When we’re seated, everyone digs in. Wings are messy and require focus, so much of the meal is silent. Or we listen to Isaiah talk about what’s going on at school, which we’re all too happy to do. The kid is infectious, and it’s hard to believe he’s not been in the family since the moment he was born.
After we’re all full and bloated, Hayes offers to clean up and get Isaiah started on bath time.
Colleen and I sit back, sipping our ginger ale.
“How is work?” she asks, fishing for details.
I give her a sly smile. “Why does everyone in this family seem so interested in my job all the time?”
She returns the knowing smirk. “Because it’s the first one you’ve held down, especially in the organization. We’re proud, Sinclair. You can’t blame us for that.”
“I guess not. It’s good, at any rate. Learning a lot, showing up, and working hard. That’s what everyone wants, right?”
“I want what makes you happy. Truly. Uncle Daniel may not, but I do.”
We both know my father has been better about how supportive and understanding he is with me over the last two years, but he’s still Daniel Callahan. Dad is known for being cold, no-nonsense, and always working with a motive behind his actions.
Colleen and I lapse into silence, and I can’t help but bring up the subject of Frankie. I know I should leave it alone, especially since Colleen is the general manager. She’ll have to do something about the fact that one of her coaches is going to have a baby with, well, a part-owner of the team. Because technically, that’s what I am.
But per my history, I’m always bound to fuck things up in every possible way.
“You brought in a new strength coach.” I say this as a statement, and she definitely doesn’t register how salty I am about it.
Why would she? Barely a soul knew that Frankie and I were together during spring training, and Colleen would have been the last person Frankie wanted to find out. Not because she’s my cousin, because Frankie didn’t know that, but because she is the GM of the team. Fraternizing with another Pistons employee isn’t exactly frowned upon, but workplace relationships are supposed to be disclosed. Frankie would never want people in her business like that.
“You know Frankie?” Confusion steals over Colleen’s features. “Oh wait, I forgot you guys probably crossed paths down in Florida.”
“More than crossed.” My words are cryptic, and I add a raised eyebrow.
“Have you seen her yet? She’s pregnant, expecting a little boy in …” My cousin trails off as a lightbulb seems to half-spark in her brain. “Wait, what did you say?”
“It’s a boy?”
I can’t explain it, but my heart begins to race. My head feels light, and my fingers tingle. My son. I’m going to have a son. An image pops into my head of a little boy with Frankie’s curls and my blue eyes running into my arms. I’ve never, ever, considered having children. With my fucked-up past and the way I’m barely an adult myself, I just never saw it in the cards for me.
And here I am, on the verge of having a son.
A son. My son.
“Oh, Sinclair.” Colleen’s hand slaps over her mouth because my cousin is not dumb. “Oh, Jesus. Oh my God. Oh my God.”
Colleen isn’t the speechless or overreactive type, but she can’t seem to say anything but oh my God. I trace the rivulets of condensation on my ginger ale glass, contemplating what to do from here.
“She didn’t tell me. All these months, and she never told me.”
My cousin’s mouth can’t seem to form anything other than a surprised O-shape, and I’m glad that Hayes and Isaiah are occupied. I don’t need everyone knowing about this. Not yet. Having not answered Walker’s texts in nearly four days, I knew I was due for a visit from him.
But Colleen was the most level-headed person I knew. If she didn’t have the answers, I was screwed. Maybe it was why I found my way over here tonight.
“You … you guys were close?”
I nod.
“Okay, so how did you leave it? When you came back to Packton, were things still on good terms?”
I shrug sheepishly. God, I’m a fucking coward. “They kind of just tapered off. By my doing. I-I really liked her. And I guess I just got scared, so I didn’t ask her to continue whatever we were doing. And I didn’t stay in touch. But I thought about her every day. Then, this …”
Colleen’s expression is a mix of understanding and disappointment. “Well, how about now that she’s here? That she’s pregnant with your child. Gosh, that sounds so weird to say. Sorry, but it does. Anyway, what do you want now?”
That’s a good question. One I’ve been asking myself all week.
“I want to be a part of this. Her pregnancy. I want to know my … shit, I’m having a son. Of course, I want him. And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want her.”
We only had the two confrontations. The first, when I discovered she was pregnant, and she discovered who I really am. And the second when I hunted her down in the weight room. While I’d been pissed, and then apologetic, the overwhelming feeling was yearning. Aching. Need. I want to be with Frankie more than I ever have, and not just because we’re going to be bringing a child into the world.
It’s everything. It’s like the moment she snapped back into my vision, the moment I saw her in that hallway in the bowels of the stadium, I knew exactly what I wanted.
“So, if you want, make it happen.”
Colleen’s advice is simple but effective.
There is a lot of shit I’m going to have to trudge through, a lot of feelings to be fixed, and a lot of communication to be hashed out.
But it’s worth it. She and our son are worth it.
22
Sinclair
The noise, smells, and scenery from Hudson’s make me feel at home instantly.
Probably because I’ve spent my fair share of nights here getting wasted to the point of Mary, the bartender, calling one of my family members to come and safely take me home.
It’s a different era, now, with everyone in town knowing how I wrapped my car around a tree, almost died, and then got sober. But it’s not like I’m trying to sneak drinks anyway. But everyone knows what happened the night I left here because it was after walking out of this bar and how I’d almost not lived to tell the tale.
No, I come here for the familiarity. Even before it became the pre-scene of my worst crime, Hudson’s was the place my parents took us after every little league game, every A plus on a quiz, every pizza date with friends. That, and it’s the only place in town with a decent jalapeño burger.
“Okay, the fries are pretty good. Not as good as these big ol’ fat steak ones we have at the barbecue place by my meemaw’s, but pretty good.” Garrett Chester’s twang hits me square between the eyes.
“You really do sound like some country western singer.” I laugh, because he’s so foreign from the people I grew up around.
“Texas roots run deep, man.” He winks.
The hulking rookie sits on the opposite side of the booth, chowing down on a twenty-ounce ribeye and the infamous Parmesan fries. We’ve been to dinner occasionally ever since he moved to Packton nearly the same time I rolled back into town. We get along, and he’s the first genuine friend outside of my family circle that I’ve had in a long time. After I got sober, all of my so-called buddies mysteriously disappeared. And yes, you’re detecting copious amounts of sarcasm.