Page 20 of Switch Hitter

The man throws fastballs for a living. He doesn’t do soft landings. I shove my phone in my pocket like that’ll help and head upstairs, keys jangling, my heart doing that too-fast thing it does when my brain is trying to sprint away from itself.

My apartment door clicks behind me, and the silence punches.

Home should feel safe.

It does, technically.

This city would throw a parade for a man holding another man’s hand. San Jose is rainbow flags and pride stickers on coffee shop windows and baristas who use your pronouns without blinking. Half our damn team has kissed another man at some point, whether they call it bisexuality, “don’t label me,” or “it was college.”

Here, it’s not a big thing.

Here, I’m not afraid of the world.

I’m afraid of my family.

That’s the part nobody sees when they make jokes.

They see the loud Irish redhead with the temper and the mouth.

What they don’t see is the youngest boy of nine kids in a Catholic family, raised on rules, ritual, and the kind of love that comes with conditions you don’t recognize until you fail them.

My parents are good people.

That’s what makes it worse.

Good people can still hurt you.

Good people can still say, “We love you,” but not like that.

I drop my duffel by the couch and pace once, then twice, like the walls are too close. My phone vibrates in my pocket, and my body reacts like a flinch. I pull it out, and it’s nothing new. Just the last message staring back at me like a dare.

I should block him, delete his number, and only shoot the shit with him on the field.

Normal rival athlete shit.

Instead, I throw my phone on the counter and go straight to the kitchen, like food might fix me. There’s nothing in my fridge except a bottle of ketchup, two sad eggs, and a four-pack of protein drinks I bought last month and never touched.

Awesome. Way to be an adult, Sean.

I grab one of the protein drinks, twist the cap off, take a sip, and immediately regret it because it tastes like chalk and disappointment.

My phone buzzes again.

Don’t look. Definitely don’t look.

I look.

Emiliano

Can I call you and you actually pick up the phone?

My throat tightens, and I stare at the message until the screen dims. My thumbs hover over the keyboard, contemplating what to say.

Sean

Depends… are you gonna bring it up?

Emiliano