Page 74 of Off Limits: The Firsts

I feel at peace. It’s such an odd feeling for me. New. Foreign. And yet the panic I’ve lived with for so very long is nonexistent. It’s unsettling but also so very welcome.

“My mom is an alcoholic.”

His confession into the peaceful silence has me shifting so that I can see his face, but his eyes are staring at the ceiling above us.

“Easton, you don’t have to do this.”

“Yes, I do. You shared your secrets with me, and so you deserve mine,” he says with a nod. I watch his Adam’s apple bob. I hear his unsteady exhale. And he continues, “She’s not a mean drunk, but she’s a drunk nonetheless. There’s no gentle way to pretend she isn’t. She’s stuck back in time, not wanting to let go of the past, so much so that most days she doesn’t know what day it is.”

“Does she live close?”

“Mm-hmm.” He falls silent, but I know there is more, so I give him time. “She lives about an hour outside of town. Seventy-eight minutes to be exact. I know because I often get late night calls when she won’t leave the bar in the trailer park that she lives in and refuses to let me move her out of.”

“That has to be frustrating for you.”

“So many things about it are,” he sighs. “It would be different if she were a mean drunk. It would be easier to hate her for it then. But she’s not. She’s sweet and lonely and just wants me around more. And I feel guilty that I don’t spend more time with her . . . but at least sleeping on her couch a night or two during the week is enough for her. She deserves the world, but her world is her double-wide trailer, cluttered with her things and my games on replay on the TV, and so that’s what I give her.”

My heart swells at the audible love transparent in his voice. The measure of a man is often unquantifiable, and yet, with Easton, it’s everywhere. In his love for his mother. In unpublicized visits to Children’s Hospital. In his charitable organization for literacy. In his patience with a spooked woman.

“You love her.” It’s a stupid statement but so very true.

“Yeah.” I can hear the smile in his tone. “You know, my dad wasn’t around much when I was a kid. Sure, he was here in the offseason, or I got to spend time in the clubhouse with him, but she was the day-in, day-out parent. It would be easy for me to be mad at her for her drinking. It would be easy when the bar calls to let them get her home . . . but that’s my job as her son. She took care of me, now it’s my turn to take care of her.”

Emotion clogs his voice, and all I can think to do is to press a kiss to his chest to let him know what I think of him.

“Was that the reason she and your dad divorced?”

“I don’t know. I don’t remember her drinking back then, but it’s easy for parents to hide things from their kids when they’re that young.”

It’s easy for them to hide things from their kids when they’re old, too. Like my dad has for the past year.

“My parents never discuss their divorce. I don’t remember them fighting. I don’t remember any ill will. I just remember coming home from practice one day and my dad sat me down and told me that things were going to be changing a little. That was it. Later, I learned from friends how weird it was that neither of my parents tried to pit me against the other . . . but they just didn’t.”

“Lucky for you . . . I guess,” I amend, realizing how wrong that sounds.

“No, you’re right. I understood what you meant.” His finger begins to trace over my back again.

“You’re a good son. A good man.”

“I’m all she has, Scout.”

I press another kiss to his chest. “She’s lucky.”

“My biggest fear is a trade. She’d have no one to take care of her.”

Easton shifts some and rolls onto his side, head propped onto his elbow, and looks at me for the first time since the conversation started. “Why didn’t you tell me about your dad, Scout?” The compassion is back in his eyes, and I can’t hide from it this time.

I sigh, shrug, and squirm under the intensity of his stare. “Because he made me promise not to tell anyone. Hell, he only told me a few months ago.” I shake my head and remember the defeat I felt when he’d told me. “His heart is failing him. Heart disease, which sounds so weird to me because he’s always been so healthy, but I guess he’s had it for a long time and never took the steps to slow it down. He’s on a donor list, but so are a million other people who have stronger bodies that can withstand a transplant, while doctors have determined that at this time his can’t. Why waste a precious heart on someone who might not make it through the surgery, when they have ten other matches who can?” The tears threaten and burn, but I keep them at bay. Hold them back like I do the acknowledgement that this is all happening and real and my dad really is sick.

“I’m so sorry.” Easton leans forward and presses a kiss to my forehead, the gesture so natural, so sweet, that one of the threatening tears slips out and slides down my cheek.

“When he first told me, I argued with him. Told him he was lying. And to this day, I still hope that’s true, but he’s living proof you can’t recover from a broken heart.” Easton’s eyes narrow as he links the fingers on his free hand with mine and waits for me to explain. “My mom leaving was hard on all of us, but especially him. He had to figure out how to travel for weeks at a time for his job while giving us as normal of a childhood as possible. And then when my brother Ford died, I don’t think his heart ever recovered.”

I can see his eyes jolt as everything starts to connect for him. “Wait. Ford? As in the Ford Marsden drafted from UCLA? The wonder boy who used to play with Cameron and Penski?” he asks, sounding more shocked with each word.

I nod, my smile bittersweet. “He didn’t want any show of favoritism because he was Doc’s son, so during college and the MLB draft, he decided to use my grandmother’s maiden name.”

“I remember when he collapsed on the mound.” The dreamlike quality reflects how I feel about it still today. Like I wish the whole thing were a dream instead of the nightmare it is.