Chapter 20
Patience Is A Virtue
From my view on the balcony, I watch waves crash the shore, the rhythm steadying my heart rate as I contemplate whether or not I want to press the call button next to my dad’s name.
He’s been calling me incessantly since the news broke under the guise of wanting to discuss the gala at the end of this week. Each time I’ve rejected his call, refusing to talk to him in order to keep the fraction of peace being here in this bubble with Brooks has given me.
But like everything in life, all good things must come to an end. The respite I’ve found while laying low at my house with him is about to expire. I’ll soon need to face reality when I attend the gala, and unfortunately that means it’s time to face my father too.
Before I can contemplate it further, I press call and take a deep, calming breath.
Jameson Sinclair doesn’t answer the phone with the typical hello—no, because he once told me greetings are a waste of time and it’s best to get straight to the point.
Instead he says, “Glad you finally found time to call me back.”
“Hello to you too, Dad,” I retort, just to ruffle his feathers a bit.
“Thought you’d be easier to get a hold of since you’ve got time off right now.
” I’m not quite sure what to make of his tone.
I thought he’d be disappointed if not borderline hostile when I spoke to him, especially after ignoring his calls for days.
Instead, he sounds . . . worried? My suspicions peak when he asks, “How are you, William?”
I let out a sigh of exasperation. “Dad, just cut to the chase. I know you don’t really care how I’m doing.”
“How could you say that?”
Instead of trauma dumping all of the ways he’s lacked as a father in the years since Abigail died, I grit out, “Let’s just get this over with.”
“Were the dozens of calls to you not proof enough that I care?”
“If you think calling me nonstop during one of the shittiest times in my life and career is you showing up for me, then you don’t know me at all.”
“I know you better than you think.”
“You’ve had a funny way of showing it over the past twenty years.”
There’s a pause on the line, tension pulled taut without us even needing to be face-to-face. The stillness between us brews almost to the point of discomfort. My father’s the first to break the silence, letting out a sigh of resignation on the other end. “Let me try this again. Are you okay?”
My throat swells at the sincerity in his question, the unexpected softness in his tone. “I’ve been taking some time for myself, trying to come to terms with what was reported while also staying out of the public eye.”
“I can understand that, and I’m glad to hear San Diego is doing right by you and giving you extra time off if you need it.”
I can’t hold back my scoff at that. “Right. Because you care so much about my baseball career.”
Yeah, I’m laying it on a little thick. My mother always told me grudges are a waste of perfect happiness. I have to agree with her, but when it comes to my dad, all bets are off. He tends to bring out the worst in me.
“I do. I care an awful lot about the one and only thing that has ever brought you any joy. Though, I’ll admit it became more of an obsession at some point along the way.”
Here it is. Time to have the conversation we’ve been dancing around for months.
“Oh yeah? Then why did you trade me?”
He’s silent on the other end of the line for a few moments before finally answering, “I’m not a perfect father. I know that, and I never claimed to be. I traded you because I care about your individual future and successes more than my own team’s.”
I draw my brows together in confusion. “What does that even mean?”
“I saw how driven you were almost to the point of it being a detriment to your health. If you would’ve stayed home in St. Louis, it wouldn’t have been long until you burned out.”
As much as I hate to admit it, he’s right. St. Louis was like living in a constant state of grief, memories of Abigail lingering in every corner of my life from my parents’ home to the stadium I played at to her favorite ice cream shop down the road from where I practiced.
I could never escape the ache that lived deep in my chest—a hole that was left when my baby sister died. A hole made bigger with the broken state of my family and the distance my father put between us.
“Do you know what your record was on the road versus at home in all the years you played here?” he asks, breaking me from my thought spiral.
“No.”
“Out of the nearly 250 games you played during your tenure here, you played and started about half of those on the road. You started for thirty team wins at home. On the road, you started for ninety wins.”
“That’s public information. A simple internet search could have anyone spewing those facts back to me.”
I think I hear a whisper of a laugh, and I can imagine my father smirking on the line. He always did appreciate my talking back to him.
“.523 batting average. Thirty-two RBIs. Forty-five strikeouts,” he lists off without hesitation.
“What?”
“Your 13U stats. Information not found on the internet.”
Something inside me breaks, hearing my father tell me my old stats from when I was a kid. I remember that summer. It was the worst of my life, only a few months after Abigail passed. Every game, I played for her.
Still do.
My stomach sinks and my mind fills with questions. “Okay, fine. Why didn’t you talk to me earlier on if my game was suffering in St. Louis? Why did you trade me without a word?”
“It was for selfish reasons that your mother and I kept you in St. Louis for so long. We wanted you close. Your mother almost left me over the trade until I explained to her my reasons for doing so were in your best interest.”
“And what—I wasn’t worth having a conversation with?” My voice trembles.
He clears his throat. “No, it’s not that. I suppose I thought you’d have an easier time moving on and playing the game you’re capable of if you were pissed off at me instead.”
“That rationale is so fucked,” I hiss before I can think better of it.
“It was a cowardly move on my part.”
His words give me pause. Throughout the last twenty years, he’s never admitted to any wrong doing or apologized for much of anything.
So why the sudden shift? Last time he was sentimental like this, he was telling us Abigail only had a short time left to live.
Fuck, is someone sick? Is it Mom? Dawson?
Shit, is it my dad and he’s calling now to make some sort of final amends?
Panic seizes my chest but I manage to ask, “How is Mom doing through all this?”
“She’s fine. She misses you. I mi—” He stops short. He sniffs before continuing. “When you come home for the gala, do you think you could take a few days and stay here with us since you’ve got the time off?”
Hesitation swarms my chest. “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea. I-uh—”
I pause, scratching the back of my neck before squeezing my eyes shut and say, “I’m bringing someone.”
“A date?”
“Yes. Well, at least I hope so.”
“And is that someone the mystery person you were photographed with?”
I swallow down a lump in my throat. “It is.”
“Is it serious?”
I consider my answer. Is it serious? Shit, I’m not sure how to answer that.
Brooks and I haven’t exactly put a label on anything we’re doing.
He hasn’t left my side since the disastrous post-game interview until just an hour ago.
And I can’t deny I miss him. I wish he was here right now by my side while I’m having this conversation with my dad.
“It has the potential to be something serious.”
“Well, that’s good to hear. I’m excited to meet him.”
Pulling my phone away from my ear, I look down at it to check my service because I had to have just heard him wrong. Did he just say him?
Did he just admit he’s excited to meet the man I plan to bring as my date? Did he really just skirt over the fact that I was outed by national news outlets earlier this week and now I’ll be potentially adding fuel to the fire by bringing a man as my date.
“He’s my teammate,” I admit.
“That makes it easier on the two of you while you’re on the road to maintain a relationship. I know the intense travel schedule causes strain on some players’ relationships.”
Is he fucking with me right now?
“Aren’t you going to ask who he is?”
“If I were to hedge a guess, I’d say Brooks Warren based on how he reacted when you threw your perfect game.”
I smile to myself. “Wow, okay. So maybe we weren’t as subtle as we thought.”
“Nothing gets past me.” He hums. “William, what I really want to see is you at your happiest. If that means you find your happiness with a man, so be it.”
“But that isn’t how you raised us growing up. Are you okay with having a son who is bisexual?”
Damn, that’s the first time I’ve admitted I’m queer out loud. It came out easier than I thought it would, flowing from me with a confidence I didn’t know existed.
Sometime during these past few days, I came to the realization that Brooks isn’t my damnation.
Maybe he’s become my salvation—helping me come to terms with who I really am.
“If it makes you happy to be with both men and women, I will make it a priority to educate myself and get up to speed so your mother and I can best support you.”
My eyes well with tears—I don’t think I fully grasped what it would mean to me to have his support and acceptance. It’s all I ever wanted.
“Dad, I really appreciate that. It means more to me than you know.”
Inside the house, I hear the security alarm beep, signaling the front door opening. The only person with the code to the house is Brooks, and the realization has my chest swelling with a foreign feeling.
“I hate to end the call early, but I’ve got to go. Can we talk before the gala, maybe?”
“Sure, Son. I’ll see you then. Please tell Brooks he’s welcome to stay at the house with you if you want.”
I clear my throat. “I, uh, I’ll let him know.”