Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 96875 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96875 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
As the scent of bibimbap and garlic wafts around me, I find them at a table in the corner. Mom stands to throw her arms around me. “You look the same,” she says, giving me a once-over.
I arch a questioning brow. “Did you expect me to look different?”
I let go of her as Tyler tugs me in for an embrace as well. I love this dude. He’s never afraid to give a full-on hug. No toxic masculinity from him, he likes to say.
“I expected you to look different because you play for the enemy,” Tyler says, deadpan.
I roll my eyes. “Wait. I bought tickets for the two of you and you’re not even going to root for my new team?”
Tyler shakes his head, adamant. “I’ve been a diehard Cougars fan for ages. I don’t think I can root for the New York Comets. It’s against my nature.”
“And you, Mom?” I stare sternly at her.
“Ummmm,” she says.
I wave a hand. “I’m your son. You need to root for me.”
She holds up her hands in surrender. “I’m doing my best.”
I shake my head as I join them at the table. “And to think I got you seats on the first baseline. Guess I’m sorry about that too.”
“We promise to enjoy them,” Mom answers, but the rest of her words fade away when I key in on my own.
Sorry.
I’ve said it over and over today—for little things, things I’m not even really sorry for.
Maybe sorry is on my mind. Maybe it hasn’t left my mind since I sent Grant that text.
“So how was the last week of spring training?” Tyler asks after we order. “Was it an adjustment after four years with the Cougs?”
“Do you miss your Cougar friends?” Mom asks. “It’ll be hard not seeing Crosby and Chance, I’m sure.”
Their questions all seem so normal, no different than any conversation we’ve had about baseball, about work, about friendships.
But there’s so much they don’t know.
So much I keep from them so they won’t worry.
I flash a smile and tell a massive lie that twists inside me. “The last week was great.” I can segue into the truth, and it unknots some of the tight coil inside me. “Tucker is fantastic. Brady’s a cool dude. The new manager is great. It’s all good.”
No lies there. Those specific details of spring training are completely honest.
But I don’t tell Mom how awful the last week has been.
I’ve never been good about telling her how things have been with my dad. She doesn’t need to know what he’s like these days because he’s no longer her burden to bear. After trying so damn hard to save him when I was younger, she’s free of him.
Nobody fought harder to make a marriage work than my mother. Nobody tried more patiently to help an addict. She did everything to get my father help, but he lashed out at her with his baseless accusations. He hurled horrible lies at her and questioned her constantly.
When she finally left him, she was able to have the life that she deserves. She was able to meet Tyler, a man she can have an open, honest relationship with.
I want her to have this happiness, and I won’t fuck it up by telling her how my father turned my spring training into the latest episode of family bribery.
After lunch, Tyler takes off to catch up with a friend he grew up with in San Diego, and Mom suggests we go for a walk. We chat briefly about the city as we stroll past The Plaza toward the park, but she doesn’t seem interested in small talk.
“You seem distracted, sweetheart,” she says quickly, her eyes sharp, her tone concerned.
“Do I?”
She rubs my shoulder. “I can read you. You’re my kid—my one and only, so I’m not distracted trying to read other ones,” she says with a laugh that fades back into concern. “Is it about your dad?”
I straighten, coming alert. “What makes you ask that?” Does she know he showed up in Florida? Does she know I cracked open my wallet again?
With a weary sigh, she says, “I heard through the grapevine that he’s been having some trouble with his business.” My worry inches higher, but then she goes on. “It seems, though, that he just got a loan. I didn’t know if that had been weighing on you.”
Ah. Nothing to worry about it. He framed my money as a loan.
Perfect.
“No, that’s not it. I just . . .” I think about what I really want to ask her. How much I want to tell her what’s weighing on me. And I find the simplest way in. “Did you ever regret something, Mom?”
A soft smile is her answer. “Of course. But I try to live without regrets. To take care of things that need attending in this moment. What happened that you regret?”