Page 34 of Breakout Year
Eitan smiled a little ruefully. “Anyway, so that’s my day. What are you doing?”
Taking the PATH train home and trying not to puke. Sitting in my house and trying not to think about you. “Writing probably.”
“If you want to stick around, help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge. Here, I’ll give you my spare keys.” A morning-after kind of offer, even if they hadn’t really had the kind of night to have an after.
“I might need some time before I get on the train,” Akiva admitted.
“Just as a head’s up, there are sometimes photographers waiting when you get outside.”
“So I should comb my hair?”
“Just if there’s anyone who you don’t want to see your walk of…” Eitan frowned. “Walk of whatever.” And he turned toward the process of getting ready—pouring a travel mug of tea that he immediately abandoned in favor of collecting his duffle bag—quickly enough that he probably didn’t notice the flush to Akiva’s cheeks.
“Here,” Eitan said a minute later, “let me show you how all the locks work.” He did, running through the doorknob, the deadbolts, the electronic lock. “I should probably head out.”
“Are you sure you want me to stay here?” Akiva asked. “I could rob you.”
Eitan smiled. “You can take whatever you want. No robbery required.”
You shouldn’t give yourself away like that, Akiva wanted to caution. After Akiva, Eitan might date someone for real, someone who might not leave Eitan’s stuff—or his heart—undisturbed. “Here,” Akiva replied instead, “you forgot your tea.”
He grabbed the mug from the counter and brought it over. If he was writing a scene like this, their hands might brush or Eitan might spontaneously confess that he’d had a crush on Akiva all those years ago.
Neither happened.
Eitan took the mug, gulped a mouthful of tea, immediately made a face at its temperature. “What are you doing after the game?”
“It’s Shabbat.”
“Oh”—Eitan shifted from foot to foot—“right.”
“When does your interview air?”
“Tonight. At least you won’t have to watch it.” He stuffed a hand in his pocket, rocked on his heels. “I guess you didn’t have to watch it anyway.”
“Let me know how it goes.”
“You answer your phone on Shabbos now?” Eitan said it Shabbos, soft and a little Russian.
“No, but tell me anyway.” Technically beyond The Contract, but Akiva remembered that desperate spinning feeling of having the entire baseball world looking at you.
“Okay.” Eitan lingered for a long minute as if he wanted to say something else. But he didn’t, and the bolts snicked in their various latches as he locked the door on his way out.
Akiva did his penance for a late night by cleaning up the breakfast dishes and resolutely not being envious of Eitan’s apartment. Of course he can live some place like this and not have to think about rent. A horseradish-bitter thought that Akiva squashed. Eitan had invited him here. Eitan was being as generous as he always was. It wasn’t his fault that baseball didn’t work the same way.
A while later, Akiva conceded he was stalling. He was also faced with a new problem: his shirt from last night smelled like vodka and looked like he’d slept in it, which he had.
Akiva: Can I borrow a shirt?
He didn’t expect an immediate answer. Eitan was obviously busy—baseball!—and Akiva should have thought about this yesterday and brought something extra. Before he could pocket his phone, it buzzed.
Eitan: Help yourself to whatever fits
Which meant Akiva had to go into Eitan’s bedroom. What’re you gonna do—swoon? It was a bed. Eitan slept in it. Eitan’s bedroom was no more intimate than the rest of his apartment. So Akiva girded himself like he was about to ford the Red Sea and not just part his way through Eitan’s discarded laundry, then entered.
Eitan’s bed was suitably large. The untucked dark green comforter revealed stark white sheets. The surface of his nightstand held a phone charger, a scattering of change, a digital picture frame with a blank screen. An indicator light said it was low on power.
Akiva was not going to touch anything that weren’t the handles to Eitan’s dresser and the shirts in his drawer. There was close like dancing together in a club, and close like Eitan’s foot brushing his under a restaurant table, and close like it meant something. They weren’t that kind of close.
