Page 98 of Run Home

His expression heats as he tilts his head to the side. His arms wind around my waist, pulling me against him as he murmurs, “The rest of your life, huh?”

Blushing but not taking it back, I shrug one shoulder.

And then he kisses me.

Chapter thirty-six

Adrián

As I step into the batter’s box, I try to clear my head from the stress of the last week. We lost badly yesterday, and I’m hungry for a redemptive win. I struck out my first at bat and was walked on my second, so I’m impatient for a solid hit. Mentally closing the door to life outside of baseball, I bend my knees and bring the bat up into my stance.

My dad and I have had some incredible time together this week. The camera crew loved getting footage of the two of us together, as well as an interview with my dad. He’s been here to visit several times over the years, but it’s different this time. I’m not just showing him a good time or a vacation—I’m showing him my life. My life with Samantha. The friends and home I’ve found here in Kansas City.

At the same time, dread has been an ever-present companion as I’ve spent time with my dad, knowing that I need to have some serious conversations with him. Although I’ve gone overboard pointing out everything I think he would love about living here, we haven’t openly discussed the possibility of him moving to Kansas City.

I definitely haven’t asked him the other hard questions that I know I need to ask. I’ve been putting it off, but I’ve run out of time. Dad flies home to Venezuela tomorrow, so I have to bring it up tonight.

But first, I have to hit this ball, get on base, and help us win the game.

The first pitch is a curveball to the bottom left corner of the strike zone, and I kick myself for not swinging. When the next pitch comes straight down the middle, hard and fast, I swing with everything I’ve got, rewarded by the reverberation of the bat making contact.

The ball sails high and deep over center field and into the stands. My dad and Samantha are sitting up in the suite with Lily today since Griffin couldn’t be here, so I point their direction as I jog the bases. Dad has had a good time getting to know Samantha, walking away from every interaction telling me not to screw it up. Her pronunciations still need some serious work, but she’s been making every effort to pick up on the Spanish phrases and conversations I’ve been teaching her this week.

She insisted I spend the final evening alone with my dad, but she offered to ride with us to the airport tomorrow so I don’t have to be alone right after dropping him off. I picture them up in the suite together, cheering as I round the bases to home plate.

I picture them together over the future decades, an easiness between them growing as they get to know each other well. Conversations together as Samantha picks up more Spanish and maybe my dad learns a little more English. The two most important people in my life—my heart soars thinking about all the time the three of us could have together.

But then it dips lower as I think about the fourth person who should be included but never will be. I know I’m not supposed to keep turning away from the sadness, that I need to face it when it comes. But the middle of an important game is not a good time for facing the feelings, so I kick them down the road for a few more hours.

After a satisfying win this afternoon and a short dinner with Samantha, my dad and I are sitting on my back patio, enjoying our final night together. A breeze makes it feel cooler than usual for early September in Kansas, so I give my dad a sweatshirt to wear.

When there’s a natural lull in our conversation, my heart begins to pound, shooting blood through my veins with uncomfortable force. Samantha has shared some of what she learned from occupational therapy and yoga about identifying emotions through what her body feels. But even without the aid of her explanations, I could easily recognize what my increased heart rate and thrumming pulse mean.

It’s time to face the past, no matter how uncomfortable it’s going to be.

Leaning forward with my elbows propped on my knees, I rotate my arm to look at the words inked across my wrist. I added this tattoo as a way of remembering my mom even though I usually suppress what few memories I still have to avoid looking into the hole she left behind.

Not anymore. I’m facing it. If Samantha can face all of the pain she suffered at the hands of other people—if she can do the work to heal from those things—then I can too.

“Papá, I need to talk to you about something,” I begin. He shifts curiously, sensing the atypical serious tone in my voice. Clasping my tattooed wrist with my right hand, I say, “I want to talk about Mamá.”

Dad’s face shutters. “Why? What do you want to talk about?”

“Well, I’ve been talking with a therapist—”

“What? Why? Why do you need to see a therapist?” my dad cuts in. “There’s nothing wrong. Look at your good life here. Look at everything you’ve achieved. Why do you need a therapist?”

Rubbing my temples with one hand, I try to explain. “Samantha has been through a lot of stuff in her past, and we’ve talked with a therapist together. I wasn’t supporting Samantha the way she needs when she’s struggling emotionally, and I wanted to get better at it. So I started seeing a therapist on my own. As I’ve talked with her, I’ve been learning why I have such a hard time being around sadness or pain. And a lot of it goes back to Mamá’s death and the fact I never really processed it.”

Dad looks away, but not before I catch the agony in his eyes. “What is there to process?” he asks. “She’s gone. There’s nothing we can do about that. There’s no purpose in dwelling on something so painful.”

“But that’s exactly it, Papá,” I say. “There is a purpose because there are going to continue being painful things in life. And if I never face the painful things, if I always try to avoid feeling bad, then I’m not truly living life.”

I pause to think about how to translate what I’ve been talking about with my therapist—both emotionally and linguistically—in a way he’ll understand. “A full life includes relationships that might cause pain. If I’m afraid to experience the pain, I’ll miss out on experiencing the joy too. I—”

My voice breaks off as emotion cages my words. Dad turns to fully face me with hesitant concern in his eyes.

Clearing my throat, I say, “I have a hard time remembering Mamá at all. I hardly have any memories of her. I was so young when she passed, but then we never talked about her. What little I could remember slowly faded. She’s the ghost who’s always with us but we never acknowledge. I want to acknowledge her. I want to remember more about her. I want you to share your memories with me so I can have more of her. I know it’s hard for you, and I know it hurts, but I need to be able to talk about her.”