Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 61180 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 306(@200wpm)___ 245(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61180 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 306(@200wpm)___ 245(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
“And I wanted you to know that your tough talk inspired me. I’m not going to ask you for a loan again.”
“That’s great,” I say, but I’ll believe that when it happens. Plus, there are bigger fish to fry. “But are you going to go to rehab?”
“Nah. I don’t need it.”
I sigh at the overconfident dismissal. “Is that so?”
“It is. I’ve been sober for a while now,” he adds.
“How long?”
“A while,” he repeats, underlining the words.
That’s answer enough. He won’t tell me. Therefore, he’s slipped again. “Well, keep up the good work,” I say. This isn’t my circus, these aren’t my monkeys.
“But that’s not why I’m calling,” he says.
I brace myself for some brand-new request. For the latest uncomfortable ask. “All right. Why are you calling?”
“Tricia and I would love to take you and Grant out to dinner.”
My insides curl up in a ball and cringe. I’d rather have needles poked in my eyes. Yet I know this is better than a lot of alternatives. Dinner is not a loan. Dinner is not a drunken appearance at a game. Dinner is simply . . . a meal.
But dinner usually comes with liquor. “How about breakfast instead?”
“Sure,” he says. We set a date and I tell him I’ll check with Grant.
We hang up, and I feel like I made it out of a cage match unscathed. But I’m unsure if I can pull it off again next time.
Two weeks later, Grant and I set out on a Friday morning to have breakfast with my father. My nerves are strung tight. Grant must sense it, since he rubs my shoulder as we walk along California Street.
“You’ve got this, Deck,” he says.
“I hope so.”
“I know so,” Grant says, then smacks a kiss on my stubbled cheek.
He lets go of my shoulder and reaches for my hand. I take it, clasping our fingers together, and we cross Fillmore like that.
When we arrive at the diner, I look around for my father and a woman, but spot my dad all alone at a table.
“Tricia couldn’t make it. Late night,” my dad says with a shrug as he stands.
Grant extends a hand. “But it’s a pleasure to meet you, Jon.”
We sit, order awkwardly, then Grant slides in with a great opening line: “So, you were a hitting champ in the minors, Jon. Tell me your favorite memories of Triple-A.”
That’s genius. We spend the next forty-five minutes reminiscing on the one thing the three of us have in common—the greatest sport ever.
It’s almost enough to fool me into thinking my dad is better.
22
Grant
Clearly, this isn’t the time to toss out the big question that’s been poking at me since the night I was hit. Declan is quiet after breakfast with his dad, and I’m not going to rock his boat by saying, “Hey, something big has been on my mind for the last couple weeks. Want to chat?”
I don’t fill every second of silence on the way home with my need to talk, talk, talk. That’s something I’ve been learning—when to talk, when to listen. When to give Declan some space to figure out what’s in his head.
Once we return to our house, he asks if I want to go to the gym. “Like the good old days, when we were just workout buddies,” he says, with a sly grin.
Ah, he’s back. That’s my guy.
“But these are the good new days too,” I point out. “And the answer is yes to the gym. Obviously. I’ve always liked checking you out in shorts. Favor though?”
“Yes?” Declan asks as we head upstairs to change.
“Can you go shirtless?”
“Anything for you. Especially since these are definitely the better days.”
The question will have to wait for another day.
On Saturday we both have night games, but we spend the day together. First, we head to my sister’s bar in Hayes Valley to grab a bite to eat. When we walk in, Sierra flashes a welcoming grin. “Lucky me. I’ve got a star athlete in the Spotted Zebra . . . as well as my brother,” she says, setting down napkins in front of us at the counter.
Declan smiles. “Dragons fans are my fave,” he says.
“What can I get the Dragons shortstop? Anything you want is on the house. But the Cougar will have to pay,” she tells him with a flick of her pink-streaked blonde hair.
I roll my eyes. “Sheesh. Family.”
Declan orders a chicken sandwich, I ask for a burger, then Deck raises a finger. “That’s it for food. But what I really want, Sierra, is a fantastic story about Grant as a kid.”
My sister bats her lashes, her brown eyes twinkling with delight. “How about the time when he was six, ran naked through the sprinkler in the front lawn, then down the street, all the way to the end of the block, where Grandpa finally caught him and carried him back, naked as a jaybird, over his shoulder?”