like her tears barely had time to roll over cheeks before they evaporated. God, would she ever stop crying?

Why did he have to be so goddamned right all the time? It was infuriating. And she knew he was right because she was so pissed that he was. She didn't think of herself as an angry person, and honestly thought that stage of the process didn't apply. She never lost it with Gabe or Jackie or Ruby, and when it came to the Glens and gross Gadges of the world, she couldn't afford to. She had to concede, however, that nearly everywhere else she was a frayed knot, moments away from snapping, sick to death of being rubbed the wrong way. The slightest hint of a mercenary attitude from strangers, the barest whiff of meanness or selfishness or entitlement, grated on her every cell and felt like personal insult heaped onto injury. She used to be the live and let live type. Now she instantly disdained anyone she deemed less worthy of life than her sister and mentally threw them in the trash. It was starting to stink.

Who was she to judge, really? She was still grieving. She didn't think she'd ever be done. She'd made an imaginary enemy out of Mitch because of it. Called him a motherfucker because she had unrealistic expectations, accused him of being a voyeur and a creep because she assumed he would be, even though he'd done nothing but try to accommodate her. She would've screamed at anyone for walking in on her the way he did, but why did she think he deserved to have it held against him forever? He was trying to help and then he brought dinner to say sorry. Poor Mitch, dealing with her eye rolls for a year and now condemned to the dump for a Dad joke. Her anger towards him was now completely eclipsed by shame. She was in no position to be judging anybody.

If she could ever face him again, she hoped he'd let her make it up to him. She didn't know what she'd say or what he'd do, but she could at least start by getting her tweezers and picking the glass out of his shoes. She never even thanked him for them. She was going to have to fix that too.

*****

The pitch made to Mitch nearly a week earlier about joining the Umpire State podcast with Howard Green, a former sports reporter for channel 7's nightly news, and Cal Cray, a one-time CFL coach, went just like this: "The format is just a couple of guys talking about any and all sports related news."

"So not just post game analysis?" Mitch asked.

"Some," Howard had said. "Like if there was a controversial call in a recent game, we'd discuss that."

"Or like bad trades," said Cal. "Again, just a group of bros shooting the shit about sports in general."

"You know, opinions about hot topics,"

"Like a tabloid show?" Mitch asked, wanting to get it straight. Emma said podcasts were niche. This just sounded like talk radio.

"Nah, man! Have you ever listened to us?"

"I've heard clips," Mitch lied. Prepping for their meeting, he'd only played one YouTube clip of a show where they discussed the new designated hitter rules for baseball. He couldn't quote anything from it, but his mind did hang on to the "Why do these guys look like Yacht Rock DJs?" from the comments section.

"Some athletes are celebrities so sometimes we're talking about the same stuff gossip posts are, but we cover the politics of the business too. It's everything."

They were really impressed with themselves and kept trying to pump Mitch up so he would be too. They talked a lot about rebranding careers, about audience numbers; they name-dropped recent guests and explained how, now that real sponsor revenue was finally starting to pour in, they wanted to bring someone in permanently to broaden their base with a more diverse panel. Howard and Cal were both white males around Mitch's age and from the same city. Hell, he was almost sure they went to the same high school. How his joining their show was supposed add diversity and a range of perspectives he didn't know, but they were willing to pay him a boatload to secure his fanbase and for the "flex of the get".