* * *
On the surface it’s innocuous, just a note from a dad checking in with his son. But a headache blooms behind my eyes.
I sigh, leaning my pounding forehead against the door as I weigh my options: ignore it, ignore it and delete it, or engage with him.
I want to ignore it, but he’s not asking for anything. He’s still my dad. The least I can do is let go of my anger and reply to his message.
* * *
Declan: It’s been good.
* * *
Leave it at those three words and hit send. His answer pops up quickly.
* * *
Dad: Proud of you. Have I told you that lately? I don’t think I tell you that enough.
* * *
The pain throbs in my head, and I pinch the bridge of my nose. He wants something. I know he wants something. I swallow roughly then reply.
* * *
Declan: Thanks.
* * *
Dad: You’re doing so well.
* * *
I grit my teeth. The hammering moves to my temples, a persistent banging. Inhaling deeply, I choose directness.
* * *
Declan: Dad, do you need something?
* * *
Dad: Just to tell my son that I love him.
* * *
My hand tightens on the phone. Fingers wrapped around it, I squeeze so damn hard it should break. I might smash it to smithereens.
This is so typical of him. Reach out, drop a line, say something nice. Then I’m the asshole for being curt. I’m the shitty son for doubting him. But feeling shitty about it doesn’t change the feeling he wants something more—that this is just him buttering me up.
I inhale. Exhale. In. Out. In that measured pace, I recite the opening lines of Prufrock.
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky.
Loosening my grip on the phone, I leave my room, head to the stairwell, bound down the steps, stride straight out of the hotel, get in my car, and drive to the foot of a hiking trail. At the trailhead, I park and get out, lean against the car, and name all the birds I see.
A cactus wren. A sparrow.
A woodpecker on a saguaro.
He takes off when I walk closer.
I get it, woodpecker. I understand why you show off those wings. That’s all I wanted when I was ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen.
Finding a seat on a rock, I close my eyes.
I learned to recite poetry in my head because I was terrified to speak in public. I hated crowds, hated people looking at me. I was petrified at what they might think. I saw the way other kids in middle school stared at me any time my dad showed up at a game. I saw the way kids and adults looked at me with pity, feeling my shame.
I saw them turn away.
There by the saguaro, I go through the whole T.S. Eliot number, slowing at the line Do I dare to eat a peach.
When I finish, I slide open my phone and reply to my father at last.
* * *
Declan: Love you too. Appreciate the note.
* * *
One of those things is true.
* * *
Closing the thread, I drag a hand through my hair, hating lying.
I want truth.
I don’t want the bullshit of Nathan and his I won’t do it again empty promises, and I don’t want the pop-up-out-of-nowhere style of Kyle, reappearing at whim, asking for another chance.
I want a man who knows his mind and who speaks it.
I flash back to yesterday. How Grant put his wishes out there for me the morning he said he wanted me.
I’m pretty damn sure Grant Blackwood knows his mind. I feel confident it’s not changing. But more than that, I don’t want him to do all the work.
And I want to say something that is wholly true. That doesn’t have a single shred of a lie in it.
I send him a note.
* * *
Declan: There is no way I will regret you. The question is—do you still want me to come over tonight? Say the word, and I am there.
19
Grant
Three hours later I roust my tired ass out of bed.
Spring training is exhausting.
Can’t remember the last time I slept so long.
I roll over, yawning, and catch a glimpse of the clock.
It’s eight, so I drag myself upright, brush my teeth, pull on board shorts, and head down to the pool. Crosby invited me to join him tonight, and I find him and Chance horsing around in the shallow end with some of the other guys, including Rodriguez, who slides a hand over his shaved head when he comes up from underwater, tiny droplets beading over his Black skin.
“You’re gonna love our pool basketball,” Crosby shouts, right before I cannonball into the deep end.
When I come up, the waves still rippling, I arch a brow as I swim to the middle where there’s a net strung across the glistening water. “This is just pool volleyball,” I point out.