Page 73 of Bombshells
I chuckle, because this is something I used to love to do. “Have you seen me with a Sharpie this season? Have I put a fake spider on your lucky sandwich? Have I turned off the hot water in the locker room when you were in the shower?”
“No,” he says, licking his lips nervously. “But it just makes me think you’re saving it up for something major, you know?”
“Uh-huh. Your problem is that you’re a bullshitter, too. He who lives by the Sharpie knows that he will someday die by the Sharpie. But not tomorrow, my friend.” I give him a fist bump.
“Good to know. You have a nice night. Great play, by the way.”
“Thank you, man.” After that, I loosen my tie, say a few more goodbyes, and walk Eric out to his waiting Uber.
Then I head home on foot, which is easier when you’re sober, I have to admit. Except I’m a little too stuck inside my head tonight.
Hit me with your digits, Rudy had said. I wonder what kind of a man he’ll grow up to be. I wonder if I’ll get a chance to know my half-brothers, or if we’ll always be orbiting each other, like distant moons around a cold, ugly planet.
It’s always like this. No matter how infrequent they are, visits from my father leave me feeling sideswiped.
But tonight it’s really not so bad. That point I just added to my stat sheet cushions the blow by quite a bit. And then there was that outburst from Sylvie. That made me smile, even if my heart is achy breaky.
I look both ways before crossing the street and then pull out my phone to text her a good-night message. It’s imperative. I promised to be a good friend, and I’m not going to break that promise.
When I check my messages, she’s already beat me to it with a series of texts.
Anton I’m so SORRY I sounded off at your father. First I yelled at you. And then your family?
It’s really none of my business.
God, you must think I’m a crazy person.
PS: Great play tonight! We were all screaming, including your cute little brothers.
The message is only fifteen minutes old, so even though it’s late, I tap her avatar and dial her.
“Hello?” she asks, sounding sleepy. “Is this the man who made a Philly sniper cry?”
A grin like a fool. “Hey, sweetheart. Thanks for the props.”
“You’re welcome. And I’m sorry about the bar—”
“Don’t be,” I break in. “You’re hot when you’re fired up.” And then I want to kick myself for saying she’s hot. Because what kind of dickhead sends a woman mixed signals like that?
She’s quiet for a second. “I have a bit of a temper.”
“My dad is a first-class tool, Sylvie. He could make anyone lose her cool. Get this—when I showed up in Brooklyn two years ago, I barely even knew Eric. My father alienated Eric’s side of the family a long time ago.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah. It is what it is.” It took me a good decade to learn to use that phrase when speaking about my dad. His bad behavior is not my fault, even though I spent more than half my life thinking it might be.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry about him. He barely exists to me. But that’s not why I called you. I just wanted to say goodnight, and tell you that I can’t wait to go running with you later this week. I get back on Saturday.”
“I’m in Providence then. We always have weekend games.”
“Ah, right. Sorry. Monday, then?” She’s quiet. I can sense her hesitation. “Look, I know I fucked up. And I know I’m confusing as hell. But that’s because I’m confused. But it won’t stop me from trying to be a good friend to you.”
She sighs. “Thank you. You’re not the only one who’s confused.”
“I know that. Goodnight, sweetheart. Pleasant dreams.”
