“He’s not here,” Manny calls out and startles me as I jog through the clubhouse. “He was here about two hours ago but then he was headed home.” He steps into view, concern written all over his face. He must know how upset Easton was about the broadcast.
“He did come home, but then he left again. I just really need to find him.”
“He finally told you, didn’t he?”
My feet falter at his words and I stare at him wondering if he’s talking about the same thing I’m worried about. And yet he can’t be. But the look on his face, the concern and empathy he’s emitting, tells me he does.
“Don’t worry,” he says after we stare at each other for a few minutes. “You don’t have to say anything to me and betray his confidence. I liked you before, but I like you better now because of that . . . but know that I know. Easton doesn’t know I do, but I do. When he was little, I was the one who sat and helped Easton with his homework. His dad’s rule was it had to be finished before he was allowed to go sit in the dugout and watch the game. I was the only one around to help him when he struggled to complete it.”
My eyes well with tears as I think of the frustrated little boy hiding his trouble from the world. “Manny, I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything, Scout. I knew he couldn’t keep it a secret forever, and yet it was never my place to say anything to him. It’s his business. But he’s like a son to me, and my heart broke for him last night when I watched the broadcast. He was so incredible, and then he wasn’t. I knew why, and I hated myself for not reaching out to him and trying to help him somehow.”
“It’s not your fault,” I say, but his expression says he doesn’t believe that’s true. I think he’s as upset over watching Easton’s humiliation as I am.
“Just know that I don’t think he’s ever told anyone. For a man to have to admit his shortcomings to the woman he loves and think she’ll look at him as less once he does is a damn hard pill to swallow.”
“I’d never think less of him. In fact I think more of him for finally admitting it.”
He sniffs back the moisture pooling in the corner of his eyes despite his muted smile. “I knew you would. And for the record, I don’t know nothing about nothing.” He nods. “I’ve got to get back to work, and you need to get out of here since it’s your day off.” But I don’t move, I remain in place as I contemplate my next move. “Try the Little League field,” he advises before turning and walking down the hall.
Of course. The place he goes to clear his head.
With each step I take on my way to the park, I replay the facts and figures I’d researched once Easton left. The ones that kept me from chasing him down and denying him the time he most likely needed to come to terms with knowing that someone else knows his secret.
After a lifetime of protecting it, it’s probably hard to process.
Every part of me sighs in relief and sags with despair when I reach the park and see the figure dressed in black sitting alone on the outfield slope.
Easton.
I make my way over to where he’s sitting and take a seat beside him without saying a word. Our silence stretches as I pull out pieces of grass and split them apart.
I wait patiently, knowing Easton needs to take the first step in this conversation. I sought him out to show him I wasn’t running away, but I can’t force what happens next. Letting him lead wherever this conversation goes might help him feel in control of something when everything else in his world seems so out of control.
While I wait for him to figure out how much he does or doesn’t want to talk about this, I think about my Google search after he left. Article after article about blue-chip college athletes who couldn’t read or write with more than a fourth grade ability and yet they were given degrees because they were the cornerstone of whatever team they played for. I looked up dyslexia, trying to figure out if that’s what Easton meant about how the words shift and change. I gorged on the information, reading as quickly as possible to try and understand more, and to occupy my time to prevent me from chasing after him.
And I looked for signs I’ve missed in our time together, but there really aren’t many. He’s become a master at disguise.
He has a literacy charity. I thought he was trying to help kids out—be a good guy. To draw the conclusion that he, himself, suffered from it would have been asinine. I think of the papers he was looking over and threw on the table. He told me they were lessons for the kids. Looking back, I wonder if they were Helen’s lessons for him.
He loved audiobooks. Big deal. A lot of people love audiobooks. That doesn’t mean they can’t read.
I try to think of any one time that stands out where he was more than obvious and I can’t. He’s so practiced in hiding it that even the woman he lives with didn’t realize it.
And then it hits me. The contract. The signatures agreeing to being traded or demoted to Triple-A.
And as if he’s reading my mind, he finally speaks. “It wasn’t Finn’s fault, you know?”
“I realize that now,” I say softly.
“He wasn’t even there. I signed the papers. It all happened so quickly. Tillman shoved the papers in front of me, and I didn’t have the time to work out what they said. I couldn’t make them make sense.”
“You were in pain.”
“That’s no excuse.” His laugh is self-deprecating. “I let you assume it was Finn, blame him, and that’s pretty shitty of me to allow you to think ill of a guy who has done nothing but protect me my whole career. I’m the reason I was traded to the Wranglers. Fuck, that’s hard to say out loud.” He pauses and lies back on the grass, looking at the sky that’s turning orange from the approaching sunset. “I’m the one who caused all this. I’m the one who put myself in the position no one would have ever agreed to and all because I can’t read.”
The words clog in his throat, almost as if they are physically hard for him to say aloud, and I get it. They must be. I nod, uncertain what to say. I want to keep him talking like I did the last time I sat next to him on the grassy slope in the outfield. This time though, there is no game going on to run distraction. It’s just him. And me. And everything left unspoken.
The field before us is empty. The bases have been removed. The chalk lines erased by little feet that have run over them. Proof that everything can be made to look perfect if need be.
Just like Easton has had to do.
“I’ve always been able to outrun it. Slide by. High school was easy—I became the master at cheating. Notes written on my palm. Papers scooted to the edge of the table of the girl sitting beside me. A little flirting goes a long way at that age. College was tougher, but when I found out I could pay people to write my papers or I was conveniently sick for exams, I was given more leeway—take-home tests others did for me . . . you name it, and blue-chip athletes like me get it. The administration doesn’t care if you can’t pass a class—they’ll fix it for you—so long as you win the college World Series and bring more money into their school. Advertising dollars and team memorabilia can fund an awful lot of salaries. And when I couldn’t get around reading a book, I’d get the e-textbooks. They were particularly helpful when I could listen to them on the voice app thing a Kindle has.”
“Like Whispersync?”
“At times, yeah.” I glance back to him and hate that he won’t look me in the eyes. He shouldn’t fear what I’m thinking of him. “Then when I was drafted my sophomore year, it was the biggest relief to not have to be constantly stressed over managing it all. I figured I’d beaten the system and came out no worse for wear. I was a major league baseball player. Why did I need to fix the problem now? I had Finn, who I trusted, and if I really needed to read something, I’d make an excuse so I could take it home and take the time to figure it out.”
“Your parents didn’t know? Finn doesn’t know?” I ask, thinking back to how easy Manny picked up on it, but know that’s not my secret to tell.
He shoves up off the grass and walks back and forth a few feet, the nervous energy eating him up. “I always thought they knew—I mean, how could they not? But with my dad traveling all the time and me pulling in passing grades, they thought I had somehow gotten a handle on the reading that had troubled me in first and second grade . . .”
“That must have been so hard for you though.”
“Hard?” He laughs. “That’s an understatement. I’ve become the master at distraction when I have to read something. I mean, give me enough time, and I can figure the words out. I can make out which ones are faced the wrong way and then sound the word out—my God, I feel like such a loser saying this to you. I’m an adult and I have to study a paragraph for an hour like a third grader so I can understand it.”
He stops moving, closes his eyes, and pinches the bridge of his nose as he attempts to control the anger and shame before turning his back to me. His shoulders are strong and proud and I can’t imagine what this is doing to him having to explain something that most would find fault with him over.
But not me.
“Easton . . . you don’t have to explain anything,” I murmur softly.
He laughs in response and draws in a deep breath but remains facing away. “I know I don’t . . . but at the same time I do. You probably already think less of me for it, so I need to get it all out now.”
“No. I don’t. I think you’re brave, East—”
“Brave?” He turns back around, arms out at his sides and face a mask of confusion. “How can you think someone who’s basically spent their whole life tricking people into thinking he’s smart, is brave?”
“Is that what you think you were doing? Tricking people? I call it surviving, Easton. Sure it wasn’t life or death, but it was your battle. Your struggle.” I rise to my feet so I can match him word for word. “And no one is allowed to tell you it isn’t important or you’re any less of a man because of it. So I don’t want to hear you say it again. I don’t think it. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. So you need to figure out how to handle the fact that I know and don’t think any less of you at all. You got that?”
He just stares at me as if he wants to believe me but is afraid to. I hate every bit of self-doubt I see plaguing him.
There’s a shout on the field at his back and he turns to see what it is. A man and two middle school-aged boys jog onto the field. We watch as they begin to set up what appears to be batting practice: a bucket of balls on the mound with the dad, one kid putting on a helmet at the plate, the other grabbing his glove and running to left field. The dad eyes us for a moment, strangers on the hill, before tipping his hat to let us know he sees us and then turning to instruct his son at the plate.
We watch this as-old-as-time-dance between fathers and sons. The dad pitches, the son hits, and the dad instructs before starting the process all over again. The one boy in the outfield near us glances our way every once in a while when he has to shag a ball that has bounced near us. He has the same dark features as Easton and for a few brief moments, I picture Easton as a father doing the same thing with his sons someday.
The thought brings a smile to my lips.
“Kid’s got a good swing,” he says after a while, falling back on the easy topic of conversation.
“You would know,” I nod, quick with the praise. “Tell me about Helen. That must have been a huge step for you.” Just saying her name reminds me of that fleeting fear I had that he’d cheated on me.
I hate that he’s still hesitating but I need him to know he can talk to me about this. The more he does, the less he’ll feel isolated in what must have been a pretty paranoid and lonely world.
“After I signed the addendum and Finn saw it, I knew I’d screwed up. Ironically I didn’t even know how bad considering Cory only forwarded the trade agreement and not the Triple-A one.” He shakes his head.
“Asshole.”
He chuckles and nods. “True. Finn became unglued when he found out what Tillman had done. Having me sign them without representation. From there on out, he started questioning every move Cory made when it came to me and tried to alert Boseman of them.”
I nod, so very glad I was wrong about Finn.
“But the more Finn pushed, the more scared I grew that he’d figure out the truth. So I tried to play it off with him. I told him to drop his complaint to Boseman about Cory making me sign the addendum under duress. I assured him it didn’t matter anyway because I’d be rehabbed and healthy and would get reinstated. Little did I know what else Cory was going to pull.” He shakes his head. “It was my fault, Scout. I let you blame Finn, but it was one hundred percent on me. Christ, it was the first time my inability to read had a monumental effect on my life.”
“You were in severe pain. You can’t know if you would have done anything differently.”
“I made the same excuse to myself at first. Believe me, I was the king of spinning the truth to make me feel better . . . but, there were serious repercussions this time around. I knew I needed to do something, and then coincidently, I had a meeting with the volunteers at the Literacy Project. Helen was working there to get hours in for one of her classes—she’s studying for her teaching certificate at University of Texas. She’s great with the kids, patient, knowledgeable. I knew she was struggling with studying and working two jobs to pay for school . . . so I made her an offer: I’d pay for her tuition, if she’d tutor someone for me. After realizing I wasn’t joking, she was thrilled at the prospect. I had my lawyer draw up agreements binding her seven ways from Sunday from disclosing who she was tutoring. Once she signed everything, I let her know it was me.”
I imagine how surprised she must have been as we watch the two boys switch spots. They stop for a moment to talk as they pass each other, both looking our way briefly before settling into their new positions.
“We’ve made some progress. I’ve become quicker at tricking my eyes to make the letters go the right way and reposition them, but I still have a long way to go.”
“But at least you’re on your way.”
“Being on my way doesn’t fix what happened last night. God, it was horrible.” He sighs the word out and scrubs his hands over his face as he relives the evening. “I didn’t know I was going to have to read anything, Scout. I would have never agreed to it had I known. I thought it was the same as when I’ve been in the booth here. You just talk, shoot the shit about baseball, and that’s it. Now I’m the universal hashtag and poster boy for dumb jocks everywhere.”
“It wasn’t that bad—” I start, but he holds up his hand.
“Don’t. I don’t need to be coddled. I saw everything from the posts on social media to listening to Jim Rome bash me on the radio. I know how bad the comments are, and you know what? They’re right. When the teleprompter started scrolling, it was moving so fast I couldn’t use the strategies Helen is teaching me to trick my brain and make sense of the letters. I froze. Plain and simple. I was caught so flatfooted that trying to cover it up would have only made it worse. It was bad. I know it. And the critics and anonymous keyboard warriors sure as shit know it.”
“For all they know, it’s just what Bud said. The teleprompter was broken and they didn’t teach you the controls of the soundboard.”
“In a perfect world, yes. But this world is far from perfect. Bud was there. The camera crew and sound engineers were there. They know there was nothing wrong . . . and all it takes is one of them to have a beer with a friend, make a comment in passing, and next thing you know, Easton Wylder is exactly what all the kids in school used to call me. Dumb. Stupid. Slow. Retarded.”
“And?”
“And what?” He turns to look at me like I’m crazy.
“Anyone who has ever listened to you speak or been around you knows that’s not true. And that’s a lot of people, Easton. Just because you can’t read well doesn’t mean you’re not intelligent. You’ve made sure you were educated in other ways . . . so what’s the big deal if people find out? No, hear me out,” I say as he starts to argue with me. “People don’t need to know you can’t read. All they’d know is you have dyslexia and the teleprompter was moving too quickly for you.”
“Why would I ever do that?” he asks, the words a hushed whisper as if it’s incomprehensible why I’d suggest something so ridiculous.
“Because dyslexia isn’t something to be ashamed about. There are so many others out there like you, Easton. People who are embarrassed because they too have a learning disability and are afraid others will make fun of them. Like the kids in your program, for one. What if they knew the man they idolized was just like them and still successful?” He shakes his head. “There’s power in sharing your shortcomings with others. It may open you up, but it could allow others to overcome their own hurdles.”
His hand goes up to pull on the back of his neck as he turns to watch the boys and their dad still at it. Pitch. Hit. Instruct. Repeat. Focusing on them is the only way he can escape from the riot of insecurities inside of him.
The kid at the plate cranks a fly ball to left field. The pop off the bat is unmistakable as it soars high in the sky. The dad gives a huge whoop as the other son runs our way. When the ball stops a few feet before us, Easton steps forward and picks it up just as the kid slows to a stop before him.
“I think this belongs to you,” he says as he holds out the ball. When the boy looks up from the ball to Easton and realizes who is standing in front of him, his expression is absolutely priceless.
“Holy shit,” he says and then startles when he realizes he cussed and puts his hand up to his mouth. “You’re—he’s—oh my God—don’t tell my dad I said shit—Dad!”
By this time the kid’s father is making his way to us, curious about the stranger talking to his son with his other boy not far behind. Their reaction is just as priceless when they recognize Easton. All three of them are slack-jawed with shock.
Once the dad collects himself, he reaches his hand out. “Leo Tompkins. And this is Ollie and Archie. We’re all huge fans. How’s the shoulder healing? And a Wrangler? Really? How are you—sorry, I’m rambling. I’ll stop now.”
Easton chuckles and the sound is so very welcome after the despondency I’ve heard in his voice today. “Easton Wylder. It’s a pleasure and the shoulder’s slow going, but it’s healing.” They shake hands. “And this is Scout Dalton.” Introductions are made and then Easton turns to Ollie and Archie. “You’ve both got great swings. Keep practicing with your dad, and you’ll be hitting it out of the park like it’s nothing.”
Both boys look star-struck from his praise—eyes wide and full of disbelief—and I wish Easton could see that this is what people see. Not his shortcomings or what he deems as flaws. But this. The whole package. The personable hero that little boys and girls all over Austin and beyond wish to grow up and be like someday.
“Thank you,” Ollie says. “I want to play just like you when I grow up.”
“Can you autograph a baseball for us?” Archie asks.
“Sure, but I don’t have a pen,” Easton says as both the kids and the dad look deflated when they realize that not one of us have one. “How about this? How about you head over to the stadium tomorrow before the game. You ask for Manny Winfield at the ticket booth. I’ll have him come and take you for a tour of the locker room and dugout during batting practice.”
“Are you serious?” Ollie asks, his voice escalating in pitch with each word as Archie all but hops out of his shoes.
“Dead serious.”
“Thank you, so much. That’s very generous of you,” Leo says putting his arms on both boys’ shoulders. “Let’s leave Mr. Wylder alone now. We’ve taken enough of his time.”
“Not a problem,” Easton says as Leo physically steers his boys to turn around and start walking the other way. “Ollie, try and keep your hands still before the pitch. It’ll help with your bat speed. And Archie, close your stance up a bit so you can reach the outside pitch.”
They both look back to him again and give eager nods before walking toward the infield, their infectious chatter floating back to us.
“What if one of those boys couldn’t read? Do you think they’d think any less of you if they knew you had trouble too, or do you think they’d still think you were their hero? I know which one I’d put my money on.”
“I never asked to be anyone’s hero, Scout, let alone the poster child for illiteracy. There’s a lot of responsibility that comes with something like that when I already have enough shit to deal with.”
“Okay,” I murmur. He’s irritated, and I’m pushing when I shouldn’t be, but I know this would help him. Not only would it give this selfless man a different kind of motivation to conquer his demons, it would also show him that the public still loves him regardless of what he deems to be his faults.
“Thank you for coming . . . for talking to me . . . but I kind of want to be alone right now.”
I stare at him—at those conflicted brown eyes—and as much as I want to stay, sit with him and help him not feel so alone, I know I need to give him the time he’s asking for.
I press a kiss to the backside of his shoulder. “Okay.” Begrudgingly I start to walk away and then stop. “There are no conditions to my love for you, Easton. It’s not that you play baseball or your ability to read or your public persona that attract me to you. Those things will come and go and change over time. It’s your heart I love. It’s your ability to open up to me even when you don’t want to. The man you are makes me want to be a better woman, too. So, I’ll give you time to think and be alone when I really don’t want to as long as you understand I want you. All of you. Your flaws. Your mistakes. Your achievements. Your shortcomings. Your love.”
He turns toward me and the look in his eyes tells me he understands.
It tells me he’s coming home to me.
It tells me he knows I love him for him.
It tells me he loves me too.