Page 88 of Unwritten Rules
“Everything okay?” Eugenio asks.
“I was gonna call that counselor. If I don’t do it now, I’m afraid I won’t.” Zach’s hands shake as he pulls out his phone, which for once doesn’t complain as he connects it to his truck’s Bluetooth system. He scrolls through his contacts, finding the number and pressing Call.
It rings once and then an after-hours message comes on, saying that the office is closed for the day. To call 9-1-1 if you are experiencing a medical emergency. Offering a number for an LGBTQ+ crisis hotline. A promise to return all messages promptly.
There’s a pause and then a beep. “Uh, hi. My name is Zach Glasser. I was hoping to make an appointment for, um, the next few days. My number is—” and he reads off his number and recites his email address, then clicksoneto hear the message played back and again to submit it.
It takes less than a minute in total, and he ends the call and sits, breathing, in his truck, warm Miami night coming through his windows, Eugenio next to him, hand on Zach’s center console, then on his arm, then around his shoulders, half out of his seat.
Zach’s seatbelt is too tight across his chest, and he undoes it, breathing in through his nose, holding it, and counting as he exhales.
“Hey,” Eugenio says, “it’s all right.”
Zach leans forward, head on his steering wheel, knuckles pulling into ridges. “I just thought about it for days. And it’s stupid—it’s just a stupid fucking voice mail.”
“It’s not stupid.”
“It feels pretty small.”
Eugenio pats down his jeans, pulling out a blister pack of nicotine gum, dispensing and then chewing a piece. “When I told my parents that I’m bi, I think I practiced for a solid week. Just to random stuff in my apartment. In the mirror, but also to the plants. The dishes. Whatever felt like it would listen. And then it took five minutes.”
“They, um, they weren’t at the All-Star Classic.”
“My grandmother moved to Colombia a few years ago. They visit her in the summers, and I told them not to fly back.”
“I thought maybe they didn’t take it well.” Though it’s hard for Zach to reconcile Eugenio’s parents, who were unfailingly kind to him whenever they came to Elephants games, with people who could reject their own son. Even if Zach’s brain pulses withwhat ifs about his own parents.
“It took a while for them to understand. Longer than I expected. But you’ve met them. They process a little differently.”
“I’m sorry you had to do that alone.”
“I wasn’t alone. They wanted me to know that, even if they didn’t really get it at first.”
“I just feel like, I don’t know, it’s hard to explain.” Zach searches for the right words, before arriving on, “I feel like I want to cry or panic or go and jump in the ocean or all those things.”
“It’s a little late to go to the beach, but we could if you want.”
“I meant metaphorically.”
“Metaphorically,” Eugenio says, a little teasing, rolling the word around in his mouth. “Metaphorically, I had to catch nine innings of shitty baseball, and I want someone to bring me some pork and plantains.”
“So the real Miami experience then. Here, pick something.” Zach starts the truck and hands Eugenio his phone, the delivery app open. “I trust your judgment.”
Back at Zach’s apartment, they sit on his balcony overlooking the water, Eugenio eating pork, plantains, rice, a few forkfuls of ropa vieja he scooped from Zach’s plate without asking.
“Your apartment is freezing,” Eugenio says.
“At least the plants like it.”
Eugenio reaches over to pet one of Zach’s aloe plants sitting on the balcony in a terracotta pot. The one he planted with Eugenio their first day together in Oakland. It needed to be repotted twice, and is now threatening to exceed its container: a plant that grew, stubbornly, unkillably, no matter if Zach watered it once a week or once a year. “I was wondering what happened to them.”
“You thought I left them to die?” Zach says. “I took them when I drove out here.”
“You drove to Miami? You hate driving.”
“I needed, I don’t know, the time alone. I got drunk in a bunch of sad hotels. Now that I say it out loud, it was kind of melodramatic.”
“I got that tattoo—the California one—right after the trade. It took twice as long as it should have, because I kept getting up to go walk it off. I might have moped for a while.”
