Page 25 of Diamond Ring
It’s warm in the kitchen. From the heat coming from the vents, from the oven, where his mom is baking banana bread. From his own nerves.
Words flood his mouth: he doesn’t really know what to do. Not about their season, which was the second-best in baseball, but not good enough. Not about his elbow, which might heal correctly or might not.
Not about Alex. Who’s his friend, his best friend—or was. Who is, some part of him whispers, maybe notjusta friend. That they had a kind of closeness that’s normal between the chalk lines of the field, but less so under the judgment of the kitchen’s steady lighting and his mother’s knowing look.
“I haven’t talked to him since the season ended,” Jake says. “I said something to a reporter he didn’t like, and he said something I didn’t like. I also haven’t told him about the surgery.”
His phone is out, facedown; his mother looks at it pointedly.
It’s midmorning, not early enough to claim that it’s too early to text. Not late enough that he can say they might be eating lunch. After Christmas in those end-of-year days that never seem quite real. The perfect time to text Alex and apologize, though a part of Jake is holding on to the argument like the stitches they put in his arm. Something he’ll let go of, eventually, but that he feels acutely now.
He picks up his phone, looking at Alex’s last text asking if someone other than Jake got home okay. It could be anyone: Sophia, a friend, whoever. Or a date. A fuckbuddy. Someone—Jake swallows around a sudden dryness in his throat—more serious.
He thumbs open the thread, typing and erasing a few options before settling on:I had elbow surgery.
He hits Send and immediately turns his phone over on the tabletop, studying the case as if willing it to vibrate. Alex might just ignore him or leave him on read or, hell, have blocked Jake’s number when he realized he texted the wrong person.
His phone buzzes a second later.
Alex: ????
Jake: Tommy John
Alex: oh shit
For a second, it’s like no time has passed between them, Jake feeling lighter than he has in weeks.
“Not that it doesn’t make for interesting company watching you text,” his mom says, and he takes the hint and leaves the kitchen, phone in hand.
Jake: Can I call you?
A formal ask, a palpable sense of relief when Alex says,Sure.
Jake calls from his bedroom, watched by the posters he put up when he was in high school, some of which are curling at the edges with age.
Alex picks up on the second ring. “Those assholes shouldn’t have been pitching you on short rest.”
“Uh, hi, Alex.”
Alex has clearly gotten himself worked up in the time it took Jake to climb the stairs. “They should’ve limited your innings.”
“I was fine up through the series.” Though, of course, not when he threw that wobbly-ass changeup and hit Alex’s wrist. Then didn’t cool down after the game. “My elbow gave out when I was running.”
“Fuck. How long are you out for?”
“Next season. Maybe longer.”
“Fuck,” Alex says again.
“Yeah.”
Jake lies down on his bed, negotiating his arm, and repositions his phone so it’s by his face. His room isn’t large, especially not with the bed. It feels particularly small now, watched by posters, by his plastic trophies and trinkets from his amateur playing days.
“How’re you doing?” Alex says.
“You know, just trying to take it one day at a time.”
Alex doesn’t say anything to that, because it’s bullshit, the kind of bullshit Jake might say to a beat reporter.
