Page 75 of Saving The Shortstop

That catches my attention, and I shrug. “What, ah, do you mean? What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about you and Haven, obviously,” he deadpans. “I’m glad to see that you finally stopped fighting it. Was getting old to watch.”

When I stare at him, he lifts the handle on the suitcase, cocking his head to the side.

“D, anyone with a set of eyes could see that you two have been in love since you were teenagers,” he throws at me, patting my shoulder. “Let’s bring these bags inside. Your mom was going to get something together for lunch.”

As I follow him onto the porch and into the house, I grimace at the realization that I haven’t even called Haven today.

Everything has been fine the past few days—since the last time I actually saw her. We had sex in the workout room, showered together, and then I took her back to The Nest. I did, however, install a camera on her window without her knowing and have watched like a hawk at night for any sign of Tabor.

Something about that night, what she said and the nightmare … it just brought me back to the past. I’ve worked so hard to push my memories down, leaving them behind me, but that nightmare was so real. It sucked me right back there to my life before I was adopted.

When I think about the words my mom said the day she took her life, I should have seen the signs of what she was planning to do. She killed my dad, and then told me to run. Obviously, I should have stayed with her. Maybe then she wouldn’t have done what she did.

But she had so much pain inside her, and now, I can recognize that when I look back. As a kid, I just thought she sucked at being a mom. But the truth is, she just couldn’t do it. She was fighting too many demons to also care for me. And then add my abusive father on top of that … I can’t imagine how low she felt.

I’ve been told countless times that she failed me. But inside, I feel like I’m the one who failed. I didn’t step in to help her against my dad because I was scared. I didn’t check on her in her bedroom because sometimes she would get angry and not want me to, and after a while, I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. And I couldn’t even go to school and get my work done without needing extra help.

I set the bags where I know Mom will want them before I walk into the kitchen. Just like Dad said, she’s fixing some lunch.

“Did you and Dad have a good trip?” I ask, sitting down on a stool. “What was your favorite thing you did?”

She closes the refrigerator, smiling. “The best trip. We just wish you could have come.” She pokes her lip out. “Next time?”

“If you don’t choose to go during football season,” I say, my lip turning up because I already know what she’s going to say.

“In this household, it seems like it’s always football season,” she says teasingly. “But hey, I’ll see what we can do. Maybe you can bring Haven too.”

The way she just slid that in there is so my mom. She wants to ask, but she doesn’t want to be rude. So she just says a small comment in hopes it’ll lead to me opening up.

“Go on,” I say before my dad walks back in from wherever he’s disappeared to. “Ask away.”

Her eyes light up, and she rushes around the island to sit down beside me with her body toward mine.

“So … when did it start? How did it start?”

“We just, I guess got closer when she was tutoring me.” I pause, wondering if my parents have heard about everything with Tabor. “And then some other stuff happened and we just, I guess started spending more time together.”

“Honey, that’s great!” she gushes, side hugging me.

When she lets go and studies my face, she frowns.

“Why don’t you look happier? I know you’ve been in love with her practically since the first day you met. So, why do you seem so … down?”

I’m silent for a moment. Luckily, my mom knows that I sometimes need a little extra time to figure out what I want to say or how I want to say it. My parents have always told me that if I had any questions about my childhood, they’d tell me everything they knew. A lot of stuff I remember, though if there were any good parts, they’re long gone now.

My dad walks back into the room and grabs a water from the fridge. I don’t look at my mom, but I know she’s likely flashing him a look that says we’re in the middle of something. He doesn’t leave, but he’s also not loud.

“She’s … whole,” I murmur, looking down. “She’s happy, and she sees the best in people. She’s not broken or fucked up.” I swallow. “She’s not like me.”

The first six months or so after they adopted me, I got into fights and I acted out a lot. I don’t know why I did it. I guess I was just so fucking mad all the time. But then I realized that, at the end of the day, they didn’t have to choose me. They could’ve gotten a baby, a toddler, or anyone besides me—a messed up kid from an even more messed up childhood. Yet, they wanted me to be their son. From then on, I behaved myself. But I also stopped thinking about the past because I had a nice family, a huge house, and anything I could want. I figured it was time for me not to talk about the past again. But the older I get, the more I realize I can’t just shed that layer of my life and pretend it didn’t happen. Not when that layer is the whole foundation of who I am today.

I’m hard on myself because I was raised to think if I fucked up, I’d get beat. I’m competitive because I’ve had to work my ass off to make it this far, and I don’t want to throw it away. I’m quiet sometimes because there were moments as a kid when I wasn’t allowed to talk. I connect someone—even if it’s my own girlfriend—telling me I could use extra help in school to me being stupid because that’s how my dad made me feel.

Everything I am starts with that underweight, scrawny little boy in my dream. The one with the greasy hair and the fear in his eyes because he knew he was going to be punished. It’s hard to leave him in the past when I wish I could help him now.

“D?” my mom whispers, putting a hand on mine. “We’re here for you, whenever you need to talk, okay?”