Page 102 of Unwritten Rules
Zach goes into the guest room he’s using as storage. There’s a box of toilet paper there he didn’t buy, a value-pack of Kleenex boxes they must have driven up with, a set of hearing aid batteries from Costco next to them. He undoes the plastic wrap holding the boxes together, taking one out and opening it, cardboard almost slicing his finger.
He pauses before going back into the dining room, getting out his phone.I told them,he texts Eugenio, and then considers what to write next or if he should call.
How’d they react?
My mom is crying but it’s happy I think. I wish you were here
And Eugenio starts and stops a text, enough that Zach has the urge to write something else but doesn’t.Tell them I look forward to seeing them again.
I will
He finds his mother in the kitchen a few minutes later, cleaning up the plates. She’s standing at the sink, running water over them, then loading them into the dishwasher. He watches her for a second before holding out a Kleenex; she takes it from him gratefully.
“There’s something else I need to tell you,” he says. She hands him the cake knife after she rinses it. He dries it on a kitchen towel and puts it into the dishrack. “You had that fundraiser a couple years ago. Do you remember Eugenio?”
“That friend you brought home. The handsome one?”
“Yes.”
“The one who can cook?”
“Yes. That’s who I’m seeing.”
She takes another dish towel from the drawer next to the sink, wipes her hands, and then hangs it up. “And he cares for you?” Her eyes shine.
“He does.”
“And you care for him?”
“I do. I’m trying to be better at it. I promised him I would be.”
“Good.”
“I don’t know if I’ll be ready to tell everyone—maybe not until we both retire, and he’ll probably play longer than I will. I’m not sure how people will react.”
“Feh to them.” She flicks her hand as if casting the thought away. “The world is the world, full of people who don’t know from love.”
He laughs at that, a laugh that starts in the soles of his feet and ends with him folding himself to wrap his arms around her.
“I wish you didn’t wait so long to tell us. That you didn’t feel like you could. That your dad and I made you feel like you had something to be afraid of.” She wipes her eyes. “I just want nice things for you, Zacheyleh. Love. Family. To be who you are. The things we don’t always get in this life.”
“Thank you,” he says, and he hugs her again. “Thank you.”
He plays the next day, a day game that goes into extra innings, and they win and Toronto—who are behind the Union in the race for the division title—loses. Their magic number goes down, inching them closer to the postseason.
I can order dinner,Eugenio texts him after the game.What do your parents eat?and Zach texts him a list: no pork, no shellfish, no dairy with meat, no catfish, no rabbit, no eel. Nothing too salty or spicy. Fish and eggs aren’t meat, and a request not to have to explain that.
Eel was really not a possibility,Eugenio says and then sends a thumbs-up emoji.
Zach gets a text from Stephanie when he’s back at his loft. A reminder to read the article she emailed, one based on a conversation they had a week ago. He scans over its contents, and it mentions, briefly, a few nameless players questioning if Zach had what it took to be a big leaguer because of his hearing, a transition into his career stats as obvious as a “fuck you” but without the hostility.
His parents come over after the game, complaining of the heat, the traffic, the umpire’s unfavorable zone, and Zach retrieves a six-pack from his fridge, a bottle of white wine he chilled, and Eugenio from his loft two floors away.
“Are you ready?” Zach asks. Eugenio’s wearing his glasses, a white collared shirt with an undershirt, tattoos concealed, a pair of slacks. Zach put on actual pants and not sweatpants or shorts after the game, but he’s wearing a T-shirt. “Uh, should I change?”
“They’re your parents. You don’t need to impress them.”
“You don’t either. Can we wait here for a minute?” He sits on Eugenio’s couch. “I want to go up there. I’m just nervous.”
