I hold the breath in my lungs until it scrapes to get out. “It wasn’t like that.”
Grandpa snorts as Dad tries to tug my backpack off.
“Let’s get your bags in the car,” he says, his subtle deflection.
“I got it,” I tell him quietly.
The smile he gives me is small and lightning fast. Dad looks smaller than his six-two frame would suggest. It’s like you can see how worn down he is from being pushed around by his father for so many years. He’s never defied Granddad to my knowledge. This smile is the only show of support I’ll get today.
At one time, I tried to pretend I didn’t care, didn’t need any support.
I can see the lie now, and as much as I wish otherwise, this smile isn’t enough. I wonder if his inaction will ever stop hurting.
Of course, compared to Poppy’s betrayal, this is nothing.
My dad offers me the passenger seat, but I get into the back, pretending I don’t notice. The moment we’re all inside, Granddad adjusts the rearview mirror to make sure he can see me.
I brace myself. I should have known he wasn’t letting it go.
“It wasn’t like that, huh?” He shoots up one thick white eyebrow. “That’s even worse. Means she wasn’t interested. She wasted your time like you wasted ours this week.”
My dad’s head drops in the passenger seat, almost like it hurts him to hear his father speak to his son like that.
Almost.
But I clamp my mouth shut hard enough to hurt and shrug. It’s the only way I can acknowledge him without answering. It’s been my go-to response since I was eight and he’d assault me with questions about why I didn’t hold the runner, how I possibly could have missed a throw. He’d never accept me saying, “I did the best I could.” Heaven forbid I say, “I tried.”That would be defensive, in his eyes. Weak.
Why a shrug isn’t weak to him, I’ve never understood. Maybe my refusal to engage is secretly a sign of strength in his eyes.
Or maybe it simply doesn’t give him anything to grab onto.
“Well, you missed quite the couple days with your little detour,” he says. “The showcase. The charity event. The rehearsal dinner. A seizure and a breakdown.”
Right. Because everything wrong in our family is my fault.
I tap my hand on my knee, holding the comment in, “Is Sloane still having a hard time?”
“Who knows what goes through these women’s heads? She’s a dramatic thing, like the rest of them.”
“Come on,” I say, even though it won’t change anything.
He laughs, because he got exactly what he wanted. “You never could take a joke. Or a hit.”
There it is. My career, dragged out like it’s dirty laundry.
For a second I’m back on the stage on signing day with the Braves—Dad’s arm locked around my shoulder, Grandpa grinning like I’d finally paid off his investment. That night he texted, “Don’t let me down.” Not“Proud of you.”Not“Congratulations.”Just the reminder that even at my peak, I was on probation.
When Evan speaks at MLB events now—sharing his “tragedy into triumph” story—Granddad brags to everyone. Gives it the Fletcher Baseball Academy branding and posts it everywhere.
But when my team won the Triple-A National Championship Game this year, Granddad went on and on about how the Fischer twins won that game for us, because the Firebirds were too stupid to call them up.
I was never the family’s golden boy, but the shift to whipping boy was so fast, I got whiplash. All it took was a single hit for me to become target practice.
Of course, all it took was one hit for Evan to lose half his life—and somehow gain the rest of the family’s devotion.
I don’t respond or let myself react in any way. I keep my gaze out the window, watching gray roofs, smoke from chimneys, and the highway shoulders salted into crusted white. Win or lose, how many times have I been lectured on my failings—reminded that I should’ve kept my elbow in and waited on the pitch; that I should’ve shortened my swing and let the changeup pass? Or that I should’ve held the runner with a quicker tag and not thrown off-balance? I’ve lost count.
“It’s good to have you home, son,” my dad says softly.
