Mr. Sportsball

by K. P. Haigh

  I need to tell him I'm leaving for a job, but I know I'm really leaving for myself, and that is so much harder to swallow.

  The door opens up underneath my still hovering knuckles, and I jump back in response.

  "Monty, hi," Baron says, clearly surprised to see me outside his door. He has a bag of garbage in his hand, but he drops it off to the side and invites me in instead of completing his chore.

  I don't think I've taken out the trash once since I moved here. It kind of startles me how easy life is here, and for a moment, I feel almost hesitant to let that go. Am I making the right decision?

  Baron walks into the kitchen. "Can I get you something to drink?"

  I know I'm most likely imagining it, but I feel like his tone has shifted along some imaginary line, as if he knows what's coming before I've even had a chance to say it.

  I can't hold it in any longer. "I'm moving back."

  Baron's back is turned to me. He's standing at the fridge, about to open the door, and I can see the thick muscles that carve their way down his back go soft and drop forward. If he had any idea that's what I came here to say, he didn't fully believe it.

  It's real though. My Visa bill for next month will be a clear indication of how very real it is.

  "I got a job offer, and it's going to require me to travel for a while."

  He turns around and leans his hands against the counter. My immediate instinct is to climb into the space of his arms and comfort him, but I've shifted along the line too. This isn't the carefree romance it started out as, and there isn't anything I can say to make him feel better right now.

  He looks up at me, his eyes pleading for something he knows I can't give.

  "Can't you stay here and travel?"

  I simply shake my head. Even if that wasn't financially stupid, we both know this is about more than a job.

  "So you just made a decision to go. No conversation. Just a knock on my door and that's it?" I hear the control in his voice start to break.

  It's a dick move on my part. The second I saw that email, I should have taken the elevator up to talk to him, but I didn't. I don't know what to tell him.

  "So you're just leaving?" His voice is hanging on by a thread.

  "I can't stay." It comes out as barely a whisper. I've thought these words a million times, but saying them out loud is terrifying.

  "I don't get it."

  "Do you realize I haven't taken a single picture since I moved here?" I can barely say it. Every single word burns coming out.

  Baron shakes his head. "No, I didn't know that."

  I shrug. "You weren't around, so you missed the whole part where I realized Seattle isn't for me." It comes out harsher than I intend it to, but it's the truth.

  I knew he would be busy, but I guess I never realized how the game out here would change him. This isn't just a job, it's a lifestyle, and it's sucked everything out of both of us.

  Baron pinches his eyes closed, as if he knows he's losing the battle. "It's been a tough season. I didn't think it would be this hard."

  "Me either."

  "So what now? You move back to Michigan and then travel around. What about us?"

  I hate this question. I've asked myself a thousand times what this means for us, and every time, I get the same answer. I know it's the right one, but it still hits my heart like a hammer, full force, every single time.

  "I don't think we're going to work out."

  It's a shitty way of saying it, but the shorter version is too brutal to say out loud. We're over. I don't want it to be true, but I need it to be.

  I need to go back to honoring myself instead of trying to live in the shadow of someone else.

  Baron closes his eyes. "You're not happy here?" It's as much of a statement as it is a question. He finally gets it.

  "No." The answer is simple. It feels like it should be a long, run-on sentence of an explanation, when in reality it's just a period. That's it. I'm not happy. Period.

  He wraps his hands around the back of his neck and pulls against them in frustration. "But you never told me that. You didn't even give me a chance to fix it."

  "And what would you have done? Seriously? Tell me to not go to the football games? Pretend that part of you doesn't exist?"

  Baron slams his hand against the counter. "I don't know. I would have done something." His eyes are shut, and I can tell he's directing the current of anger at himself.

  I wish he would turn it on me. I'm the one who's leaving. This is my fault. It's the age-old adage. "It's not you, Baron. You couldn't have done anything."

  "That's bullshit, and you know it."

  I don't know what to tell him. How do you tell someone you love them but you don't fit in their life?

  "I have to go do this."

  He opens his eyes and looks straight at me. "And I have to let you go?"

  His eyes open up my chest like a pickaxe headed straight for my heart. The air is somber between us, and I feel like our conversation has sucked all the oxygen straight out of the air. I walk over to him and rest my head on the curve of his upper arm, desperate to pull in what's left of the good air between us and let it trickle through my blood.

  "Yes," I whisper.

  He has to let me go, because as much as it's about him, it's about me too. I've lost myself in being here, and it’s time to go back to find the woman I know I am and can be.

  Baron turns his head and lightly kisses the top of my forehead. I close my eyes, trying to record the way his smooth lips imprint against my skin. I know I want to remember this forever, like a slip of paper you tuck away in your wallet and carry around always.

  It hurts right now, but someday, the edges will wear down, and it will be bittersweet.

  Baron showed me I could be brave, and I don't want to forget that.

  I press my lips to the soft angle of his jaw, and then I untangle myself from him and turn toward the door.

  I almost expect him to say something, but when I open it and step out of his condo, the air is still heavy with silence.

  As much as I wanted him to fight, I know it's best for both of us if we just let go. After all, isn't that why I'm walking out the door? Because the threat of what happens if I stay is far greater than the pain of leaving while I still can.

  The last thing on the to-do list before I need to pick up the truck tomorrow is to walk into Mr. Grant's loft one more time.

  My nerves are rattling in their cages right now. My energy has nowhere to go until I walk in and hand over my resignation. I'm excited I'm never going to have to show up for one more crappy day of menial work here, but that doesn't stop my nerves.

  Every single step makes this more real. I'm heading in a new direction, and even though I like where it's headed, it doesn't soothe my anxiety.

  I walk up to the loft door and take a deep breath. I'm telling him I quit. What's the worst that can happen? He fires me first?

  When I step into the building, I don't hear or see Mr. Grant. I call out his name, but I get nothing but my own echo in return. Hmm. He's not in the kitchenette or the equipment room. I check my phone, and it's 9AM. He should be here.

  An hour and a half later, he finally shows up. Of course he can't even make quitting convenient for me.

  "Oh, I thought I texted you I would be late this morning," he says as he throws his jacket on the table.

  I start to pick it up, and then I realize that isn't my job anymore. "That's okay. I came in to tell you I'm quitting. I have another job offer, and I need to move back to Michigan."

  He stops and stares at me, and I can't figure out if he's pissed or curious. "And where will you be working?" It's the first time he's looked me in the eye when he's asked a question.

  "I'm taking a job with Collins Aid United to travel as a photographer with their teams." Okay, so I'm taking on a contract…one contract, for three weeks, and while it feels like a big deal to me, Mr. Grant would probably eat that contract as a snack before a five-course meal.
r />   He continues to stare at me without so much as blinking until finally he laughs. It's an unnerving sound. "You'll never hack it out in the field."

  His words slice my courage like paper cuts, but I'm not going to give him the satisfaction of letting him see me bleed.

  "Maybe I won't, but I won't know until I try."

  "I'm not going to give you this job back when you come crawling home." He sends more daggers my way, but these are too dull to cut me.

  They only slice away my desire to leave this building without burning a bridge. Screw it, I’m not going to let this man bully me. "I wouldn't take it back if you begged me on your knees, Mr. Grant. This is a waste of my talent. I'd rather never make another cent from my photographs than step in here and stand on the sidelines of your life. You're a genius, but you're also a dick."

  I see the flicker of surprise, as if my response physically slapped his face. I would love to pull out my phone right now and take a picture so I can remember it forever. Instead, I turn on my heels and walk back to the giant metal door.

  I am worth so much more than this.

  As I swing the door open, my hands practically slip off the handle. My body is in nervous overload right now, but I did what I came to do—and damn, it feels better than I could have ever imagined.

  I wake up early, anxious to get moving. Everything is packed. I need to take the bus to the truck rental office twenty minutes up the I-5 and be back in three hours to meet the guys I hired to help me load.

  And then there are the 2,326 miles between me and my destination. I'm pretty sure I'm going to binge eat French fries and McFlurries and listen to all the emo music I can, and I am totally okay with that.

  It was so easy moving out here. First class ticket, apartment keys ready and waiting—all I had to do was show up.

  Moving back home is exactly the opposite, and it feels like a penance I have to pay. I have to feel this, all the way down to my core, so I can embrace the mistake. If I gloss over the hard work, I might gloss over the lesson.

  I walk out of the apartment building and something slams right into me. I struggle to keep my balance as I turn to see what just hit me.

  I recognize the glossy jet-black hair immediately: Georgie. Her arms wrap around me, nearly cracking my ribs. I wouldn't put it past her to be able to bench as much weight as her football-playing husband. Georgie is a force, and while I still haven't forgiven her, I can't help but miss her a little too.

  "Oh my gosh, Monty, please don't go," she pleads as she lets go of me. "Is there anything I can do to get you to stay?"

  I shake my head. "No. This was an experiment, and I really wanted it to work out, but it wasn't for me." So, I need to shut down the lab and turn in my ID badge.

  Georgie's shoulders shrug forward. "I'm so sorry. I screwed up at that game, and I've been distant ever since. I'm such a loser."

  Her apology cracks the ice that had formed over our friendship. "You're not a loser, Georgie. You were so kind to me when I got here. I didn't know anyone."

  "I didn't stick up for you. I stood there and let Rochelle get into your head. Even worse, I piled on, and because of my own stupid bullshit." Georgie sighs. "We can't have kids…or at least, we think we can't. We've been trying to get pregnant for years now. Even with IVF…it's just not in the cards for us."

  "Oh, Georgie." It's my turn to wrap her in my arms. I squeeze her with everything I have. We spent all that time together, and I never knew. I wonder if Baron knows.

  Why don't people talk about this? Why is our society so screwed up that women don't give each other space to talk about the dark side of fertility? We're all over here crowded together in the shadow of the motherhood arena, feeling like second-class citizens because we can't or won't play the game.

  It makes me want to punch a wall, but that's not going to give Georgie a baby, and it certainly won't do anything to stop people from judging me for not wanting one.

  I can feel a wet spot forming where Georgie's face is pressed against my shirt, and I pull her in even tighter. "It's going to be okay. You guys have the time and resources to figure this out. Hell, I'd lend you my uterus for nine months if I wasn't taking it with me."

  Georgie pulls off of me with a devious smile. "Heeey, that could work. We could pay you if you want to stay." She lifts her eyebrows dramatically, as if she's trying to sell me a bright red sports car.

  I'm pretty sure pregnancy is more like a minivan that hasn't had an oil change in ten years, but hey…

  "I have to go, Georgie." I would put her in my pocket and take her with me, but that's not how this works. It sucks leaving friends, no matter how long they’ve been in your life. I may be going home to Andie, but I’m still going to miss Georgie.

  She purses her lips together and blinks slowly, as if she's trying to come up with a last-minute game plan.

  I cut off her scheming before it goes any further. "I need to do this. I need to travel the world and find myself."

  "But you and Baron…"

  My heart skips at his name, but instead of taking off into flight, it lands back down with a heavy thud. "It just didn't work."

  Georgie shakes her head. "But you made him so happy. I've never seen him like that before." She looks at me, her eyes connecting with mine, and she sees it. Her face relaxes with understanding. She found the answer she was searching for. "But you weren't happy. This isn't your world."

  "I need to go out and find mine," I say quietly, wary of the task at hand but optimistic it'll be worth it in the end.

  "I don't like it, but I get it. I'll travel to meet you any time, anywhere—except maybe during a championship game."

  I wrap my arms around Georgie one last time, grateful to have found her. I know she really will meet me anywhere, and someday, I'm going to have to take her up on it.

  She lets go. "Do you need a lift to…"

  I shake my head before she can finish. I'm heading toward my own adventure, and I have to use my own two feet to get me there.

  I make it home three days later with a pile of fast food wrappers at my feet and a whole lot of gas fill-ups on my credit card. I'm home, and that's worth the drain on my bank account.

  I pull into the driveway, and I see my mom walk out of the side door just as I shift the truck into park. Damn, I'm going to be happy to be done driving this huge piece of unwieldy metal.

  I hop out of the cab of the truck, and my feet land on the gravel with a crunch. My mom walks over and wraps me in a hug. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and I can smell the floral scent she's sprayed on her neck for as long as I can remember.

  She's wearing her ratty painting jeans and an old library t-shirt, but she still wears perfume. I know it's because my dad loves it. He leans in and kisses her neck all the damn time just to be close to her; the thought reminds me why I moved out to Seattle in the first place.

  Because I would go to the ends of the planet for that kind of love.

  I feel like I almost had it. I was holding the end of the rope, but it started to unravel before I could get my footing. I'm still in a free fall, but coming home means there's an inflatable crash pad waiting for me at the bottom.

  "I love you, Mom." I squeeze her tight. "And I'm really sorry," I add as I pull away and head toward the back of the truck.

  "Oh honey, don't be sorry. You're always welcome to come home."

  I smile and shake my head. "No. I mean, I'm sorry about this part." I swing open the doors and point at the stacks of boxes we have to move from this truck into the house one by one over the next two hours. The truck is due back, with a $500 penalty for being late. This is why I'm not going to have kids, because this is what you do for them.

  My mom puts her hands on her hips. "This? Pssh, boxes don't scare me. Your dad, on the other hand…"

  "Yeah, where is he?"

  "I took the day off to help you, but your dad said he had some big meetings he couldn't move. I just think he was being a pansy about lifting heavy boxes." She
smiles when she teases him, and it makes me smile too.

  My dad is one of the smartest people I know, but he's kind of a wimp when it comes to extreme physical activity. We love him all the more for it. You have to love people's crazy, otherwise it'll drive you insane.

  "Let's do this." My mom rallies as she jumps up into the back of the truck and pulls down the ramp.

  My mom's a badass, and I know if I have even one tenth of that in my blood, I'm going to take the world by storm.

  After we get back from dropping off the truck—with fourteen minutes left on the clock—Mom suggests we have some iced tea out on the back deck. I know that's code for Let's talk. We spent the last three hours focusing on getting boxes from point A to point B with little room for chatting.

  Now, we have all the time in the world. I follow her out the back door and slip into one of the white rocking chairs that sit in the shade on the dark wood of the deck. I run my hands along the arm rests and close my eyes. I remember crawling up into these chairs when I was little. I would carry a big stack of books outside and set them up on the side table one by one and read all afternoon.

  It's always been one of my favorite places in the whole world. I find so much comfort in this chair, in this world that shaped who I am. I want to live here, my nose tucked in another book forever. But, I also want to see all the places words can never fully describe.

  How can you want to leave home and stay forever all at the same time?

  "So, my dear, are you running toward something or running away?"

  Leave it to my mom to sum up the entire situation in one simple question. She has spent her whole life surrounded by words, and it shows.

  I run my teeth along the curve of my lower lip while I sort through my thoughts like snapshots in my mind. Meeting Irene Collins at the beginning of this summer. Falling for Baron in the warm sunshine of a farmer's market. The isolating loneliness of sitting through football games in the overwhelming opulence of the owner's box. Seeing the Collins Aid United email glowing on my phone screen.

  "Both," I finally answer.