Three weeks ago, they arrived in separate Ubers seven minutes apart.
Progress doesn’t always announce itself. It’s usually found in the little details. Rarely do two people come into my office and announce, you’re the best, we’re fixed, thanks for the help.
Both men settle on the couch. Still opposite ends, but the angles of their bodies have shifted. Decker’s knee is pointed toward the center. Foster’s arm rests along the back cushion closest to his brother, instead of pressed against the opposite armrest, ready to bolt at any moment.
I let the room settle before I begin.
“Last time we talked about the split and your younger years,” I say. “Mark Ripley. How he came into Decker’s life.” Both of their gazes land on me. “I’d like to move the timeline to college.”
Foster blows out a breath, which tells me we’re about to delve into some deep, murky waters.
“So, this is where you reconnected?”
“Yeah. We went to colleges near each other.” Decker answers first, which doesn’t surprise me.
Foster’s thumb moves along the back of the couch. “It was pure coincidence that we both got scholarships so close together.”
I turn to Decker. “And how did that feel? Foster being that close again?”
“Good,” Decker says simply. “It was the most we’d seen each other since we were eleven. When our schedules lined up, we’d go to one another’s games.”
Foster nods, and the tiniest smile forms, as if he’s remembering.
“So, the proximity helped?” I ask.
“A lot.” He glances at Foster. “It was just the two of us. Without anyone managing us. Not Mom. Not Dad. Not any of the family bullshit.”
I note the phrase without anyone managing us—meaning every interaction before college had a parent attached to it, shaping it, limiting it.
“Foster,” I say, “what was that period like for you?”
He clears his throat. “Good… strange at first. I didn’t know how to be around him without it feeling forced. Like we were trying to be brothers because we were supposed to. We’d lost our connection.”
“And did that change?”
“Yeah,” he answers quieter. “It did.”
I allow the silence into the room, letting them reflect on the time of their lives when, I think, they felt like brothers.
Decker looks at his hands. There’s something careful in how he’s holding himself.
“We’d get food after games,” Foster continues. “Drive around. Go to parties.” His jaw shifts. “Not to sound conceited, but when you’re the hot player getting the attention of coaches and expecting offers… well, people aren’t always rooting for you. And it was good to have him because”—Foster looks at Decker—“you didn’t put me on a pedestal or make me feel like you were wishing for my downfall. We bonded in a way you don’t always get to with your teammates at that stage. It was nice to have someone on my side to talk to.”
It’s the most Foster has ever let me in, and Decker’s smile says he agrees and appreciates Foster saying it out loud.
“And you didn’t get that with your father?”
“No.” Foster’s quick to cut off that line of thinking. “Dad wanted a player. He didn’t want a son.” He says it the way you say something you’ve already mostly made peace with. “So having Deck around was… I didn’t know I needed it until I had it.”
I let his vulnerable confession take up space in the room. For a man who has spent most of his life practicing self-sufficiency, that sentence cost him something. I want Foster to know I heard and appreciate it.
Decker stills, but I see his throat work.
“Me too.” Decker’s gaze shifts to me, as if he’s giving Foster room too. “It was hard being away from home, but in a way, we weren’t. We found each other. Even on parents’ weekend, Mom and Dad actually went to dinner like we were a normal family.”
Foster laughs. “Until the check came.”
Decker’s head rocks back. “God, them arguing about who pays. That might be the last time they were ever in a room together.”
