THE CONVERSATION HAS BEEN FLOWING BETTER than I’d hoped, but that simple question trips me up.
Why? Why baseball?
Lately, the usual answers haven’t led to that same sense of calm and focus. I could talk about the beauty of it, or how fast my heart beats when I run onto the field, or the perfect moment when my bat connects with the ball and I know I’ve bested the pitcher. There’s the smell of the field when it’s freshly mowed, and dirtying up my uniform when I slide into home, and all the handshakes and fist bumps and inside jokes with my teammates. There’s harmony in baseball. Poetry, recited without speaking a word.
If James is a general and Cooper is a warrior, I’m an assassin, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
“Sebastian?” she prompts.
“I think at first I loved it because my father did,” I say. “And then I loved it because it still connected me to him.”
“And now?”
I give a half-shrug. “Both of those things are still true.”
“Tell me a little more about your dad. I remember watching him play.”
“I do too.” I run my hand through my hair. “He was great. Baseball means a rough schedule, but he made the most of the time we had together. Even if he just got home from a road trip, or only had an hour before he had to head to the stadium, he was there, ready to spend time with me.”
“And your mother?”
“The best damn cook ever.” I pause as Zoe laughs. “I didn’t have any siblings, and not much family we spoke to, so it was just the two of us when my dad was on the road. It’s a good thing she loved baseball as much as him, because she was the one taking me to all the practices and games.”
I can almost see her, for a moment. Jeans and sandals, sunglasses perched atop a reddened nose, a mystery novel tucked underneath her arm. She’d steal my dad’s shirts, old practice gear, and tie them in the front. She took so many videos of me playing to send to Dad, she might’ve been a documentarian.
I wonder where those videos went. Maybe Sandra has them somewhere, along with the rest of the things I haven’t managed to look through.
“And that obviously continued after the accident,” she says, crossing one leg over the other. “Before we go into your adoption, though, the accident—do you have anything you personally want to say about it?”
The back of my neck prickles. “What do you mean?”
“Well,” she starts, flipping through her notebook. “When I did some digging, I did find… some belief that your father may have been driving under the influence at the time of the accident.”
“Bullshit,” I say.
“You were there,” she says, her voice soft. “You were in the backseat of the car. Was anything off that night, Sebastian? What do you think led to that accident?”
I stand, the chair skidding back several inches. “I’ll talk about my family, but not that. Not if you’re going to recite lies.”
She takes a deep breath. “Okay. I’m sorry. Just sit down.”
“He wasn’t drunk,” I say sharply. “I know they said that, and that he was fighting with my mother, and whatever other shit they tried to pull when the accident went public. They hated my father since the moment she met him; they would have said anything to discredit him. You interviewed them for this? I haven’t spoken to them since the funeral.”
“I was just exploring all the angles,” she says.
I stare at her for a moment longer, but eventually, I sit back down. “Don’t print that. They mean nothing to me. They’re not my fucking family.”
“You have a family,” she says, seemingly unruffled by the intensity in my voice. “The Callahans. Your father’s best friend and his wife, and their children.”
I need to rein it in. I take a deep breath, trying to loosen my shoulders. I still remember what my mother’s father whispered to her mother at the funeral; I overheard them talking over her fucking body at the viewing. A horrible thing, but at least if she had to go, so did the scumbag. All because they thought my mother could have done better, and my father sullied her by knocking her up and convincing her to run away with him.
“Yeah,” I say.
“Richard mentioned it was a pact that he made with Jacob when they were young. A promise to take care of each other’s families if anything like this happened.”
“What about it?”
“Given that, would you truly consider them your family? How has it been, growing up with the Callahans?”
I can still remember the moment Richard and Sandra told me that they’d be taking care of me from now on. It was before the funeral, which they organized. They were in Cincinnati before the hospital discharged me, handling everything because my dad didn’t have any family to do it and my mother’s family was threatening to give her a separate funeral. Sandra, who by that point was my mother’s best friend, fought tooth and nail for her to be buried with her husband.
Up until then, I saw them a couple times a year; James, Cooper, and Izzy were like cousins I hung out with on holidays. With my dad based in Ohio and Richard in New York, it was the best they could do. That morning, though, after days of working out the details, they sat me in a chair in the hallway outside the church with the social worker who had been handling my case. Richard had on a suit, and Sandra a navy-blue dress. He looked at his wife, waiting for her final nod, before he leaned in and said, “Son, you’re coming home with us.”
Sandra had hugged me then, and I remember letting myself think it was my mother instead. Just once. I was eleven, but plenty old enough to understand there wouldn’t be any going back.
I trace over the fake leather of the chair’s arm, unable to tear my gaze away from Zoe’s phone. That stupid blinking red light is sending my heart rate into overdrive.
“It’s strange to think about, sometimes,” I say. “It’s been a decade of a different life than the one I was born into. In some ways, it’s incredibly similar—and I thank Richard and Sandra for keeping things as normal as possible and keeping me in baseball. But it’s not what it could have been, and I’ll never not wonder how things would be different. I’ll never not miss my mother and father and wish they were in my life.”
“Of course,” Zoe says softly. “I lost my father a few years ago, and it hasn’t been the same. Nothing completely heals that wound.”
“No.” I blink away sudden, stinging tears. “But my life is great. I love my family—and they are my family—more than anything. James is the best big brother anyone could ask for, and Izzy’s the best little sister, and Cooper’s my best friend. Richard and Sandra are parents to me, absolutely. They’ve supported my baseball career every step of the way, keeping in line with my father’s wishes.”
“So it truly was your father’s dream for you to play baseball.”
“Yeah. He’d be so excited about the draft.” I laugh slightly. “I’ve seen a lot of things people have been writing, and honestly, I don’t think he’d care about whether I go in the top ten or the last slot of the last round. He’d just want me to make it.”
“And this is your future? Your lifelong passion, just like your dad?”
I look at her for a long moment.
Yes. Always.
No other option.
So why is it so hard to say aloud?
That light keeps blinking, impossible to ignore. Taunting me. I rub my chest, right over the tattoo I got with James and Cooper a couple summers ago in OBX. The bruise Mia gave me with her heel is still there, a comforting tenderness when I press down. I wish I could check my phone to see if she texted back, but I don’t want to be rude.
I take a deep breath. I can finish this. It’s not that bad.
Zoe notes my hesitation; I can see it in the way she uncrosses her legs and leans in. “I’m wondering about the last name ‘Callahan’ on your jersey. Is it just for practicality? Are you going to switch to ‘Miller’ once you’re playing baseball professionally?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Have you thought about what your father would think?”
“He’s dead,” I snap. “I don’t know what he would think.”
“Do you think you have the talent to match or surpass his records?” She flips to another page in her notebook. “What about the fact he didn’t play long enough to make the Hall of Fame? Do you think he should be in it regardless since he holds the National League home run title?”
My chest feels tight, my heart aching. I can feel the beginnings of a headache around my temples. I cast around for something to say. Anything to get her off this line of questioning, and to calm myself the hell down. “I have a girlfriend.”
She picks up her pen. “A girlfriend?”
“Her name is Mia.” I work my hand through my hair again, tugging on the ends. “She’s studying astronomy and physics—she’s a genius. She wants to work for NASA one day.”
“Is she a student here at McKee?”
“Yeah.”
“You lit up, just now,” she says. “She must mean a lot to you.”
“She’s one of the best people I’ve ever known. Absolutely the smartest. I’m just a jock, but she’s special. I’m grateful that she gives me the time of day, much less wants to be with me.”
“Adorable,” she says. “Will I see her at tomorrow night’s game?”
“Yeah,” I say, even though I haven’t spoken to Mia about attending my games. I haven’t wanted to push, since she’s so busy with her lab work, but it would be nice to see her in the stands at least once before… before the end of the season. “She’ll be there.”
She smiles, fiddling with that ostentatious necklace. “I can’t wait to meet her.”
