Chapter 38
38
[Ruthie]
B olan didn’t call me last night. I don’t have much to say to him anyway, but I’m relieved he got the phone I had sent to him. I didn’t like that there was no way to connect with him, for Tulane. The message we sent now reads as seen, so at least I know he saw her and her wishes for him.
I don’t bother watching the game that day. I’m baseball-ed out at the moment, needing a break from one particular player. Instead, I take Tulane on a walk through our neighborhood. Chicago is divided into so many diverse areas, and I haven’t explored our little corner enough.
As we head to Roscoe Avenue, I make a stop in a romance only bookstore. The Last Chapter Book Shop is the cutest place, with all my favorites on the shelf, even if I’m not feeling romantic in my life right now. Still, I pick up two new releases, hoping to escape into someone else’s happily ever after.
From there, we wander down the block, popping into some of the other boutique-style shops before stopping at a BBQ chicken place. Tulane devours the chicken nuggets.
Eventually accepting that I’ve stalled as much as I can, we return to the duplex and meander through Tulane’s nightly routine of bath and book reading.
While I treasure this time, tonight feels especially lonely. I miss Bolan. Emptiness exists in the unknown. Will he stay mad at me? Will he ask for a divorce? Will I be forced to give up both him and Tulane?
I’d like to believe marriage means we can work this out. It was a simple misunderstanding. A secret I held onto a little too long because it never felt like the right time to share it. There was no malicious intent in keeping the truth, though. No vengeance or vendetta or agenda.
I’d simply kept that first kiss to myself.
When Tulane finally settles into her crib, I decide to take a bath, and read the first few chapters of one of the romances I’d purchased earlier in the day. Unfortunately, my heart hurts too much to handle meet-cutes and one-night stands, and I eventually get out of the tub, and make the mistake of scrolling my phone.
The top news story reads:
Chicago Anchors. A sinking ship.
Rumors of inappropriate behavior and nefarious superstitions.
The picture beneath the caption shows Ross Davis, the coach, leaning toward Romero Valdez who is in a stronghold by my husband.
Despite trying to reach Bolan, I don’t. Eventually, I call Jared who is two hours behind Chicago time. He answers on the second ring.
“We’re looking into the situation. Wondering what the allegations might be. What the result might mean for Bolan.”
Suspension. Removal from the team. Forced retirement.
My heart sinks.
“What happened?” I ask, as if Jared was in the locker room where the explosion between teammates happened.
“I don’t know exactly.”
In the silence that ensues, I question Jared on a different matter. “Why didn’t you tell Bolan I’m not his agent anymore?”
More silence follows before Jared says, “I was hoping you’d change your mind. That you’d come back to us.”
“Jared.” I sigh. “I didn’t abandon you.” Not like your son did to me. Like the soft plea in his voice reminds me of said son.
“You moved across the country and married a stranger.”
“I moved because it was time to put some distance between me and the memories. And I married someone I’d known back in college.” Not completely the truth, but the word is out now. Bolan and I met years ago.
“Why didn’t you mention you knew Bolan?”
“Why didn’t you mention he was family?” Clifton’s cousin. Joanna’s abandoned son. The black sheep according to Bolan.
“It didn’t come up.”
Just like so many other things within this family. Things I’ll still take to the grave to protect the dignity of a man who does not deserve it.
“Jared, my resignation is firm. I’m not coming back to ISM. In fact, I’m not coming back to California.” With or without Bolan, I’m staying in Chicago.
“It’s time for me , Jared, and I hope you and Nylah can respect that. I gave almost eighteen years to Clifton. It’s my turn. ”
I don’t know if Jared understands. If he recognizes that as a woman I have as much value as a man. That I deserve a life of adventure like his son took. I deserve to live my dreams, hold my hopes, and follow my own path. Not theirs. Not his. Mine.
“We love you, Ruth.”
“I know. And I love you, too.” I do love them. Faults and all, which are nothing compared to my own parents.
The ones who called earlier, like they’d heard the news.
I married a man for money, but that isn’t even half of the truth.
Bolan calls me in the morning.
“Hey.” His voice is quiet. His tone somber. “It’s been a real shitshow here. I can’t really talk but I wanted to check in. How is Tulane? How are you?”
I lower to the edge of the bed. I didn’t sleep well last night. He doesn’t sound like he slept at all.
“More importantly, how are you?”
“Well.” He chuckles bitterly. “I’m not suspended, and I’m not kicked off the team. But I heard rumors about trades.” He exhales heavily. “I fucked up, flower.”
“It will be okay. I know you want to play for the Anchors because of your granddad, but he’d be proud of you no matter who you play for or where you play.”
He scoffs. “I mean, I fucked up with you.”
I’m quiet a second, uncertain what to say. How to tell him I’m sorry for my part in our mess, and I appreciate the remorse in his voice. I don’t want him to be sad or feel hurt from me, but I appreciate that he sounds sorrowful. It gives me a sprig of hope. Couples fight. They disagree. Misunderstandings happen. If only we could talk, but he doesn’t have the time now. Other things feel weightier and more important than us at the moment.
“Fucking Valdez. We lost that game hard, Ruthie. And Valdez was muttering about everyone else but himself and his errors. Then he started in on Coach, commenting about his girlfriend. Something about superstitions and propositions. I told him he crossed a line, disrespecting our coach like that, and he turned on me. Said fuck you and your fake wife, and I just cannot tolerate when someone talks about you, flower.”
A soft smile curls my lips.
“There’s nothing fake about you, Ruthie. Nothing fake about us.”
I had so many questions, but I know he needs to head out for his next game.
“We can talk when you get home.”
“That’s seven more days,” he reminds me, as he needs to finish out the Philadelphia series and then heads to Arizona.
Seven more days .
“You’ll be there?”
I hate the hesitation in his voice.
“I’m here, Bolan.” I’ll be right here. “Now, go catch all the catches.”
Bolan huffs through the phone, the sound a bit lighter than the apprehension lacing his question.
“See you soon, flower.”
“See you soon, honey.”