Page 88 of The Last Guy On Earth
“Wow, Kait! Congratulations.” My throat tries to close up around my words. This is big. Kait is in her late thirties, and it wasn’t all that long ago when she was convinced she’d never have a family.
“Isn’t it amazing? You’re the first in the family to know. You want to know why?”
“Why?” I ask, still trying to imagine my baby sister pregnant with twins. My mind is blown.
“Because I knew you’d get it. And I knew you wouldn’t ask me when Raul and I are getting married. Which I appreciate.”
“Are you? Not that I care.” My sister’s boyfriend is a sharply dressed Puerto Rican doctor a few years older than her. I’ve always thought he was great.
“We’ll probably get married eventually. But it’s not top of mind. We’re both excited about the pregnancy.”
“Of course you are,” I say sleepily. “Twins. I’ll teach them to skate.”
“I love you, Clazy,” she says, her tone a little weepy.
“Back at you, too, Kaity. Thank you for telling me.”
We ring off, and I turn off the lights and make myself comfortable on the bed. The Twin Cities’ lights twinkle in the river outside my window.
Rolling onto my side on the king-sized bed, I think of my sister and her boyfriend, happy at home in Seattle, starting their family together.
I’ve always known that my life wouldn’t look like that. It’s a choice I made. But I’m old enough to wonder how things might have been different if I’d chosen another path. If I’d prioritized a relationship and a family over the glory of professional sports.
Somewhere in this same building—probably on a lower floor in another king-sized bed—Jethro is sleeping alone, too. We have our reasons.
It’s just that sometimes—like right this second—it feels like a waste.
THIRTY-NINE
Jethro
APRIL
The regular seasonslowly grinds toward the finish line. Day in and day out, I play hockey. I go to practice. I go to the gym. Then I do it all again.
My stats are showing a lot of improvement, but one thing never changes—I watch Clay a little too hungrily each time we’re in the same room.
We still text, but lately I’ve forced myself not to reach out much. He asked for space, and I’m trying to give him that, for both our sakes.
On the home front, things are a little more upbeat. My father’s health is stable. Toby seems more settled in school, where he’s made two friends, Kavi and Dave. “They’ll never be Trevor, but they’ll do,” he’d told me.
Our condo is nicely furnished now, and I lead a surprisingly domestic life for someone who’s always been single and never intended to have a kid. I’ve been stocking the place with groceries, because I know the playoffs are going to hit me like a freight train. With the help of Clay’s assistant, I’ve found a pediatrician for Toby who’s accepting new patients. I even made it to parent-teacher conferences.
The brightest spot of all our lives is that my sister has made good on her word; every Monday night she calls Toby, and they talk. It’s made a huge difference for him. He’s more relaxed now that he can tell she’s doing okay, and he knows she still cares.
I still feel like I’m bailing water out of the ship rather than sailing it, but it is what it is.
On a quiet Friday night, on a tiny break between the end of the regular season and the start of the playoffs, I find myself staring into the refrigerator, contemplating what to have for dinner. There’s been no significant improvement to the Hale family kitchen skills, so we eat a lot of frozen food, and I’m a little sick of takeout.
Toby has Robotics Club, and I’ll be picking him up from school around six o’clock. So I get a wild hair. “Hey, Dad, what do you think about going out? I’m in the mood for Japanese.”
“Yeah, maybe,” he says. “If they have other stuff besides sushi.”
I’ve been working on expanding Toby’s palate, but Mr. Old School doesn’t share my passion for trying new things. “This place I found has ramen dishes and chicken skewers. I know you’d like it.”
“All right,” he says grudgingly.
At six, we swing by the school. Toby bounces toward the car looking happy to see us. “Are we going out?” Toby guesses as he slams the car door. “Pizza, maybe?”
