Page 32 of Off Court Fix

I shake my head, taking a sip of my water. “Sure. What’s the cause?”

“I just spoke to Dave in passing. I’ll get the details for you. But you know, charity is charity,” Dad says, clearing his throat. “Let’s get it on your calendar. It’s on August twenty-fourth.”

I freeze enough that Dad notices.

“What?” he asks.

“That’s Mason’s anniversary.”

“Mason,” Dad begins with a heavy sigh, and I hate the way he says his name, like he’s a parasite, a leech, something you don’t even want squashed on the bottom of your shoe. “It should be a day we celebrate then.”

My eyes widen. This is low, even for my father. “How could you say that? He was your stepson.”

There has to be one part deep inside him that feels an iota of empathy over my brother’s suffering. Because that’s what it was. I see it now because I saw the way he lived and worse, but more importantly, the gruesome way he died. No one wants to be an addict, no one wants to leave the world in a pool of their piss and vomit as their grandmother and little sister work to keep the blood pumping long enough for the paramedics to arrive and administer Narcan.

I look for signs of it seeping out, but I don’t see it. There’s no softness on my father’s face, not in his icy stare, the line his lips make when they press together firmly with a locked jaw. There’s annoyance, frustration, and resentment. I know because those are the things I held while Mason was alive. But I’ve let them go, because even though I miss my brother, the only peace I have in my life at the moment is knowing the suffering he endured battling the vicious disease of addiction came to an end.

But for my father, even Mason’s memory is something intolerable, something not worth speaking about because he moves to change the conversation and is going on about Wimbledon accommodations. I want to interrupt him, to remind him it’s okay to talk about Mason, about the highs and the so many lows, about how we’d do it differently if we ever had a second chance. We can talk about Mason like he existed, like he was a person and not just a statistic. The words bubble in my throat, but like always, I keep them in and send them in and deep back down because I know the only difference they will make is the frustration that sparks within me when I see my words truly make no difference at all.

I’m thankful for Dave’s interruption when he approaches with a young girl beside him.

“Maxine,” he says, stepping forward to the table. “I’m sorry to interrupt your lunch, but it’s hard for us to catch you before nine a.m.”

Dave introduces his daughter, Sophie, and the four of us make polite conversation before she produces a magazine from behind her, and I’m reminded not speaking up for myself really only hurts one person—me.

“Well, look at that,” Dad exclaims. “We haven’t seen it in print yet.”

I look at Sophie, no more than twelve, and take in her beaming, hopeful eyes as she holds out a Sharpie so I can sign the cover with a bad taste in my mouth. This can hurt others too in some cases, young, impressionable girls, like Sophie.

I hesitate because I don’t want this. I don’t want this for me, for her, for anyone. I don’t want any person—especially a young girl—to look at me on that cover with excitement, and worse, admiration. I look at myself on that cover I grace barely clothed beside fully garbed Brandon. I don’t want this to be the thing anyone aspires to. Not at all.

It’s that moment I feel a different kind of gaze on me, and not the magazine, and I’m grateful for it. Peeking over my shoulder, I find Crosby across the terrace, his eyes bouncing around but lingering for a split second longer when they meet mine. Crosby’s gaze, it clouds me, holds me, and feels eerily protective. I have this urge to explain—to confess—everything I hold in my heart and mind to him the way I did the night we met.

For a split second, he’s not the unfair umpire. He’s the stranger who listened, the one I gravitated to by chance.

I sign Sophie’s magazine.

“And thank you, for the lesson. I know you’re busy and donating your time is a big deal.” Dave smiles.

I glance at my father before nodding. “It’s nothing. But you know, I’m embarrassed, I don’t even know what the auction and gala are supporting.”

Dave pockets his hands. “This year the board is raising money for the First Step Group. They help fund um...” He pauses, looking at Sophie. “Treatment for those battling substance abuse issues.”

I can feel my father’s face drop beside me.

“Oh, well, wonderful. That’s a cause I definitely can get behind.” I turn to Dad. “Don’t you think?”

He remains sterned face until Dave and his daughter leave the table.

“We can talk about the gala.”

I stand. “Nothing to talk about. A charity is a charity, right?” I bend, reaching for my bag, still feeling Crosby staring, and for whatever reason, under his eyes, I feel bolder. “I should get going. I have training in an hour. Are you heading to the airport?”

He frequently comes up to the city for meetings, and when he told me he was coming out, I prepared the guest room, but Dad opted to stay at a friend’s home in Bridgehampton.

“I have a car coming in an hour. I’ll relax here.”

I nod. “I’ll see you soon.”

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