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My sweet brother luckily called me when I was inches away from falling into that damn Lake again. Thankfully, it was nothing serious. He simply asked if his friend Samson could come with us to watch some of their old classmates compete in the Special Olympics this week.
I was excited to get him around his friends again. It'd been a while since we'd seen most of them. Colin was part of an intramural basketball team while I was finishing up my master's degree, but since moving outside of the city, we'd yet to reconnect with them.
I needed something to look forward to. I needed a distraction. I needed a break...from Lake.
“Butthegreenhurts,Pickle. I'll only wear canary.”
“But Colin…” I sigh, exasperated from explaining this three times now. “Your striped canary shirt is in the wash. You dripped barbecue sauce all down the front of it. Not wearing that, dude. Sorry.”
His fabric and material sensitivities are really cramping my style. It's the daily battle I suit up for with Colin. If he could wear his striped canary shirt every day, he would. I'm dreading the day the shirt unravels into nothing but a piece of string from the amount of times it's seen the washing machine.
“I can't go.” He turns and sits back down in his seat. “I-I won't go. I won't wear this.”
Throwing the shirt across his room, I grind my back teeth, trying my best to keep my cool and not flip his TV tray like I've already envisioned.
Why make more of a mess that I'll need to clean up?
After arguing for another ten minutes, I finally convince him to wear a tropical sunset Hawaiian-style shirt that has hints of canary in it. Compromise.
We hit the road in my trusty white Ford Fusion, picking up Samson on the way. The two of them immediately start arguing over who's the better quarterback between Tom Brady and Patrick Mahomes.
I smile to myself, listening to them debate with some pretty impressive facts before we finally pull into the event parking lot on the outskirts of downtown Chicago.
It's a chilly day, and my leggings aren't doing much to ward off the winds from the lake. I tuck my mittens into the pockets of my large puffy jacket, curling into my sweatshirt as we make our way inside the practice stadium. They shouldn't be here today. This is a private event, so I'm thankful to know that the team is more than likely in meetings or practicing at Soldier Field today. The last thing I need is a run-in with my reason for becoming a psycho stalker.
Following the guys up the walkway, they both jump with excitement, clutching at each other's coats as we approach the main door. They point to a friend or someone in the distance and I hear Samson screech, "I can't believe he's here!"
I get their excitement. These events are so wonderfully comforting to me. When we come here, I feel at home. We're surrounded by people of varying degrees of exceptionality and there's a reassuring familiarity to it. It's our safe place. The place where Colin can truly be himself and no one will look at him twice. The place where we are celebrated for the differences that make up our lives.
The joyous relief I feel walking into the training facility evaporates like a cloud of dust once we’re inside. Passing through a crowd of eager and excited athletes, I somehow immediately lock eyes with my ex near the check-in desk.
My stomach drops and bile rises in my throat as I'm assaulted by the smells of carnival-like food wafting through the air, along with the crippling anxiety of seeing Eric.
I'm overwhelmed with dread and the desire to run.
Colin and Samson are quickly approaching a group of friends, and I recognize a few of their faces immediately. Relieved to know Colin hasn't seen him, I turn to face Eric again and see he's still staring in my direction. I despise the hopeful look in his eyes.
His blonde hair is longer at the top, and slicked over into a wave. His maroon sweater fits his cut form, and he tucks his hands into the pockets of his jeans, standing tall in those brown Italian loafers he loves, all cracked and worn in.
I hate that I cared so much for him at one point, knowing now how he truly feels about Colin. There's no undoing that. He could apologize as many times as he liked, but the stain of what he did will forever haunt both of us.
Turning back towards Colin and his friends, I ignore Eric entirely, deciding not to let him ruin this day. So what if we're at the same event? We can remain adults, right?
Eventually, we find some seats on the indoor bleachers, getting ready to watch the flag football game. The first few games have my face stretched in a permanent smile. The adults, the kids, the people in the stands, everyone is laughing and enjoying themselves playfully. All I want to focus on is the energy of the entire event. The excitement, the joy, the laid-back feel to it...it's refreshing.
Colin turns back to me and places his hand on my knee. “Thanks for this, Pickle.” He pats my knee continuously as he talks. “Thanks for taking Colin. I-I'm...I'm just so happy!” he shrieks before standing and raising his fist, cheering on the teams. “Football is my favorite. Favorite.”
I chuckle as Samson follows his moves, raising his hands into the air and screaming, before biting down on the inside of my cheek to ward off the tears. Life can be so hard for Colin. Moments like this I treasure. Moments where he's enjoying his life to the fullest. Where his smile is so wide, I fear his face will tear. This is what he deserves. To be embraced for who he is. Loved entirely. All the good, all the bad.
Samson points off in the distance as I place my purse in my lap and shuffle through my wallet for some cash, screaming about seeing someone he must know. Seeing as they're occupied and excited about whoever it is on the field, I inform them I'm going to get some snacks for us to watch the next set of games in the tournament.
Nervously approaching the food stand, I make it my mission to keep my gaze down to avoid any eyes that may follow me. I grab a few hot dogs and some chili-cheese fries with the only money I have left after paying my car note, and turn back towards the stands, still walking with my head down, when cracked Italian loafers appear directly in front of me.
It hits me like a jolt of electricity up my spine. The pain of needing to deal with this confrontation. I feel the tension in my shoulders as he stands there in the same stance, his hands in his pockets, shoulders shrugged as if he's sweet and innocent.
“Dylan,” he speaks softly before his brows raise and a light smile creeps across his face.
My hands are filled with hotdogs in floppy white trays, and unfortunately, a strand of my hair falls directly across my face. I go to blow it off my nose when Eric reaches out to move it for me. Before he can touch me, I dodge his arm, leaning back and shaking it off to the side.
