Page 80 of Unwritten Rules
And Zach doesn’t take pictures of Eugenio there, warm, dozing, with an autumn tan. Not of his face or the tattoo he got last offseason, a set of leaves vining around the curve of his hip and up his side, the one Zach helped pick out. But Eugenio takes ones of him, by the water, across a restaurant table, in bed.
“Don’t get my face in it,” Zach says, and Eugenio rolls his eyes.
They’re sitting out in deck chairs, watching the sun climb over the course of the morning, when Zach’s parents call.
“I’m gonna take this.” Zach points to his phone. He doesn’t slide the door closed behind him when he goes back into the kitchen, propping the phone against the counter facing away from the deck, then swiping to accept the FaceTime call.
“Where are you?” his mother asks by way of greeting.
“Just visiting a friend.” Zach studies the house, the enormous shining vent over the kitchen range, the sofas made to accommodate a party, a billboard of a television in the living room. The vista of the ocean out the windows, the rolling push of the waves against the shore. “They have a beach house.”
“Anyone I know?”
Outside, Eugenio rises, picking up his coffee mug and Zach’s. “We were gonna head out soon,” Zach says, because if she doesn’t get to the point quickly, he’ll be on the phone for the better part of an hour. “What’s up?”
“Send me your flight info for when you’re getting back.”
“I haven’t booked it yet.” Because they have the house here for at least another two weeks, and he’s sure he’ll get bored eventually, even if he wakes up feeling better each day than he did the previous, like there’s a bag of sand sitting on his chest that’s slowly draining.
“Let me know when you do.” She glances down at where she must have her day planner open. The last time he was home, there were Friday dinners, a series of insistences, always with their friends from shul, often accompanied by their now-grown children and the relative comparisons of each of their successes. “You know, Charna Friedman’s eldest is back in town.”
“Is she?” Because Zach hasn’t seen her since they were in high school together.
His mother starts telling him about her new veterinary clinic, which is already thriving, and how she’s mentoring one of Aviva’s research students and how she’s coming over for dinner whenever Zach decides to fly himself back to the East Coast.
And Eugenio is standing in the doorway between the deck and the kitchen, looking at Zach as he says, “Sure, Mom, that sounds good. I’ll, uh, let you know when I book my tickets.”
Zach says goodbye, hanging up the call, fast enough to see Eugenio place their mugs in the sink, setting them next to each other, handles touching.
Eugenio grabs his pack of cigarettes and lighter from the coffee table along with his keys. “I’ll be back later.” And he’s out the door before Zach can ask where he’s going.
He’s gone for the better part of a day. Long enough that Zach texts him a few times. He doesn’t respond. Zach goes down to the beach, not to swim, but to watch the water, the way the tide pools fill and drain, the little waving creatures eking out an existence in the rocky shore. He cuts his feet on some of the rocks and has to douse them in rubbing alcohol, wincing at the sting.
Eugenio comes back when the sun is already starting to sink below the horizon, casting the house in amber light. He smells like cigarettes, face reddened like he was outside too long, lips chapped. “I don’t need to tell everyone,” he says when he gets in the living room to find Zach, legs up on the ridiculous couch. “But I need to tell someone.”
“I—” But Zach stops when Eugenio holds up a hand.
“This isn’t a fair way to live. It’s not fair to me, and it’s not fair to you, even if you don’t see that. I’m done with this. I love you, but I’m done.”
Zach’s throat feels tight, his chest, his entire body, like his skin is sitting too close to his bones. “What does ‘done’ mean?”
“My agent thinks I have a good case in arbitration.” Which is the understatement of the year, since he hit the cover off the ball in the second half. “The team’s not going to want to pay me what I’m worth. I was going to tell you.”
“You want to see if they’ll trade you?” And Zach imagines Eugenio, flying on some charter plane elsewhere. To the friendly confines of Ivy Field or the wide splendor of Chavez Ravine. From Oakland’s crumbling infrastructure to any one of twenty-nine other ballparks, and away from Zach.
Eugenio nods. It’s somehow more devastating than if he yelled.
“You’re just going to leave?” Zach says. “It’s been two years.”
“Yes, Zach, it’s been two years. I’m not saying I’m going to tell the world, but I have to tellsomeone. And you’re not going to.”
“I’m trying.”
“Are you?” Eugenio snaps. He’s not loud, really, but seems to echo off the decorative beams of the living room ceiling. “I hear you say it, but it’s always you promising to get to this later.”
“You know they cut my salary by twenty percent this year. And I agreed to it so that they didn’t trade me or send me down.” Something his agent and his mother both yelled at him for acquiescing to.
“I didn’t ask you to do that. And you didn’t ask me about it either.” Eugenio’s voice starts to shake, one of his hands, the one gripping his keys, jingling against his pant leg enough that he sets them down on the table. “There’s a car rental place. I can drop you there tomorrow if you want to stay here, but I’m going back to Oakland. And I think it’s better if we weren’t together. For a while. Maybe for a long while.”
