Page 103 of Unwritten Rules
“You said they were okay last night,” Eugenio says. “Have they said something since then?”
“No, they’ve been fine. Practically good behavior for them. It’s gonna be different from when you met them before.”
“It will be. But I survived the last time.”
“They’re kind of awful to Aviva’s husband about converting.”
“Yeah, I figured I’d just call my parents and put them on speakerphone. My mom’s teaching a class on biblical commentary this semester. Let them talk at each other for a while.”
Zach laughs and leans his head against Eugenio’s, closing his eyes. “Your place smells better than my place.”
“It’s the plants.” He gets up and offers Zach a hand. “C’mon, let’s do this.”
They eat at Zach’s dining room table. Zach’s parents ask about a thousand questions, some of which they asked before, now with renewed interest.
“Remind me what your parents do,” his mother asks, and then quizzes Eugenio on his family, what his parents are currently teaching, what he’s thinking about doing after baseball.
“My contract goes until I’m thirty-eight,” he says. “That’ll be ten years of service time. And then, who knows? My parents want me to go back to school. I’ve been in discussions to do a guest appearance on Food Network.”
“I thought I remembered you like to cook,” Zach’s mom says. “I see myNew York Timescookbook made it up here with the move. I was going to ask for it back.”
“If it’s okay with you, I’d like to hang on to it for a while,” Eugenio says.
“Keep it as long as you like. Did you ever make that recipe for babka I gave you?”
“I haven’t yet. But I’m looking forward to it.”
“It’s a dough you have to be patient with. It takes a lot of time and care, but it’s worth it for the end results.”
“I’ll do my best,” Eugenio says, and he smiles before taking his next bite of food.
They eat, his parents commenting on their meal, Eugenio discussing his parents’ trip to visit his grandmother and if he’ll go see her after the season’s over.
“You’re not worried about getting traded while you’re out of the country?” Aviva asks.
“He, uh, has a no-trade clause,” Zach says. “Kinda comes with a long-term contract.”
And Eugenio shrugs, color up on his cheeks, looking somewhere between embarrassed and flattered.
“Zach,” his mother asks, “have you decided about your contract option yet?”
And Zach’s agent sent an email reading justARE YOU SURE?“Uh, before, when I was in Miami, I told my agent I wanted to opt out. I don’t know where I want to play. Or if I want to keep playing.”
There’s a pause, Eugenio looking at him, and then saying, “I was going to get some more ice.” He gets up, asking if anyone wants anything as he walks away, and Zach doesn’t wait before going after him.
Zach’s kitchen is galley-style, two rows of counters and appliances separated from the dining area by a solid wall. They’re hidden from the dinner conversation, though it goes to a murmur like Zach’s family has collectively decided to eavesdrop, which they probably have.
Zach gets an ice tray from the freezer and cracks it into a bowl that Eugenio holds out for him. There’s seltzer in the fridge his parents must have brought, unflavored; Zach opens it over the sink.
The bowl of ice Eugenio is holding begins to frost up the sides with condensation. Zach takes it from him, setting it on the counter.
“We can talk about it later,” Zach says. “You’re upset I didn’t tell you.”
“I am. But I also don’t want them—” Eugenio nods toward the dining room “—to think you’re quitting because of me.”
There are no noises from the other room, not the clink of silverware against dishes or his parents’ low observational chatter. A silence, awaiting a response. “I’m not,” Zach says. “But yeah, it probably sounded that way. Can I go fix this, and then we can talk about it later? Like, later tonight. Not later later.”
“Okay.” Eugenio draws him in, kissing him lightly.
