Page 36 of Diamond Ring
Something he’s said, again and again, as if repeating it will make it true. “For fuck’s sake,” Jake begins, and Alex has the audacity to smile at that. “You can’t prevent bad things from happening to other people. It’s not your goddamn responsibility.”
As soon as Jake’s said it, he wishes he could unsay it. Because he knows Alex will blame himself for things that aren’t his fault.
Alex must hear that too. “Tell me how you really feel, Fischer.” His tone is deceptively neutral.
“You know what?” Jake snaps. “You wanted me to get angry—now I am. Don’t pretend like I asked for this, or you could have possibly known. I’m staying here, and you don’t get to be mad about it because it’s not your decision to make.”
“I thought we were in this together.” Said low.
“Well, we’re not.” A conversation they should have had and didn’t. Jake’s brain screams at him to slow down, to breathe, to apologize. Because they’re not in this, not together. Alex gets another season in the big leagues, and Jake gets a year of trying to patch himself up, mentally and physically, a prospect that feels more daunting every time he thinks about it. Especially since he knows what happens if he doesn’t. And Alex isn’t evenlisteningto him. “Sorry,” he adds, briefly, dismissively, like he would with anyone else.
Alex gets teased by their teammates for his ability to keep a blank expression even in tense game situations. Something Jake never really understood, because his face is readable if you know what to look for. Now Alex is holding himself carefully, the way he always keeps his hands at the ten and two driving, jaw neither stiff nor relaxed, mouth a flat line. Most people would think he was bored. Except for the brief pained flash that shutters just as quickly. “I’ll call a cab.”
“I thought you hadn’t packed yet.”
“Then I guess I have two things to do.”
Jake doesn’t follow him, not with Alex’s hurt streaming behind him. He must leave the bedroom door open because there’s the sound of him rummaging through his stuff, then his heavy footfalls back down the stairs.
“I can drive you,” Jake says when Alex returns to the kitchen. Though he can’t and going to Dulles will mean an excruciating car trip with his mom, especially when Jake has to explain why they’re leaving now even if Alex’s flight isn’t until late afternoon.
“It’s fine.” Alex says it in a way that makes it clear it’s not. “I’m gonna wait outside. I guess I’ll see you around.”
Part II:
Ten Years Later
Chapter Nine
March
Jake
Jake wakes up and chooses happiness. Well, he wakes up and gropes for the water bottle on his nightstand and glugs it down, then stumbles his way into the shower. He flips open the cap on his bottle of shampoo. It smells, if not good, at least not bad.
The water from the spigot is hot, the pressure a soothing pound on his back when he redirects the water to the showerhead. It doesn’t do the thing the shower at his last place did where most of the water gushed from the faucet, no matter how firmly he flipped the switch. So he’s happy about the hot shower. He’s happy about the drag of his fingertips against his scalp, and the smell of his one-tier-nicer-than-the-cheapest-brand shampoo. He’s happy that the water doesn’t turn icy even when he’s in for longer than five minutes.
He dries off. The towel is less scratchy than the ones that they provide in minor-league motels, large enough to circumnavigate his waist. He warmed it in front of the vent; it feels nice when he puts it on.
His apartment—a one-bedroom with a narrow galley kitchen—isn’t large, but he’s slept in smaller. It isn’t neat, but he’s worked to intentionally keep it that way. The view is of nothing in particular—the California highway, traffic rumbling by. He spends a few minutes watching cars and imagining their drivers: if they have a cup of coffee or a morning headache, if they’re dreading their first meeting or are coming back from the graveyard shift. If they’re doing okay and if they have people to tell if they’re not.
He gets dressed. His socks don’t have holes. His compression leggings don’t pinch his balls. His shirt is clean and smells like fabric softener. All good things. An increasing list.
He’s awake enough to take his meds; he flips the plastic lid on the pill-of-the-day dispenser and dumps them into his hand. An antidepressant. A multivitamin. Things he cleared with the team when he signed his contract a week ago. He swallows them with a mouthful of water. Coffee next. A packet of the nice stuff supplements the brand he normally drinks. A celebration. He brews just enough to get him to the ballpark.
He gets a mug from the cabinet, from a row of them with handles pointing every which way. He could turn them so they’re aligned. A thought like a pulse he can’t ignore. Of course, that will mean stacking and restacking his plates, taking his silverware from the drawer and resorting it, then stripping and remaking his bed. Of losing an hour—more than that—and potentially being late.
He doesn’thaveto, exactly, but each task yields another. AnIf I don’t...that autofills with all the stuff that whispers at him, like constant static from an old TV set. If he can just turn it down, he can think. It’s a well-worn pattern: anxiety leads to obsession leads to compulsive action leads to slight, temporary relief. He knows it. He knows it, but he still wants to.
Better to name it, to confess it to paper.
He withdraws his journal from the kitchen drawer and flips to a new page. Writes the date, the weather.March.A clear day.
Followed by a catalog of the day’s thoughts so far:I wanted to rearrange my kitchen. I didn’t. He’s tempted to scratch it out, but that’s against the rules he put at the beginning in three declarative bullet points he agreed to with his therapist.
Write every day.
Be honest.
