Page 35 of Breakaway
"Nothing. I saw the dinner post. Looked like a good time."
"It was a team thing. Marchetti put it together. That place on Ponce with the brick oven."
"Looked fun."
"It was fine. We do them every couple weeks now." A pause. "Wes, what is going on?"
"Nothing is going on."
"Your texts were weird."
"They weren't weird. I was saying it looked fun."
"You don't text like that. You never text like that."
I look at the dark water through the glass door. He is right. I don't text like that.
"Who was the guy next to Hájek?" I say. I did not plan to say it. The question was not in my mouth until it was.
"That's Davis. Wes, you know who Davis is."
"Yeah. I know who Davis is."
"Then why are you asking?"
"I don't know."
The line is quiet. I can hear his breathing. I can hear the apartment behind his voice, whatever Atlanta sounds like after ten at night.
"Wes."
"What?"
"Are you okay?"
"I'm fine. I'm just tired. Good game tonight and I'm winding down."
"How was the game? I saw you have twenty-two points."
"It was a good night. Paulson set me up."
"Don't do that. Don't make it smaller. Twenty-two is not a good night. Twenty-two is a career year."
"Yeah."
I close my eyes. He is right about all of it. The texts were weird. I should have called him about the game. I should have talked with him about twenty-two and let him be proud of me. Instead I sent three flat sentences about a dinner I was not invited to because I live hundreds of miles away.
"I'm sorry," I say. "I'm tired. I shouldn't have texted like that."
"You were being a little weird. It's okay. I just wanted to make sure you're all right."
"I'm all right."
"Are you actually all right or are you doing the thing where you say you're all right?"
"I'm actually all right. Just a long night."
"Okay." He pauses. "I wish I could have been there for twenty-two."
