Page 129 of Really Truly Yours

My lungs release all the air they’ve collected since Tripp began his story, but before I can wade into relief, he moves on.

“There was one. You were at toddler at the time. He tolerated you but seemed to despise me with every fiber of his being. I guess because I existed. We were living way out in the country. At the rear of the property, there was a foundation from an old farmhouse that had been torn down. It had a basement. Small. One room and a tiny closet.” He bends at the waist, staring at the flooring. “The guy, Bruce, used to padlock me in that closet when he didn’t want me around.”

Sickness pours into my stomach.

“Needless to say, I spent a lot of time down there during the months he and Mom were together. Daytimes in the summer when I wouldn’t be missed at school. Nighttime when he was extra angry, and of course, when he was chasing the next high.” Tripp looks up all of a sudden, his mouth hard and humorless. He holds up a trio of fingers. “Three days one time. But the absolute worst was the time he left me overnight during a storm. It poured for hours. By morning, I was sitting in four inches of water and scared to death it wouldn’t stop and that I’d—” His voice breaks.

The story opens a portal that allows me to picture every part of Tripp’s story that my protected, sheltered mind otherwise couldn’t conceive. The worst my mind remembers of those times is some yelling.

The hardwood between my five-hundred-dollar athletic shoes blurs. I know Tripp saw himself as my protector.

I hope he knows he succeeded.

He stands.

“Tripp, I—”

“No need to say anything, Tuff. There’s nothing to say.”

“Yes, there is. Thank you for looking out for me back then. For all that you did.”

He chuckles dryly. “I was a dumb kid. I didn’t do much.”

I walk over and give him a giant hug. “But it was enough.”

Chapter 28

Grayson

This isn’t what I signed up for.

Watching from the sidelines—the bench, in this case—is not how I’m wired. My recent days with the team have stoked the competitive juices, and not being on the mound for the biggest games of the year threatens my sanity.

The bright spot has been Sydnee. Thanks to her refusal to join me, her support comes by way of texts and daily phone calls. While face to face is supreme, I’m enjoying our exchanges. Daily, she coaxes me up from the pit of the despair that strikes when a sense of failure settles in. Donny’s leaden air conditioner is not the reason I’m on the bench, but when we spoke on the morning of game two, he became the focal point for my frustration. Sydnee reminded me that my effort to help a sick old man, my father, is the type of thing that counts for eternity.

Clouds drift outside the portal-like window. The team plane is quiet, some guys sleeping, and most, like myself, have buds shoved into their ears. While heading to Florida up two-zip would have been ideal, at least we now know the odds things will wrap up on home turf are decidedly in our favor.

I want Sydnee there. Can I convince her to join me in Houston? Some of her walls seem to be eroding, but there’s a reserve sometimes that undercuts my confidence.

Kevin, the guy who has essentially been my replacement since I crapped out in July, slides into the aisle seat next to me. Dang. I like elbow room. And if I’m honest? The mere sight of him has become a sore spot.

I should be the one on that mound tomorrow night, sorry, Kev.

He looks ready to talk. Slowly, I take out my right earbud.

“Dude, whassup over here by your lonesome?”

The slang grates. “Just thinking.” Hint, hint.

“Glad you’re with us this week. Where you been? Coach said personal business?”

“That’s right.”

He lifts one of his bushy eyebrows.

“Personal. Did you catch that part?”

Lifting his palms, he laughs. “Chill, man.”

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