“So much for that,” Jason says and he hiccups, the tinge of alcohol coming back into his voice. He surveys the city blinking below them. Tami does, too. Somewhere, not too far from the base of the hill, is Ronnie’s latest development, Paradise East. She tries to spot it, knowing the particular orange of construction lights is different from the white of streetlights, the yellow of cars, the blue of screens. Jason’s hand, its callused fingers, finds the small of her back and she forgets all about Ronnie.

“Growth,” she says. “Even the best architect couldn’t stop that.”

Jason is watching her; she can feel his eyes on her face. Is he going to kiss her? But instead he says, “Do you like it here?”

“Taliesin is my favorite place in the state,” she says quickly. “On the planet, maybe.”

“No, Scottsdale. Arizona, I mean. Restarting here.”

Suddenly, she feels about an inch from bursting into tears, from telling him how hard it is to be poor in a place like this, the fancy houses and flashy cars, the rich bitches and mean men like Ronnie. But she tamps down the feeling, cursing herself for nearly letting it surface. That’s not why they’re here. This is about him, about her helping him. “I like the springs here. The weather, the blooming cactus. Spring training. This season gives me hope.”

He’s looking out at the twinkling horizon. “You got enough to share? I’m feeling pretty low.”

“You?” She shakes her head. “No hope about it.” She remembers the banner across the spring program—“the golden boys”—and can hardly believe that same man is now sitting next to her in the dark, so close she can feel his body shifting. “Whatever’s going on, you’re going to be fine.”

“If you say so.” The two are quiet for a minute, more.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Tami asks.

He shakes his head. “I just can’t turn it off, you know? I always want to win.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being competitive. That’s why you’re where you are.”

He shrugs. “Exactly. You ever hear of ‘thrill-seeking behavior’?”

She hasn’t, and she tries to imagine what that means. The thrill of stepping up to the plate? Of course he has that, and the batting average to prove it. Or does he mean something more explicit, some thrill more dangerous? It’s not fast cars—he still drives that old Jeep. Is it pushing his body to its limits? He’d get caught if he was doping. Is it women? Is she just the latest lady in some string of calculable risks? “Is that why you’re getting divorced?”

He nods. “Liana—my ex—she finally called me on it. I guess I figured no one would, because, well…”

“You’re you.”