Chapter 28 #2
“Fuck, Vee, don’t look at me like that.” I chuckle, rubbing my forefinger and thumb around my mouth, stroking over my trimmed beard.
“How am I looking at you?”
“Like you could devour me.”
Her eyes widen while her cheeks turn a deeper pink.
We didn’t have a repeat of sexy phone time; however, we did talk about it.
How I wished I’d been here to see her in my bed, getting herself off.
She let it slip that taking care of herself was the only way it’s happened in a long, long time. I want to rectify that situation.
Vee steps forward and presses a kiss to my cheek. “Thank you for the flowers.” Her voice is soft. Her lids lower as she pulls away from me, but I’m quick to catch her face, cupping her cheeks and giving her a more solid kiss. One that messes up her perfectly applied lipstick.
“Damn, I’ve missed you,” I whisper to her mouth, knowing I might be admitting too much.
“I’ve missed you, too,” she replies, blinking once I let her go, before we actually do miss our scheduled plans.
“Put those in water,” I demand gently, swatting at her backside when she turns around, which causes her to yelp, then giggle, as she walks down the narrow hall to her small kitchen.
Her apartment is tight, in typical old-world Chicago style.
Galley kitchen. Tight hallway. Square bedrooms with minimal closet space.
Once Vee returns from the kitchen, vase in hand, she sets the arrangement on the television cabinet.
“Ready?” I hold out my hand and lead her out of her place.
Once I’ve helped her into my truck and settled into the driver’s seat, she says, “I can’t believe we’re going to a play.”
“Why not?” I laugh, starting the ignition.
“You don’t seem like a theater kind of guy.”
I ease onto the narrow street, pausing at a stop sign and giving Vee a glance. “I could be offended by that comment.” I know the stereotype. Jocks don’t like culture. Vee’s already teased herself about once being a librarian and now a writer. Book nerd and star athlete, she called us.
Us. That’s the one thing I want to talk more about with Vee—defining us. Because we should clarify some things, but not yet. First, our date.
“But you won’t be offended,” Vee interjects, giving me a soft smile. “I’m not stereotyping you, I’m just surprised. Surprised by all of this.”
“Like what?” I once told Vee there were things she’d be surprised to learn about me, but maybe I meant it more about myself. Because I’m surprising myself lately with all I’m doing and saying, becoming a new version of myself. A version I’m enjoying.
“An actual date.”
“We went on one before.” Our trip to the Hole in the Rock.
Maybe now is the time for that talk. “Look, sweetheart. This arrangement isn’t just a simple arrangement anymore.
If you don’t want to see me again, we can stop.
” I almost give myself a heart attack with the suggestion, but the truth is, if Vee wants out, she can exit.
“But I’d like you to stick around. I’d like to see where this is going. ”
“This?” She hesitantly questions, and I catch a glimpse of her from the corner of my eye. Her wide eyes opening larger. Her teeth dig into her lower lip.
“Us.” I point between us before reaching for her hand and giving it a squeeze.
As I brake for a stop sign, I sneak another peek at her, watching those teeth battle a smile from growing before she scoots closer and leans toward me, pressing a kiss to my cheek.
“I’d like to stick around, too.” Her voice is low, a bit sultry as she lowers back to her seat.
Her smile grows, causing my own to spread wider.
Damn, she’s so beautiful, and the way she’s looking at me, devouring doesn’t cover that craving. Or maybe that’s me because I yearn for her in a way I’ve never felt before.
Vee suddenly giggles, the sound soft and sweet, almost shy but happy, and I want to park this truck on the side of the road and kiss her senseless.
However, a honk behind us reminds me we need to keep moving on this side street.
When we pull up before our destination, Vee’s brows pinch and her head swings toward me. “We’re at DePaul.” A question fills her voice about the college location and the university theatre.
“Yeah, this is Harley’s play.”
Her eyes widen. “As in your son Harley? Is in a play?”
“Rent,” I explain. “He plays Mark Cohen.” I sigh. “I’m going to admit, I don’t know much about this play. I think it’s going to be a bit . . . morbid.”
Vee pumps my hand in response. “Then we’ll get through it together.”
When we take our seats, she explains what she knows of the theatrical production which is about a group of friends, many HIV positive or with AIDS, in varying combinations of sexual relationships.
I’m in over my head here and I’m thankful for Vee holding my hand most of the performance until the cast sings “Seasons of Love.” Tears stream down Vee’s face in reaction to the song about the minutes in a year, and how time should be measured by love.
Her response doesn’t surprise me; Vee is sensitive.
But what does shock me is my thoughts on the song.
How have I measured my time? With wins and losses?
By baseball seasons? By pitch counts when I was younger.
By another year playing a game I love. But have I measured time correctly?
Was Patty a season? My boys as children a season?
Is a new season starting with them as men?
Watching Vee swipe at her cheeks, I wonder if she’ll only be a season. I don’t like the thought.
When the play finishes, we find Harley backstage with the passes he’d given me.
“You came.” Harley rushes Vee instead of me, and they hug like old friends before he turns to me. “Dad.” My name is said like he’s surprised to see me. “Thank you for bringing Vee.”
Vee turns toward me, her brows pinched, a question etched in her expression before she schools her face and offers Harley a warmer smile. “I wouldn’t have missed it. You were amazing.” She reaches for his forearm, affectionately emphasizing her compliment.
“Give your old man a hug,” I gently demand, pulling Harley into me. “You did great, bud.”
He claps my back before pulling away too soon. “Thanks, Dad.” He looks me directly in the eyes. “Thank you for being here.”
I didn’t want to be anywhere else. I’m proud of my boy and it’s on the tip of my tongue to remind him when someone calls his name and Harley turns his head.
He exaggeratedly waves his arm in the air before turning back to me. “I’ve got to go.”
“Of course.” Not going to lie, it stings that he is eager to rush off. I stare after him as he runs toward another young man, his arms pinwheeling at his sides before the two collide and embrace. Holding each other while tipping side to side.
Quickly, I glance back at Vee who is observing me, not watching Harley. I clear my throat. “My son has a boyfriend,” I state, holding my head up high, prepared to go to battle, if necessary.
But Vee looks me directly in the eye, similar to the way Harley had, only she holds longer, more intently. “And you love him.” Simple. Direct. Honest.
“Deeply.” I exhale.
As an athlete, the stereotype of determination and grit comes with a perception of aggression and competition which includes diminishing those weaker or different from us.
A man is a man, but that’s an archaic attitude.
What makes a man? Accepting all others? Being a good dad? Acting as a gentleman?
In sports, we take sexual orientation and mental health more seriously than ever before, especially with the number of former athletes coming forward about their past negative experiences.
When my son came out to me, my only response was that I love him. I had no other words. He is who he is. But I was upset because my son seemed hesitant to tell me, to open up to me, like he was afraid I wouldn’t accept him, and that’s the moment I knew I’d done a poor job of being his father.
“I know it’s late, but do you want to grab something to eat?
” I’m not ready for our night to end. With a glance back at Harley, I add, “He’s busy.
” I make the excuse more for myself than him.
I understand there are cast parties and time needed to unwind after a performance.
The sensation is no different than playing a game, wanting to revel or commiserate with your friends after a win or loss.
Teammates, cast members; there isn’t any difference. People are people.
And as much as I want Harley to spend some after-the-performance time with me, so I can tell him how proud I am of him, maybe take him out for a celebratory dinner, I know he’d rather be with his friends.
Vee slips her hand around my bicep. “I know a great burger place nearby.” Her tone expresses her understanding.
Being a parent is hard. You need to know when to hold tight and when to let go.
When we reach the burger joint, I express my gratitude. “I know you get it. Your girls are grown.” I sigh, dangling a French fry from my fingertips. “Where does the time go?”
Dropping the fry onto my plate, I swipe my hands together. “I missed a lot when my boys were younger. Even more when Patty passed, and I moved on to coaching.” I squint toward the window at my side as we sit in a booth across from each other. “Sometimes I worry I’ve missed too much.”
Glancing back at Vee, she offers another compassionate smile. “It’s never too late, Ross.”
Patty comes to mind again. “Until it really is.” Until you don’t have another minute to make things right. To say what you should have said.
“My wife wanted me to quit.” I lower my head, blindly staring at my nearly finished burger.
“She hadn’t been feeling well, maybe she knew internally something was happening.
Women often have a sixth sense about things.
She asked me to leave baseball for the boys.
” I shake my head, unable to look up, certain there will be judgement in Vee’s eyes. “I didn’t do it.”