Page 104 of Unwritten Rules
When they get back to the dining room, Zach’s dad is over by the bookshelf, like he didn’t organize the books the day before. His mother is smiling at him, Aviva’s lips twitching like she’s trying not to.
“I’m not sure what’s going to happen next season,” Zach says, when he sits down. “I considered opting out, but I’m still—we’restill—working it out.”
“Let us know what you both decide,” his mother says. “Here.” She slides another portion over to Eugenio. “You both are too shy about eating.”
They finish dinner over tea. His mother hands him a box of sugar cubes she pulls from her purse. “I went down to the corner store earlier.”
Eugenio takes a cube from the dish Zach pours them into, placing one in the hollow of his cheek at Zach’s mother’s instruction.
“You know,” she says, casually, when Eugenio can’t answer, “if you ever consider converting, I’m sure there’re online classes you could take.”
Eugenio takes a swallow of tea hot enough that it must burn his tongue. Zach tries to think of a way out of this conversation with his mouth full of sugar when Aviva stage-whispers, “Mom.”
“Hypothetically, for a ketubah,” Eugenio asks, and he says the word the way Zach says unfamiliar ones in Spanish, like he’s testing it out, “would I need to be Jewish for us to have one?”
There’s a long pause, as Zach’s mom looks at each of them, Aviva’s eyes wide, Zach’s father coughing in a napkin. Zach, fixed to his chair, blinks a few times, wordless with surprise.
“You don’t,” Aviva says, finally.
“And they’ll give them to queer people?” Eugenio asks.
Aviva nods.
“Then I’m probably not going to convert,” Eugenio says, and adds a belated, “Sorry.”
Another pause, this one with Zach glancing between Eugenio and his mother the way he would between a pitcher and hitter during a contentious at-bat.
And she gives the hint of a smile. “Zach, go get the plates for the cookies I bought.”
After, Zach walks his parents and Aviva down to a cab to their hotel and comes back to Eugenio clearing the dishes from the table.
“Did you... Was that...” Zach says.
Eugenio laughs, not a mean laugh, and kisses him. “It was just a thought about the ketubah. I just figured it might be important to you.”
“I guess I never thought I could. But, um, yeah, I would want that.” And it feels enormous to say, standing there, the plates still on the dining room table.
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Eugenio kisses him again, and Zach can feel the shape of his smile. “Can we get through the postseason first?”
They clean, side by side, Zach storing leftovers, Eugenio rinsing off dishes.
“I was gonna tell you about my contract,” Zach says. “After you came down to Miami, and, um, we talked, I emailed my agent. I didn’t want to spend another year in Florida when you were up here. Obviously, things are different now.”
“You were going to retire, just like that?”
“I don’t know.” Though the thought of it feels sour now. “If it’s a problem with the team or with other players that I’m gay, I guess it’s easier if I walk away versus if I’m forced out.” Zach picks up one of the rinsed glasses from the dishrack and dries it. “Miami wasn’t great. Not just that we were losing, but it felt like a chore, going to the ballpark every day. I really didn’t realize how miserable I was until I saw you at the All-Star Classic and it all kind of came back to me. How much I used to love playing. How much I missed you. How I never thought I could have both.”
Eugenio takes the glass from him then kisses him. “I might have missed you too.”
“Might have?” Zach teases.
“I didn’t know what to expect when I saw you there. You do look pretty good in teal.”
“I’m liking these pinstripes okay. I asked Morgan about doing a catching clinic at the Women’s Baseball World Cup. It’s in Colombia, if you want to come.”
“That could be good. I’d like that.”
“I realized that that’s the part of the game I like, the coaching part. I kinda want to see if I’m any good at it.”
