sticking around to make sure I didn’t let my edge slip again. I got a little alpha in our bowling match.
“Dude, you talk to Coach yet about Thursday?” Hayden always talks through our games. It’s fuckin’ annoying.
“Yeah, I did Friday. He said to keep him posted when we have therapy. I mean, what’s he gonna do, bench us?” I tip the ball out of Hayden’s hands when he lets his guard down, and laugh.
“Damn it!” He’s on me fast, trying to right his wrong. He’s not nearly as aggressive as I am, but he’s agile. Swift. He’s always been faster, and his shots are prettier. Mine are a lot more effective, though.
“You figure out what you’re gonna say?” he asks. His hands are stretched out and his footwork matches mine. I lower my shoulder and fake a drive, pulling back instead for a jump shot. Finally, one of us sinks something.
“One-oh, key it up,” Hayden says.
I jog to the ball and bring it back to the top of our imaginary three-point line.
“I figure this lady, she’ll ask us a bunch of questions. I’ll just answer whatever I’m feeling at the time,” I say.
I send a deep three up spontaneously since Hayden’s distracted. It bangs off the rim. He hates that I don’t have a plan. I’d bet he has a notebook full of bullet points he’ll memorize before our session so he knows exactly what to say. I’m not sure that’s the best way for therapy to go, though . . . planned out and shit.
“You think Dad really wants to go to these?” Hayden asks, dribbling out and faking a drive only to pull back and hit a fade-away shot. It’s pretty, floating through the air without rotation and landing in the hoop with the grace of a butterfly.
Quiet. Agile. Pretty.
I lunge for the ball and push it into his chest, my competitive beast awakening.
“Simmer down, now,” he teases, loving the fact that he knows how to push my buttons on the court.
“Shut up and set up,” I grumble, only making him laugh harder.
We play the next few points without serious talk, climbing the score to five to six, his lead. Hayden can’t stand leaving questions unanswered though, so when he calls for a water break and tosses the ball into the dry grass alongside our driveway, he brings up his question about our dad again. I chew on it while he heads toward the old fridge that keeps the water, beer and soda cold. He tosses me a water, but I waggle my finger to throw me a beer instead. He does, but takes a water for himself, making me look like the failing youth. Whatever. I want a beer.
“I think Dad’s probably pretty hurt, so . . . no. I don’t think he wants anything to do with Mom or therapy or talking about his feelings right now. Fuck, I don’t want any of this. Do you?” I pop the cap off my beer and take a swig. The cool touch of the liquid on my tongue makes me go in for more. This is why people shouldn’t drink beer when they’re thirsty; half is gone before Hayden answers my question.
“I just want it all to go back to how it was. I wish we were all still oblivious, ya know?” He tips his water back and eyes me for my response. My face sours.
“Hayd . . . we ain’t ever going back to what it was. Our old holiday card, picturesque fake-ass family? That was a lie. There’s no putting the shit that came out back in the bottle, and I don’t need a therapist to tell me I need to come to terms with that.” My harsh words dent his fragile ego, and I feel a touch of guilt. I quickly drown that with more beer.
“Let’s go,” I say, setting my two-thirds empty bottle on a ledge in the garage before jogging out to the ball.
I turn back to the garage, expecting to see Hayden walking toward me, ready to ball, but he hasn’t budged. He’s caught in his feelings. I’m in insensitive dick mode. This isn’t going to work. I sigh and prop the ball on my hip, no longer in the mood to play. I just want to drain our hot water in the shower and turn my skin lobster pink. I’m starting to feel the chill in the air.
“Look, man. This sucks for all of us. Probably sucks for Mom, too. And