Page 8 of Really Truly Yours
“I don’t blame you. You’ve been more than gracious to a total stranger.”
Grayson stands, nearly bowling me over with his height. Lots of pro pitchers are tall. I know this because I did multiple internet searches and perused numerous websites when Donny first confided who his son was. By the time he told me, he’d known for months. He found out after seeing Grayson interviewed on a sports network, an interview where Grayson mentioned being reunited with a long-lost brother. He also mentioned his birth name, Tuff.
In an instant, I understood Donny’s addiction to the Houston franchise’s games and why he paid money I knew he couldn’t afford for a premium sports channel so he never missed a game.
Grayson steps to the edge of the concrete porch. “I think I need some time.”
As I’m nodding my understanding, the phone in my pocket chimes with Donny’s ringtone. “Hold on a second.” Extracting the device, I read the message.
Donny: Is that my boy?
My heart twists, and my face must show the substance of my thoughts.
“That’s him, isn’t it?”
I meet Grayson’s gaze. “It is.”
He stuffs his hands in the back pockets of his jeans, his jaw locked in a clench, the nothing house capturing his attention as if it’s a bloody accident on the freeway, the kind none of us can look away from. “Oh, he…ck.”
I fight a quick smile at Grayson’s language modification. I must say the effort comes as a surprise. After our introduction, complete with the lurid suggestion that I, a total stranger, could be carrying his child, my expectations weren’t high.
I tap the phone screen. “It’s alright. I’m telling him you have to lea—”
“Wait.”
I look up.
“Will you come with me?” The puppy eyes return. “Please, just this first time.”
First time? A slip, or a sign there’s a soft enough place in his heart for something to take root with Donny? His father.
I’d prefer to sink into my comfy chair and snuggle beneath my blue, fuzzy throw, reading pages that will transport me from this place called reality and calm the frazzles of a bizarre day. “Sure.”
I message Donny, grab my key ring from the hook inside the door, and cross the street with famous pitcher Grayson Smith, to witness a family reunion.
Grayson
I haven’t been this sick to my stomach in nearly a year. To be specific, since the last time I drank alcohol, the night I now consider the swan song of my stupid stage.
My father.
I’ve neither looked forward to nor dreaded this day. Tom and Joy Smith were all a kid could ask for. The day they went to court and signed papers sealing my adoption was the day I won the lottery. Not the day I committed to a full-ride scholarship to play college ball. Not the day I signed with the pros. No, my seven-year-old self won the jackpot the day I went from being Tuff Grayson to Grayson Thomas Smith. I’ve had no reason to look back.
Except for Tripp. My brother was my biggest loss the morning the child welfare system pulled us out of our disastrous homelife, the same morning our mother offed herself in the shabby rental her most recent deadbeat boyfriend had abandoned her in. Tripp has filled in the gaps my child-memory either didn’t retain or didn’t grasp in the first place.
I lived twenty long years without my big brother.
“Grayson?”
Sweat bubbles on my forehead as I fall behind. Sydnee Carson is waiting for me on the single step up to the junk-cluttered porch. An old push mower, a busted dog kennel, a broken lawn chair. Weeds pushing through the fractured concrete.
She inserts a key in the door, tapping and opening in one motion. “Donny? We’re here.”
The stench of urine and bleach smack my face as I duck inside. It mingles with the smell of natural gas, embedded cigarette smoke, and canned soup. None of the odors soothe the undulating waves in my stomach.
The window by the front door allows in what’s left of the daylight, and a wobbly, faux-brass floor lamp with a crooked shade illuminates the rest of the room. Beneath the lamp is an old recliner with an irregular tilt.
In that recliner sits my father.