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)
My throat catches from the pure joy of the memory—and from the pure joy of the shared memory. “It was make-believe, but you were sure it was happening,” I say, a little far away as the warm, sepia tones of childhood dreams waft around me.
“It did. It felt real,” he says, then lets out a deep, contented sigh. “It was like that, Declan. It was like every single dream coming true. And then, somehow, it was even better.”
“I’m so happy for you,” I say, then I laugh, a little embarrassed. “I said that already.”
He laughs too. “It’s okay. I feel a little loopy still. And I only had one glass of champagne last night. But I’m pretty sure I’m still wearing a couple bottles.” A sniffing noise carries across the phone. “Yup. I got doused in it.”
An image of a post-victory locker room flashes before my eyes. Cheers, champagne, high-fives, hoots, and hollers. I want that someday. But right now, I’m glad Grant was able to experience the highest high.
I head to my couch, sit down, and make a request. “How about you take me back to game one and walk me through every epic moment?”
He laughs, a kid’s glee in his voice. “Really? You want me to recount the World Series?”
“This surprises you? That I want every glorious detail of your greatest accomplishment? Your favorite night ever?”
He’s quiet for a few seconds. “The jury’s still out on whether it’s my favorite night ever. But sure, I’ll tell you everything. So, when we ran onto the field in game one . . .”
I settle in as Grant Blackwood tells me a story of victory, and I hang on every fantastic word.
When the call winds down, he clears his throat. “What are you doing for the holidays?”
“Going to Tokyo again. To see the family,” I say.
“By yourself?” It comes out staccato.
My brow knits. “With my mom and Tyler. Why?”
“So, with family,” he emphasizes, more confident this time.
A confused laugh bursts from me. “Yes, with family to see family. Why’d you say by yourself?”
He breathes out hard. “You’re not seeing anyone?”
Ah. That’s why he asked. I smile. “I’m not seeing anyone. I’m not taking anyone. It’s just a family trip,” I say, then seize my chance. “And you? Are you seeing anyone?”
“No. No plans to either.” He sounds happy about that. Maybe as happy as I am to hear it.
We say goodbye, and the time on the phone with him makes me feel . . . free. More than I’ve felt with anyone, even myself, in the last several years.
On Christmas morning, I wake to a text.
* * *
Grant: It’s eight in California on Christmas Eve, which means it’s ten on Christmas morning where you are more than halfway around the world. Which means Santa already visited you. I hope you got the new train set you wanted.
* * *
I laugh in my hotel bed and write back.
* * *
Declan: I got Lego Star Wars.
* * *
Grant: Sweet! Did you ever build a Millennium Falcon out of Legos when you were a kid?
* * *
Declan: Honestly, I was more an Indiana Jones fan. So, I built an ark.
* * *
Grant: Han Solo man here, so I was all about the ship.
* * *
Declan: You want to go down the list of great Harrison Ford flicks on Christmas morning?
* * *
Grant: I’m up for that anytime! But . . . I have a random question for you.
* * *
Declan: Hit me.
* * *
Grant: Can I call you?
* * *
Declan: Of course.
* * *
“Merry Christmas,” I say when I answer on the first ring.
“Merry Christmas to you.”
“So, what’s your random question? Enquiring minds want to know.”
The faint sounds of a car whisking by land on my ears. “I’m walking down the street in my grandparents’ neighborhood right now. But earlier, when I was eating Christmas Eve dinner with my sister and my grandparents, Sierra started making up a silly version of The Night Before Christmas, and that made me think of something you once said.”
I furrow my brow, trying to draw a Christmas connection to Grant and me. “What was that?”
“Poetry. You said you studied poetry as your minor. That’s unusual. What’s that all about?”
This is as good a chance as any to practice some of the stuff I’ve been working on with Carla. Honesty. Openness. Vulnerability. “I told you about what happened when I was thirteen. At the championship series,” I say, sitting up in bed, staring out the window at the Shibuya district below, the crowds zigzagging through the crosswalk.
“Yes. You did. With your dad.”
“That stuff kept happening every so often in high school. When he was around. When he came to my games. I got really tired of the other kids and parents looking at him, and looking at me, and looking away. Eventually, I was so worn thin I did something really stupid.”