Bromosexual

And maybe he thinks, after enough arguments like this, I’ll finally call it quits again and move out.

I don’t think I have a choice.

Rudy’s enjoyed my being home again. So has my mom.

“Backup plan,” I mutter, then give a nod to my kid brother. “There’s your backup plan, Dad. Rudy. He’s going to be the next big thing in baseball. Already made the high school team.”

Rudy’s eyes flicker, like my words just shot a baseball his way and he was too slow to swing his bat or raise his mitt.

“Sweetie …” My mom squeezes my arm. “Please don’t.”

I think I’m already past the point of no return, but there’s no sense in stating that here and now. It would just be more fuel for my father’s bitter flames.

So instead of a hundred other things I could say right now, I only half-turn my head toward my father and state, jaw tightened, “You can think whatever you want, but I did not give up.”

Then I abandon my mug, my mom, and my dad, heading for the stairs. When I brush past Rudy, I give his shoulder a short and encouraging squeeze.

My bedroom door shuts softly behind me.

And then I get to packing my shit.

An hour later, Rudy’s out front with me helping load up the back of my pickup one box or trash bag at a time. He hasn’t said a word to me in the past hour, and then the first thing he says is, “You’re a totally cocky prick sometimes, you know that?”

I throw a grin over my shoulder. “That’s what the ladies want. Haven’t you learned anything, bro? Hey, bring me that box.”

Rudy rolls his eyes as he grudgingly heads back to the pile of crap I have on the driveway. Being half my size and a touch more than half my age—fourteen, to be exact—no one ever thinks we’re siblings. Just a couple weekends ago, we had an especially flirty waitress at a restaurant downtown think he was my son.

She left her number on the receipt. No, I didn’t call it.

My brother returns with a big box, grunting as he struggles to carry it. I take it off his hands with ease and slide it onto the bed of my pickup. “Work out more,” I tease him.

“Fuck you! I got this.”

I lift an eyebrow at him. “Jeez, Rudy. Who the hell’s teaching you all this foul-ass fuckin’ language? You’re way too young to be talking like that.”

“I’m in high school. I’m not young anymore.”

“Right. You’re all growed up now.” I go for the next box.

He follows. “I’ll be in college before you know it. Then I’ll get drafted after my junior year, just like you. I’ll break your records.”

He’s probably the only person in the world who can taunt me about my life’s greatest letdown. Who knew that one fateful dive into home base would rip up my leg—and the future in sports I thought I would have—and send my life on a completely different course? I know there’s some ironic or symbolic statement I can make about “sliding home” being the end of my career, but I don’t have it in me to be clever right now.

Not while I’ve still got my old man’s words on my shoulders. “The field’s all yours, little bro,” I reply, then lift the next box.

Rudy keeps up, bringing another lighter one. “You’re really not gonna play at all anymore? Just like that, you’re done?”

“It’s the nature of the beast.” The less time I spend rehashing the subject of my royal failure, the better. “Just don’t make the mistake I did in college of going off and joining a frat. Even if it’s a frat for guys like us—athletes. That shit’s gonna haunt me for life.”

At that, Rudy rolls his eyes. “Whatever. As if I’d join some frat full of fags.”

The word is like an icicle to my intestines. The shit he’s picking up from his schoolyard buddies … I drop my box onto the bed of the truck and face my little brother importantly. “Rudy. You know what I said about that word.”

His eyes flash with indignance. “So?”

“So don’t use it. It isn’t right.”

“I didn’t mean anything by it. Everyone uses it.”

“Everyone isn’t you. If all your buddies broke two of their ribs so they could bend over and lick their own ballsacks, would you? Didn’t think so.” I slap shut the tailgate, then pull the box right out of Rudy’s hands. “Rub that word right out of your vocab as quickly as you rub one out every damned night.”

His face goes red right away. “What’re you talking about?”

“You’re loud is what I’m talking about. I can hear you through the walls. At least bite down on a sock or something, shit.” I slide the box into the backseat and shut the door, then wipe my hands down my thighs. “Looks like I’m all set to go.”