28
STEFAN
I think I’ve just about memorized the three halls that branch off from the hospital waiting room. I’ve paced them a hundred and sixty times since last night.
My mom needed the most consoling. Though my dad was as grumpy and quiet as usual, I did note a strange mistiness about his eyes that betrayed his normally stoic demeanor. He only looked at me twice since I got here Sunday night and said about eight words. I gave him just as much respect as he gave me by not getting in his face with what I thought of him.
But the truth is, I’m more mad at myself. Over and over as I pace these halls, I wonder if Rudy wouldn’t be lying in a hospital bed right now if I hadn’t left home in an angry fit.
Of course, if I hadn’t left, I wouldn’t have spent all of that time with Ryan—which, as it turns out, may have been a waste.
“I think I’m in love with you.”
The hall I’m pacing empties into a lounge that the balconies of three separate floors overlook. I wade through a pair of leather couches, a couple fake potted plants, and a calf-high table to stand by the floor-to-ceiling window that lines the room. I tiredly press my forehead to it, gazing down at the courtyard six stories below that hugs the parking lot.
What the hell has happened to me? I feel like I’ve been pulled apart into three people, and each of them is at war in my mind: one who should have been there for Rudy, one who should have stuck it out with Ryan, and another who should have stayed in Frisco working my ass off to get back to my old self on the field.
None of those versions of me seem to coexist in any world I can imagine.
Growing up is terrifying. When you’re young, you have this feeling inside of you that you’ll eventually get the chance to do and try everything in life, because life looks so infinitely long from the perspective of a kid. Then suddenly, you realize that every choice you make unchooses all the other ones. This isn’t a video game. There’s no reset button and no infinite lives. Every single decision I make is permanent, and the more I make, the slimmer my path becomes in this shrinking, dark forest we call adulthood.
I also feel like I’ve passed all the forks in the road. I don’t even think I’m on the path anymore. I’m just lurking in a thicket of trees, and every direction I turn looks as dark and grim as the last.
The fear was bearable just days ago when I thought I’d have Ryan at my side in this.
I press my knuckles to the cold glass, baring my teeth in frustration.
“Don’t jump.”
I freeze at the sound of his voice. Then I catch myself smiling. Then that smile dies, and I lift my head off the glass to face him. He must have come straight here from work, dressed up in a blue shirt with a black tie and matching slacks. His dark hair is swept to one side—his professional look—which seems to sharpen the look of pain in his eyes.
Yeah, it definitely hurts me to see you too, buddy. Especially after how we left things.
“There’s glass in the way,” I mumble, picking up on his weird, awkward joke, then tap the window with my knuckles a few times for emphasis.
He thrusts his hands into his pockets and shrugs. “I … came as soon as I heard, Stefan.”
“He’s alright,” I tell him right away. “I mean, rather, he’s going to be fine.”
“He … collapsed at the gym?”
“Yeah. Overdid it, that zealous little fool.” I chuckle dryly and lean against the window, folding my arms. “They’re just running some tests to be sure. Kept him overnight. Taking precautions.”
“That’s good.”
“Yeah.”
Ryan nods, then slowly comes around the leather couches. I watch him, studying every little movement as if it’ll give away what’s going on in his head. Is he pissed about the other night? Is he thinking about it, too? Is he suffering the same complex tangle of emotions as I am?
He gives a short glance at the fake plant by the couch, closes his eyes, then tells me, “Stefan, I … I have a few things I need to get off my chest about how we—”
“Ryan?”
My dad’s entrance isn’t the timeliest. I huff, frustrated, as my dad comes into the room with a strange look on his face. I’m surprised to find more life in his eyes than I’ve seen for a long time when he looks at Ryan.
When Ryan turns, an expression of happy surprise floods his own face. “Mr. Baker.” He smiles and cheerily extends a hand. “It’s been a long while, sir.”
“Too long,” my dad agrees, accepting the handshake heartily. His eyes are perpetually half-lidded, giving him this look of being utterly unimpressed with anything, but I still catch a rare twinkle of appreciation in them when he looks at Ryan. “What’re you doing here?”
“I … guess you don’t know. I’m actually Rudy’s counselor at Morris High. I heard he was in the hospital and came to offer my support.”
“Well.” My dad shuffles his feet. “It’s good to see you, Ryan.”
“It’s unfortunate it has to be under these circumstances.”
My dad grunts his agreement, then faces me with a pained look. “I need to talk to my son. Alone, please.”
Ryan shifts his gaze uneasily between us, then finally says, “I’ll … I’ll be down the hall talking to Mrs. Baker. I’ll give you two some space and let you be.”
“No,” I state, my word like a steely cold axe chopping what tiny shred of a light, merry mood was brewing in this lounge. “I was talking to my friend, Dad. You came and interrupted us.”
“Really, it’s okay,” Ryan insists, lifting his hands up. As usual, he’s trying to cool the waters and pull the fuse from my constant, fuming desire to out-tough my father. “You and I can talk later. I’m not … I’m not going anywhere.”
My hard stare meets his. I don’t respond. Apparently I don’t need to; Ryan simply nods at us, then heads off down the hall.
And even with all the tension in my body, my eyes can’t help but drift downward to watch his cute ass in those tight slacks and belt as he walks away.
Damn.
“Son, we need to talk.”
I lift my eyes to my father, turning to ice at once. “Go ahead. Whatever you got to say, just let it out.”
He shuffles his feet heavily, pockets his bony hands, then lifts his tired, emotionless face to me. “I love you.”
I flinch. That wasn’t what I was expecting.
“I pushed you,” he grunts. “Pushed you, watched you fall, then kicked you while you were flat on your ass. Good dads don’t do that. A good dad would have helped his son up, brushed off the bullshit, and …” He makes a strange gesture toward me. “Gave care. Encouragement. Shit, son, I’m no good at apologies.”
“Is that what this is?” I ask him, my forehead screwing up.
“Yes. I should have recognized your pain. I screwed up bad when I was your age. Almost lost everything. Then I got up, fought hard, and now look at the life I built for you and your brother.”
“Yeah. A life where my kid brother feels so overlooked and unappreciated that he nearly kills himself at the gym trying to become your perfect little star athlete to impress you.”
“You and your brother grew up with a roof over your heads and full bellies every night,” he states—again in that infuriatingly calm, unaffected voice. “But a good life like this doesn’t come for free, and you’re smart and old enough to know that. I sacrificed a lot for you boys and for Mom. You gotta work hard for—”
“You’re a bit late for a pep talk, old man.”
“I am.” He sets his jaw and brings his hard gaze on me. “And I know it. But it’s never too late to look your son in the eye and tell him you were wrong.”
I don’t say anything, for once holding my tongue. Maybe it’s the softness in his tone or the words themselves, but I find myself wanting to hear him out.
“See, because I don’t want you and your brother to have the life I did. I don’t want you to work so hard that you go periodically blind in one eye from the stress. I don’t want you to ever forget expressing how much you love your kids or your wife someday. I don’t want you to work so damned hard all your life that you forget to … to have some damned fun, damn it.”
I cross my arms and nod, sucking on my tongue as I let his words marinate.
“Fun,” he repeats. “And joy. And heart. And love. You got any love in your life? Other than for baseball?”
I fight a smile as I stare my father in the eyes. It always comes right back to Caulfield, doesn’t it?
“Well?” he grunts.
I slowly nod. “Yeah, Dad. I … think I do.”
He’s surprised by that, which appears to be too much emotion for his face to handle apparently. “Really? You’ve got someone in your life now?”
If he only knew. “Yep.”
“So? What’s stopping you from inviting her over for dinner sometime? Other than the fact that you moved your ass out of the house for no reason?”
“For no reason?”
He sighs and grumbles, then amends himself. “Other than the fact that you moved your ass out because of your pigheaded father.”
I nod appreciatively, then answer his question. “I guess I just wasn’t ready yet.”
“Wasn’t ready to introduce this new woman to us?”
“It’s not a new woman.”
He wrinkles up his face. “So it’s someone we know?”
Seriously. This is more emotion than I’ve ever seen him show. I’m concerned that his face might freeze in one of these totally over-emotive expressions, unfamiliar as his facial muscles must be to them.
“Yep,” I affirm. “Someone you’ve known for quite some time, too. But I don’t think you want to know who it is.”
My dad’s eyes flicker with annoyance. “Don’t tell me what I want to or don’t want to know. Just say who it is already.”
I swallow hard. “You sure about this?”
“For shit’s sake, son. Out with it.”
I have no idea where my confidence comes from right now, but I feel a sudden and very appropriate urge to be reckless with all my precious feelings. My dad asked for it; he’s about to get it with the subtly of a bomb.
I clear my throat, then come out with it. “Ryan Caulfield.”
My dad still doesn’t seem to follow. That, or his face really did just get stuck in his last expression.
“Ryan,” I repeat. “He’s the person in my life, Dad. He’s always been the person in my life.”
“Shit, son.” My dad slaps a hand to his forehead and shakes his head, then squints at me. “You sure?”
“More than I’ve ever been about anything.”
“Ryan?” He points back toward the hall. “That Ryan?”
“The one and only.”
My dad starts rubbing the back of his neck while he paces the lounge in one slow circle around the couches. He comes to a stop right where he was standing in the first place, still speechless.
“I …” He seems, for the first time in his life, at a loss for words. Partly, it scares the shit out of me. Partly, it fills me with a sense of pride. “I’m …” He clears his throat and runs a hand over his face before finally getting the words out. “Well, I don’t know what your mother’s going to think about all this. Shit, she’ll probably say she already knew. She’s smart as a whip. Always been smarter than me. Told me a hundred times I should have gone easier on you after your injury, and hell if she was right. She’ll tell me I should have seen this coming, too.”
I just stand there and let my dad get all the words out. I still don’t know where his heart and mind stand when it comes to learning that his minor-league-quitting son—his once pride and joy—is a guy who likes other guys.
“Well, shit,” he grunts, coming back to life. “I want to say I’m surprised. But come to think of it, I’m not. You two were … were something else, growing up.” He eyes me suddenly. “Were you two doing stuff back when—? Shit, don’t answer that.” He slaps a hand to his eyes and gives them a rub, then pinches the bridge of his nose, his face scrunching up as he massages it. “This is going to take some getting used to. For your mother and I, both.”
“Nah. Mostly just for you.”
He eyes me again. There’s a whole lifetime of tension, anger, unvoiced frustrations, disappointment, and parental resentment between the pair of us. I realize that there’s a level of that between any parent and their child. My dad isn’t any better or worse than anyone else. He tries just like others do to provide the best for his family. Sometimes he makes mistakes, and sometimes he makes gold out of nothing.
And in the midst of all that mess of negative emotion, there’s also love. We both know it, too. He can be a real dick sometimes, but so can I.
Like father, like son.
“Ryan, you say,” grunts my dad, giving another shake of his head, like he’s still trying to believe it, or picture it, or something. “Little, good boy Ryan.” He huffs. “Okay … Alright.” Then my dad pops open his eyes and inclines his head toward me. “He’s a good young man, that Caulfield. I know that much. A really good young man.”
“And I think I’m in love with him.”
He makes a strange sort of cough and clutches his chest, as if I just slapped his back hard in the middle of him chugging a beer. “Son, you better slow down there unless you want two members of your family laid out in hospital beds today.”
At that, I let out a laugh, which then triggers the first genuine bout of laughter from my father that I’ve heard in years. I miss my old dad who’d laugh and crack jokes, even with his straight face and deadpan eyes. I thought he died the day I quit the minors. But no; he’s very much alive and full of the passion he used to be known for.
And so the fuck am I.