“What makes you feel he doesn’t care?” I ask.
“It’s more how he acts,” Rudy tries to explain. “He’s changed ever since we learned my brother quit the team and was coming home. They didn’t get along when he was at the house, and my dad just … stopped noticing me. It was all him, him, him. I got on the baseball team for the spring, and my dad didn’t even flinch.”
“Congratulations on making the team, Rudy.”
He tries to smile, but it comes out as lopsided as a smirk. “I just want to try as hard as I can. I feel like if I do something really cool—hit a homerun and kill it at my Little League games—he’ll be proud and look at me the same way he used to look at my brother. He didn’t even come to my last game.”
I frown. “I’m sorry to hear that, Rudy.”
“Maybe I should do a one-eighty—drop all my sports, shave my head, and take a dance class. That’ll freak my dad out, seeing me come home in a fucking tutu.” His eyes flash again. “Sorry.”
“The important question is,” I point out, “what color tutu?”
A real smile comes out of Rudy. “Pink, I guess.” He shakes his head, wiping off his smile along with it.
“What does your brother think about all of this?” I ask.
“He doesn’t know. And I don’t want him to know.” Rudy sighs. “He’s got enough problems of his own. I tried to open up to him about it when he was moving out, but he’s …” Rudy folds his arms tighter across his chest and shakes his head. “Stefan should just focus on getting himself back on his feet … wherever he is.”
I bite my lip and nod my agreement, though my eyes are now safely averted to the mess of papers on my desk. This isn’t easy, navigating the forest of what-do-I-say and what-do-I-not-say.
“I promise I’ll study harder,” Rudy blurts suddenly. “I won’t fail any more tests. It was a total blow-off, too. I should’ve aced it.”
My eyes flick to the computer screen. With a couple clicks, I give his file a onceover. “You’re a good kid, Rudy. Smart.”
“Thanks,” he mumbles lamely.
“And you seem very intuitive and … aware. I think that’s the most important quality a person can have at your age. Awareness. Just keep your eyes open and be honest about what you’re feeling. I’m sure, despite how he might make you feel, your father just wants the best for you. Maybe he counted on Stefan a bit to lead by example, and he’s worried that you might … see it as an excuse to give up your dreams, too. And that’s no matter if Stefan did the right thing or not by quitting his team.”
Rudy blinks. “You’re … pretty intuitive yourself.”
I may have gone a bit too far in analyzing his family. I did pretty much live half my teenhood at their house. “That’s what they pay me for,” I joke with a little shrug.
Rudy picks up his backpack. “So am I excused?”
“Under one condition.”
Rudy quirks one of his eyebrows—the exact same expression Stefan makes when waiting expectantly for me to say something.
“Come to me,” I finish, “whenever you need someone to talk to, or when it feels like it’s all piling on your head, or when you’re considering sabotaging yourself and flunking another exam. Preferably before you flunk the exam.”
He gives me a short nod, a reassuring smile (that lasts all of one eighth of a second), then slinks out of my office.
I bite on the end of a pencil I’m suddenly holding, a lump in my throat and a skip to my heartbeat. I was already anxious about going home to a possibly-totally-moved-out Stefan. Now I think I’m more afraid of coming home to a totally-still-there Stefan.
19
RYAN
When I push through my front door, he’s doing pushups on my living room floor in nothing but the tiniest pair of gym shorts I’ve ever seen.
Well, that’s a way to come home if I’ve ever heard one.
He spots me, hops to his feet like a cat, and throws a chin-lift at me. “Welcome home, Ryan.”
Not the welcome I was expecting after the day I’ve had—and the night we had. “Uh, hey there,” I greet him stiffly, shutting the door behind me and setting my briefcase down on the wicker chair in the entryway.
Stefan’s chest is slick with sweat, glowing as if freshly oiled, and he breathes heavily from his pushups. He swipes a bottle of water off the kitchen counter and asks, “You have a good day?” before tossing back the bottle and chugging.
I stare at his throat as it bobs with his every gulp. His asking if I had a good day makes me feel like he knows everything.
Then again, I have a tendency to be a bit paranoid. “It was a Tuesday like any other,” I reply. “You?”