Page 63 of Switch Hitter

David

I AM BEING RESPECTFUL. I’M RESPECTFULLY CURIOUS.

Mom

Sean?

Are you safe?

We love you and can’t wait to hear more about Emiliano.

My chest squeezes so hard it hurts.

We love you.

No conditions in that sentence. No buts. No pause. Just love. My eyes sting instantly because my body is a traitor and my emotions are loud.

“Cobre,” Emiliano murmurs, and I realize I’ve been staring at the phone so hard I stopped breathing.

I swallow and force air into my lungs. “They… they’re freaking out,” I say, voice thick.

Emiliano’s hand slides over to my thigh, warm and steady. He squeezes once.

“Why,” he says. “Did they see something online?”

I shake my head, blinking fast. “I told them your name.”

His fingers stay on my thigh as his eyes flick from the road to me. “Yeah?”

My throat tightens. “I texted, ‘His name is Emiliano.’ When I said I was bringing someone home for Easter.”

Something shifts in his face, almost like it hit him deeper than he expected.

He exhales slowly. “Okay.”

I huff a nervous laugh. “That’s all you gotta say?”

He squeezes my thigh again. “No.” He glances at me, eyes warm. “I’m proud of you for being brave and telling them my name. I can’t wait to meet your family, baby, and whatever happens, I’ll be right there with you.”

My throat burns, and I hate that praise makes me feel weak.

I hate that it also makes me feel… safe.

“Don’t,” I whisper.

Emiliano’s mouth tilts. “I’m going to keep being proud of you until you stop acting like you don’t deserve it.”

I flip him off weakly, and he laughs.

“There he is,” he says. “You’re still you.”

The car turns onto a quieter street, one that I’m assuming is his neighborhood. It feels different from Manhattan, different from the Bronx. Softer. More lived-in. People on stoops with music drifting out of windows. A man is walking a tiny dog like it’s a king.

“Okay,” I mutter. “Pull over, I’m going to throw up.”

Emiliano smirks. “You already said that.”

“I mean it more now.”