Page 108 of Unwritten Rules
Have you told him yet?Morgan asks. He sent her a list of who he was intending to tell and a promise to text her with how each conversation went.
Not yet. When you did how’d he take it?
I just asked him to come to Colombia. So pretty good.There’s a pause, Morgan typing.You know he’d probably give you like a kidney if you needed one?
Yeah that’s kind of the problem. Things’ll be different.
Different doesn’t always mean worse.And three dots appear, disappearing again, and then reappearing.You told me I was supposed to yell at you if you’re being avoidant about this.
And that was with the list he sent her, an ask for accountability.
He’s never asked me about it,Zach says.maybe he figured it out and doesn’t want to know.
Or maybe he’s waiting for you to tell him because he thinks of you like a brother. Only one way to find out.
Yeah ok
LMK how it goes. I’m so happy about Colombia you have no idea
He gets off the phone with her and opens up the text thread he has with Johnson, typing before he can second-guess himself.Still ok to bring someone to your grad party? Like a date?
An almost instant reply.Of course.
And Zach’s hands are shaking when he types the next part.I think you’ll like him.
A pause, longer this time, and Zach should have waited. Talked it over with Eugenio, who knew, vaguely, that Johnson was on the list of people he was intending to tell, but not how or when. With Aviva or, hell, his mother, who already started emailing Eugenio thoughts about conversion classes, which he ignores, and recipes, which he doesn’t.
It’s been long enough that Zach checks the message to make sure it went through, the read receipt and the timestamp staring up at him. He goes over to the window, looking out at the street below, the pulse of cars moving and stopping with cycles of the traffic lights. It surprised him, his first time in the city, how narrow the streets were, the jam-packed tolerance that comes from so many people in so small a place. He looks down at his phone, silent in his hands, waiting. Pricks of sweat start to form at his temples.
A voice text comes through a minute later. Zach fumbles it open, pressing the phone to his hearing ear. “I didn’t want to do this over text,” Johnson says. “’Cause I still can’t really type. Whoever you want to bring is good. I can’t guarantee my relatives won’t be jerks, but I can guarantee I’ll throw ’em out if they are.”
And while Zach’s listening, there’s an alert for another message. “I wouldn’t be in the league if it wasn’t for you. You always tell me not to say that. But you always had time for me even when I was being a pain-in-the-butt rookie.”
Zach leans his face on the window, sticky with late morning humidity. Something in his back releases, a knot of tension easing.
I wish I had had your guts back then,Zach writes,to stand up when the team was being shitty about money. About everything.
I was dumb. And didn’t know how the world worked. Or I thought I did. But you kept me from running my mouth and getting stuck in the minors my whole career.
Nah, not dumb. Right.
Probably both. I hear two things can be simultaneously true. At least that’s what my LSAT prep book says.
And Zach shakes his head, opening up his bank app, where Johnson’s attempts to pay him for his tuition back have been sitting, unaccepted. He declines each.For the next big thing,he writes.You’re gonna be great.
When Zach gets to the clubhouse the following day, there are rolls of plastic sheeting hanging above the stalls. In his, a set of goggles he didn’t request, injury prevention for if and when they celebrate, aimed at keeping players with some of the best visual acuity in the world from spraying each other in the face with champagne.
He snaps a picture and sends it to Eugenio, who sends him back a similar picture from the Gothams clubhouse, the plastic sheeting blue, the goggles bright orange. He painted his nails the week before to match.
The Union don’t clinch that night, but the Gothams do, and Zach is waiting on his couch for Eugenio to text that he’s back when the door to Zach’s loft opens.
Eugenio’s a little unsteady, reeking of champagne, an unopened bottle of it in his hand, along with the spare set of Zach’s keys, goggles leaving indentations on his forehead. “Guess who just won the division pennant!”
“The Federals?” Zach says.
“You’re not funny.” Eugenio grips him by the front of his shirt, wobbly, pulling him in. Up close, he’s smiling, radiant, color in his cheeks, tongue exploring Zach’s mouth. “I don’t recommend taking a town car without showering off first.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
